“let's invent the time machine imagineers,
to catch some foreigners together (at the mall)”
I sit and wait for the beginning of the world of words
listening to the chatter of Latvian
A bunch of brown foreigners sitting on the table,
next to me. I guess it's the time for a shot.
A Russian roulette of thoughts
John Smith lied like all good explorers,
and tobacco browned in autumn heat
(as I teach this, it rains)
Thousands of miles,
hundreds of years later,
the goddess is burned
in the fire of a Turkish water pipe.
rain drops hitting the iron frame of my window...
as i think of her it gets devoured...
rust as the dementia of iron...
fading away... as my cigarette...
the last lucky strike...
waiting for it to come...
the orange glow of the crematory, the bones
of my hand around the filter
crackle of my inhale, rain
against iron, the window,
I wait for it to come...to come
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