Lebanese woman full of lips
and breasts full of tired milk
lazy to drop
at the halal restaurant under the sun "Salar"
does not speak my words,
the salt on her skin
makes me thirsty
like the free peanuts in a bar.

I woke up,
the other side of bed
wrinkles of no curiosity,
a stale pond
when mind desires lakes of liqueur,
Indian rivers and falls,
a bald land
with transplanted trees and people like hair.
Atlanta.

Long affairs
should be broken up by night
and bad, bad weather in sight.
At night it’s easier
to bear
the shame by your lights,
than the hot sun
of your disappointments and sighs,
Atlanta.

Escape: I-85 North,
treachery: asphalt and broken lines of track,
your distant lights burn my mirrors
like hot brands on a horse back.

Deer eyes flash on the way,
deer lover
crossing through,
one way civilization
will probably kill you;
and yet:

Why don’t we do it in the road,
why don’t we do it in the road,
no-one will be watching us,
why don’t we do it in the road?

The good guys were spoiled half a century ago, Atlanta,

like forgotten fruits on the table
and the good girls,
like half eaten peaches by obese teeth,
male enzymes,
dark oxides
of repentant greed…
"Welcome to South Carolina"

Did I just throw back a half bitten peach?
My saliva will dry on her fine face
and will crack like the paint on La Gioconda portrait.

Georgia off my mind.

I’m sober, I escape the parallels
thrown around me like cowboy lassos,
narrowing latitude
every second and minute
to strangulate me
in the pole
of patience.

The dark womb of road clones the miles,
identical hypnotic lines,
and a blind bard
knows them one and all
by (my) heart.

Suspicious gas stations,
sternness of the night,
South and black dialect
breaking 'ask' in shards,
turning dull questions
to some flashing ax
that sharply to the bone
with the vowel slaps;
my car’s with ulcer,
its empty tank,
complains like the stomach of a superstar,

I stop,
the tight shoe of doubt
hurts calluses of fear,

Eyes empty of grace,
faces stolen from Uncle Tom’s,
dark engravings on the dirty walls,
attempt for blues,
they don’t accept credit cards,
they do refuse,
and they don’t produce
no recession,

cleverer than Wall Street,
those blacks of that southern nameless
gas station.

It’s cold.
Two quilts of Carolinas fell down off my shoulders,
Virginia unfolds,
bloody linens on the morning borders.

Poetry on the toilet wall
in Rest Area,
it wakes me up more than nitrogen,
the sincerity
confessed along the condom vending machine
touches me:
"Here I sit / brokenhearted / had to shit / but only farted",
the lack of author’s initials
torments me,
you were honest, I say,
you’d rather write ‘bout politics.

Why there’s no politics
on the walls of your toilets, America?

The melancholy of the other
is flushed away
automatically
with interrupted beams
of blurred dawn thoughts.
In the car radio
Little Susie sleeps,
it’s still only four to four.

"Get your kicks on Route 66",
get my jive on I-85.

Somewhere 85 becomes 95
like a problematic decade,
like ten years long,
going astray, in vain and wrong.

We could have died like deer lovers,
but we didn’t,
we didn’t do it in the road.

11 Komente

Nuk t'u durua, he?  Ani, ani smiley.  

ke karta bianka! Gjuj (po jo fort... ) smiley

Ehhh, i ziu ti se tani qe kam ene te bardhe mbi te bardhe, gjej vend smiley.  Do te gelldep ... ne tavell kur bie shi smiley.

Mu me bi 6:4 qe me te paren. I boj "kapi" smiley

 

Dopjo shume me rane, ik shifi smiley

Kom me ta mor "qylin" marrs ene do barazohena. smiley

smiley

nice try, but not even close smiley

dopjo jek atehere kur ti s'e pret hic fare... smiley

ps. continuing qylin

Po mer Cim po rrezik t'ka ra m'dore te pare a te dyte, ene e ke çu dom.

O Monda po ke burgu ku e kishe kap qe s'ja more dot mors? Se tavllen e mora vesh qe s'dika me e lujte ky deri sa enderroka me bo kapi te "2-shi" me 6-4.

Cimo me mu mos u grric se do te te hudh dy shesh qe ne dore te pare ne burg e do te te kap cepin.

http://www.bkgm.com/rules/rulfig3.gif

ktij i paska ron 5:3. Kapi te 3-i. Ku do e luje ti 6:4?

ps. mos me thuj qe tavlla do guxim ene ta lush psh te 14, me shpresen qe po i blloko 13. Ashtu u hap ene Hitleri...

Sheh sheh, dhe une qe kujtoja se profesor Zenua bonte gjoja, nje dite dinte e nje dite s'dinte.  Dmth ketij s'ia paska pas fajin Alberi. smiley

Te burgu?  Qoshen mer smiley.

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