at first there are no people children chase after 
balls growing up close to tears in front of
    kindergartens of mom’s earthquakes caused by
    phantomically amputated limbs
then suddenly they appear
carried by their beards mascaras
    gouts haemorrhoids granulomas
    bunions cataracts water on the knees
people come and come
their souls boundless free
    spaces skirted by decomposing
    bodies yet who can say that truth
ever comes out since a tongue is
the most downplayed organ of sight

My body is no longer in line with what my mind thinks my body should do. I am 44, it is normal. I would like pathetic outbursts such as: I have become a slave to my body, or I have to move the world for my body to function properly, or I give up travelling when I realize what I have to pack or take with me just for my body to work — to slip through my fingers.

Then I rest in language.

I PACK LANGUAGE IN A ROCKET
AGAIN AND AGAIN 66 TIMES IN A ROW

a rocket is no bigger than I am
yet a million times deadlier
    I put 66 rockets on my back
    carrying them through dark forest
each step measured by
the letter of natural law
    66 rockets shrink my back ice
    on them enters into my bent backbone
when I approach a rocket launcher
I am smaller than a water crystal
    looking for my state of matter
    and measuring
how much warmth there is in a simple
Fire!

But.

I CONVERT AND ALL OF A SUDDEN
IT IS DIFFICULT TO USE A TONGUE

that fed hungry children’s mouths and blossomed in spring
as desperation tin opener, always in
    spring sun in a window could
    change the course of a game if only an invisible
enemy had not been at the door
and when the house began to rearrange itself
    desperation broke out of quarantine mutated
    into paralysis and now raids raids as if
nothing in this world is of no worth
except for words that cannot be uttered

From my street, which is a dead end, at least for cars, a road takes you towards forest, to the mills. I have never been there. But I plan to go. There are aliens there. Not tourists. People sometimes call them migrants to avoid using refugees and stirring their own conscience. Dating from the nineties.

We are all a migrant.

I STUMBLE THROUGH FOREST I AM
A MIGRANT FOR WHOM LAND BORDERS
HAVE NO RELEVANCE

I want no passport I need no euros
no cell phone spare pants if my
bowels let go before the border
    my forest is not dark and strange
    belly of a whale that digests dreams
    like brackish water police
mad dogs and unforms do not run after me
and stumblingly fire
their guns no I am not that
    migrant my migrations are exhausted
    by horizons in which your look is poured over
   ice cubes in a crystal glass
they are not existential
and I am slightly ashamed of them yet
if I exist only as an empty
    groove for your head on my
    shoulder my migrations are heavy as
    a drop from your nose that time when you were leaving

It is not just me, although it might look like that from time to time. My house, that is not quite completely mine, is in my city, that is not mine, actually, in my country, that has never been mine. I have never felt proud of belonging, to anything. That might be my problem and it might be ecological.

I TURN THE CEILING UPSIDE DOWN AND WALK
AVOIDING CHANDELIERS

light does not fall down in a straight line
woods are distant plants
    accounting for only 10 per cent of oxygen
    in gross national income
the rest comes from parliamentary corridors
smelling of fried onions
    and righteous sweat
    meat chopped for lunch
did not forget its bones
an excellent cornerstone for
    lungs of taxpayers
    losing the ground under their feet

Then I am a joke. Or so it seems to a cynical eye.

I ADDRESS MY FEARS TO
CLOCK’S ARRYTHMIA AND WAIT

the best way to my heart is
between the fourth and the fifth rib

There is also a hostel in the house I built. The hostel has gone under this season, as another silent victim of the virus. I want to buy that hostel, my next-door neighbour. I want to buy my ruined next-door neighbour because then I am going to find out what it is and what it is made of. I will buy it in order to build it, just like I built the house that I wanted my whole life, in the city to which I came, in the street I have portrayed as nice ever since I saw it for the first time, the street not loved by the city, in which square meters are cheap, yet beyond my reach until recently. Now when all this is here, the only thing left is to get down to work.

Zen and art of brick wall gruting. Take one scoop of white cement, one scoop of river sand or so called “base”, mix in one fifth of white tile glue and water until the mixture has consistency of thick whipped cream. Let it stabilize for five minutes. Take grout float and margin trowel and off you go. You save the money you do not have; you find a master like no other in a city in which houses are built for tourists only, but then again there are no tourists, they just turned up but the virus… why would this master bother himself with bricks, inside, in a living room? Who would do it like that in times of Knauf?

Metamorphosis. Home.

I HAVE TWO SONS
BOTH DRAWN BY RAKES IN A
SANDPIT THEN I

drew them chocolate smiles
and little marmalade houses
my glance climbing up the rope as
    spin spinning on the cerebral cortex
    spin
    pin with an s
that will replace the maps
leading to that house across
backbones of remembering Gods
    you damned ones all those make-believe
    castles in the air in the sky
will be closed tomorrow
    twenty-fifth chapter on
accession to union of oblivion
and distance to be
measured among us will be divided
    into all children’s birthday parties
    lighting candles as
    fuses on sweet
bursting
bombs

When you build a house for yourself and all your people, you move entirely into language. You cannot get away from it.

I BUILD A HOUSE OPEN ITS
WINDOWS CHECK FOUNDATIONS

frequency of house in my house and
where to hide is what interests me
    when enemy attacks how
    safe can you be flag of heart
open your true self check frequency
of you in yourself and think of
    your hiding place in which lungs you are no more
    in which transparent blood(stream)
it flows behind the house all made of
stream that tears down foundations undermines
    many a stream in that stream!
    a lot of earth in dark brick