No, I am tired, my eyes no longer can stay open, my ears no longer hear anything, my mouth no longer says anything. I feel like all the parts of my body live independently of each other. There’s no unity within me. And, instead of feeling like one indivisible whole, I feel like I consist of a multitude of parts.

Jean-Luke Godard, Pierrot Le Fou

The Hands

Over a table, with its surface round as the sun, smooth as a nail, the hands hovered like clouds. There was a small hole in the middle of the table, itself the size of another small table. The hands were adorned with all kinds of cigarettes, lighters, and matches. One of the hands disappeared, brushing against the table. It took with it its smoke-wife. The remaining smoke-wives became plumper, and, like butterflies, endlessly kept escaping from the chrysalis-cigarettes, tossing their casing into the black-colored small round hole, which seemed to be bottomless.

They paid no heed to the conversations around them; they monkeyed around, danced.  Suddenly, one of the hands started bleeding profusely. The hands, now smoke-like, disappeared in erratic patterns.

A lipjourney.

In passing, a beggar’s hand managed to thrust a flower into the small opening left after the hand of my wit-stealer was welded to mine, a pistil crowned by petals, stretched towards the sun. Soon the sunstrokedflower overpowered the unbearable scent of the fingers, which, although drifting apart, despairing, still managed to hold it up. Green smoke over the grayness of the sky. Not making it.

The windows of the train were covered with the backs—and not just backs—of hands. Speeding forward through the stone-hard headfingers of a deer. Rush along the perpendicular rails, the next station—“Andalusian Drivel”—eyes played with the passion of the flamenco nails. Shredded. Dexterity, pointillism, mountains, gorges with low, deer-bearing trees, leafs, thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, trastos….

Handsqueeze, weak, firm, colorful, rough, long, unbreakable, hygienic, dreamy, electrical, caress, fleeting, a hand, lazily suckling the background with the backdrop of two-shaded pink.

A handy train,

A suckling woman

A tunnel leading to zero

A suckling woman

A rattling compartment

An exhausted falcon


to a dead man


through the blank cracks of paper


He made a date. The day was just beginning. He called as soon as he woke up; deep down, he loved the sound of his own sleepy voice. Bathroom. He’d already showered, and was now staring into the mirror. First—work, then off to see his wit-stealer.  By the door, he bent down, his eyes red, fixed on his feet, as he squeezed his them into his shoes. He quickly straightened up, erect like a penis, closed the door, passed through, was gone.

To work.

After that—off to see the wit-stealer.

Very far.

When he left, he still had his wits about him. He looked to the right and then the left, up, then his eyebrows, fatigued, fell back into place. The horizon was very far, not a hill or a cliff in sight, everything completely flat. The horizon was rainbow-colored, fronted by sprawling grounds that contained a small house, and a little farther off, a car and its owner, inside a shade. The snake-thin road was sparsely automobiled. He added his share, speeding towards the horizon-rainbow. A strong wind started. The sky blackened, the car zoomed through a crowded roadside inn. It was one of those moments when his brain would be temporarily formatted. The driving was good. He enjoyed speed, and the wind was blowing hard on the right side, hard-blowing, extinguishing the romantic rainbow in the candle-horizon.


Pretty girl.

Words trickling into one’s ear like in a waiting room.

I looked on for a long time.

She shoved her fingers in her mouth, and I never saw them again.

There was another girl who was prettier. She only had her external malleoli. She didn’t have the inner ones. She’d had them sown off so that her knees came together, and her bowleggedness wouldn’t show as much.

From Puerto Rico.

A thirteen-year-old girl. She had a nipple tattooed on her left ankle. Her breasts were just beginning to reach the size of her malleoli.


The day manages to squeeze into watches. The wind combs the day, the days fall off like hair, the day combs the hour markers. They comb through, and nothing gets erased. Step. Mstep.

Erasesnot and the old man woke up one morning, remembered, and walked out with a heavy gait, wearing down the steps, and started on the road heading eastward.

Alarm clock. The earth is just burp-clearing its eye. The rain soaked it all night. This individual is dry. The first order of business—not wanting to wake up, the second—looking out the window. The miserable girl, who already had lived through sensing the dangers of having to stay over in a strange place, is still asleep, the third order of business—another glance, at her. He kissed those lips that expanded and then, as they sank back, concealed a musty scent of decay, and tried to wake her up, urgently got up, tried to do pushups, failed, crawled to the bathroom, closed the door behind him. ….recollected himself, flushed, washed up, infection, disintegration of the cornea, he’ll stay home, today, he asked to let you know. He’s at work, not ork. There are one, two, three, five and a half people that he’d gladly shoot execute, but can’t get his hand to do it, a distortion, festering of principles, … can’t get his legs to go do it…. What if they come after him themselves? His legs won’t…. When they come closer yet, his leg…. MORE, then his hand, as they attack him.


He is also indifferent to the seduction and arousal caused by the lusty caresses that have become a daily pitiful ritual for his pretty little virgin. Sick of them….


Here, over the glass, I—a cigarette, she—a match. Or an ashtray. The agitated smoke is faking a floorplan of the soul—a free x-ray. My breath is imprinted on the glass, it breathes with me, like my lungs. You turn, and down goes the branched chandelier. Darkness.

In the dark violet immobility and deadly peace of the garden the wind darting about. Clinging to the dead leafs. A kite


In the yard of the hotel, sitting by a table, to shoot up or not to shoot up, the cigarette doesn’t help, alcohol causes an allergic reaction, the thought of suicide does not cross the mind





Show Comments Hide Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.