The scheme of all
 
The impossibility of this morning is
sodden with false promises for the near
future:
the gondolier in Venice runs the boat
and sing canzonets for the loving
couples in the back:
the matador in Pamplona points the sword
between two black horns,
between the sun light
and one sparrow on my windowsill…The sparrow
tries to wake me up with its happy tune
but I wave my hand,
my shaking hand,
and it’s gone;
drowned dreams for dying love and
drowned trees and dying elephants,
as the leaves outside keep piling up on my door step
and I got up from the bed and opened one green
bottle-
 
and maybe Hemingway has done the same thing?
 
 
 
 
 
Deep inside
 
I should weep tonight
but the sorrow is so big
and I kneel in the dirt,
my hands grasp the last
flower of forgiveness
and the calendar nailed
to the shattered wall shows
me that there is no time
for remorse,
so
please, darling
 
kill me
 
here I come,
weeping like a
tyrant.
 
 
 
 
 
         Distant voice
 
 Strange eyes and dirt and worms:
 
watch for the eternal spiders and
for women that could drink your
soul straight from your gut
 
Me?
 
I am careful!
 
I step attentively into churches and
jails,
I am humble during earthquakes and
orgasms,
I do not pet small animals and smart
girls,
I am relentless in the face of the morning
glory
 
and I know that the razor is made for
shaving, but some mornings the faces
on the streets are just too hard to bare
and I do not care for people as I do not
care for foolish objects,
because for the last 2000 years we witnessed
the true face of mankind
and that is the other
reason
why I do not have sanctuary or
cover.
I sink into these little words and I hope
that no one will find me here
 
and when my phone rings
I lift up the receiver
very carefully,
I hear some distant voice
and I hang up
astonished.
 
 
 
 
 Listening to the music
 
When I first came to America
I decided to learn its ways, its ways
of saying where my place is, where I belong,
so far away from the faces of my parents,
I was learning my new way.
 
At some truck stop I bought few CD’s
of Johnny Cash,
I was told he is/was one of the biggest
of America’s icons.
 
So I was listening to his music as the road in front
of me was coming like an unavoidable beast.
From the load speakers Mr. Cash was telling
me stories of America and its people and
I was sinking into it.
 
But everything I heard was tales of depression
and aggression and insanity and loneliness,
narratives of madness and desperation and
sorrow and blue-collar jobs
 
I learned songs with titles like:
 
God’s gonna cut you down,
Hurt,
I hung my head,
I’m so lonesome I could cry,
Folsom prison blues,
Tear stained letter.
 
So at the bottom line Johnny Cash
made me leave the truck and I found myself
a job in a bookstore,
I’ve started reading the greatest American novelist
and poets and
decided from now on
to choose my teachers more
carefully.
 
 

 
 
© Peycho Kanev

Peycho Kanev’s work has been published in Welter, Poetry Quarterly, The Catalonian Review, The Arava Review, The Mayo Review, Chiron Review, Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, In Posse Review, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many other journals. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His collaborative collection "r," containing poetry by Felino Soriano and him, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II, is available at Amazon.com. Look for his new poetry collection, “Bone Silence,” to be published by Desperanto.