somewhere
in the world i
Somewhere in the world there lies a city
and somewhere in the city there lies a
child asleep.
Somewhere in the dream I have seen you
and somewhere in the dream the dream
is not only a dream but a tall, fine
sentence
with hair under its arms
and personality.
Somewhere in the world there lies a city
and in that city there lies a house
that is not a dream.
Somewhere in the world there lies a house
I have come to inhabit.
Somewhere in the world I was born
and somewhere in the world
my childhood home is on fire.
There is a house
that is not a story.
There is a house
that is not a person
and there
there I was born
somewhere
in the world ii
Somewhere in the world there is a city
and somewhere in the city there is a
cemetery.
Somewhere in the world there is a city
where all the stories lie buried in the
cemetery.
Along with all the dead.
Along with the teeth of the dark.
The slimy words
are born
in their own
slimy darkness
and somewhere in
the dark they are frightened
at their own
power.
Everyone wants to
tell a story:
It was that winter
that man
that feeling
and the story
chooses a handful of circumstances
and leaves the
rest where it lies.
Somewhere in the
world there is a house
where I cannot be persuaded to anything
where the mouth
is full of shining stones.
somewhere
in the world iii
Somewhere in the world there is someone
who thrusts a
knife into the shark’s soft belly.
Somewhere in the
world the poems slip silently out
like reddish
intestines.
And somewhere in
the world there is a forest.
Somewhere in the
forest thousands of ants leave
their bitter home,
full of shame
carrying their torn-up
leaves
torn-up sheets:
Crushed dreams.
Black will,
pride.
For now is the time:
To find a place
in the world,
To find that tiny
still point around which all the rest whirls.
That dot.
That meeting:
Which is not
death
just reminiscent
of it.
somewhere
in the world iv
Somewhere in the world time stands still.
Somewhere in my heart
my first sweetheart and I haven’t broken it
off yet.
Somewhere in my heart
I land the pick-up in the grooves of the lp.
Everything is
still so intact.
Somewhere in the
world I lean back in a plane seat
keep a lookout
for the stewardess
think about
opening a book and reading a bit about
a Russian poet:
Excuse me, is it alright to give birth here?
But somewhere in
my heart I’ve long since landed.
I rev up in a
blue Volvo
that has already
left the station, the city,
that place in the world.
I sit in the car
listening to the radio and smoking.
For somewhere in
the world I’ll always be a smoker.
Afternoon, dusk.
You can see me
now.
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