jo

God does not play dice

but a look at His work shows

He has thrown some craps.

One and one is two

there is so much else to know

but nothing better

Here´s where the poem starts:

Broken-down washing machines

Burnt-out batteries

Breathing is such fun

I could do it forever

But Mom won´t let me

clipping fingernails

thinking as they fly away

“This is my body”

Kamikaze Earth

could have been ikebana

well, sayonara

On Christmas morning

we´d go to nine o´clock mass

where we´d eat our God

Killing all these ants

my conscience keeps repeating

'reincarnation'

refrigerator

humming in the deep of night

for six red carrots

put your trust in God

but get two good witnesses

on the paperwork

the first man on mars

saw this written on a rock

"this has not a meaning"

KARLOFF

“The body of dead Frankenstein

may be found in your bathtub”

was written in red on a page

from Leviticus IV

which Mme Lacross had opened

by chance

while seeking deliverance,

deliverance from her past.

Her Bible had not been invaded before.

the smiling sprite, ecstatic fear, is awe;

heat from the hearth lights truth;

the dead wine cellar below,

the fearful upstairs bath,

a chilly stream dubbed “Styx,”

vicious unsleeping dogs

just inside the electric wires

that wind through “Wood of Desires”

“What cannot happen comforts me

when I see it before my eyes:

it means I need not understand

what it means to be alive.

“Here in my palace, all alone,

awe becomes Lacross

except the many are One

and this does that for Fun.”

Now the fire was dead,

the woman on the stair,

and water was trickling down

from up there.

INSIDE RUSSIA TODAY

Yesterday I saw that new movie

the one about Vladimir, a Russian film-maker

working directly under Josef Stalin.

Vladimir was commissioned a film on Raskilnikof,

ambiguous anti-hero of the Czarist novel,

the metaphysical pawnshop killer.

He would show, must show, how, why

bourgeois society set the stage for brutality

onto which his sick protagonist would walk.

Simultaneously, to appease his conscience,

hiding in the mind from Party slogans,

he must make a statement, however subtle.

Vladimir’s script had made Raskilnikof, played

by Alex Druschevenov, into a movie director

wishing to document the pawn-broker trade.

Other important appearances include

the Bolshoi Ballet, dancing background

to the electrifying murder scene.

It’s hard to deny catharsis

as the bloody Raskilnikof, camera in hand,

heaves his Russian ax into the Volga.

The muted bells of great St. Basil,

over the year’s first snowfall, on Red Square,

where Vladimir, passing Lenin’s Tomb