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Texas Geisha and Other Poems, by Vladimir Nahitchevansky

in Poetry by

Texas geisha

Holy shit! I translate Ancient Greek in my sleep…
But my grandfather… I’m weak.
But my grandfather he can break a walnut
With his knuckles.

Haiku memories— speak softly when I am 60.

Meanwhile in Texas, my Uncle drives out
After a divorce into the desert and hangs himself
From a Palo Verdes.


Is what the Brujo said when they found him.

Twelve days I laid in bed like a frog, dreaming
In Greek. While my grandfather raked leaves
In the rain.

Beauty, America, cinema

Here we are on a flotilla of tulips—
Engine wake, nautical, coarse coral
Of your iris in the noon sun.

What’s that movie?

“Trouble having any trouble?”

“Yes we are, but we don’t need any of your help!”

The world needs to hydrate—
Get rid of the world, I say.
Give it to the Salvation Army!
Get into relaxing… close your eyes.

Love on pink,
Love on rye.

Love, butter, eggs, and coffee—
The Dali Lama,
What’s the difference?

Catch a fish in the early morning
And you might say—

“What kind of eyes are those?”

American beauty— watching the most beautiful
Shopping bag float in the noon wind!

A duck feather left floating on the waters surface.

Remembering Brighton Beach

In the world of wisdom—
Seals of Coney Island;
Island gulls, Island newsprint
Island lovers. Look
Devushka the Cyclone!
Your hair is very Zen—
Will you wear this dress for me?

D I O S  E S T A  M U E R T O

Say the Puerto Ricans.
Our first time visiting Coney island—
Not a song— song of someone.
Devushka the ocean of understanding
Can be represented thus!


After Apichatpong Weerasethakul

The Dream.
The dream and the lights!
The jail-bait city dream.

Step from the theater on Columbia and 5th.
Lovely mooning sunset
Coming down over the river—
Blowing a golden chorus,
All speckled with pink.

Sunday evening,
Finished watching a film on Thailand,
Where all anybody ever did was sleep.

No bridges
That cross this river
Not this far up—

At least.

The films battalion
had finished fighting the war.
Shit—the war,
Like a growing adenoid at the back
Of our throats…

Walk home,
Few people out with their dogs.
everybody inside
making supper,

It’s 6:30 pm.

And in Thailand they’re getting on their bicycles,
And in Thailand the day is starting,
the traffic, the ghosts,
The dead, that walk through their dreams
With rainbow light.

Men from the county
Hoisted in the trees
Bring down x-mas ornaments,
As I pass by,
rounding the corner
on State and 2nd .

Hoist a man into the sky
And watch him
From below,

Circle the earth,
raw, sick, asleep, nautilus

Like an ameba clotting
The eye—
the sun.

Hoist a man above
Our heads—
The dreams
The lights
All come crashing down
Around us.

What a wonderful time,
To watch the world

Wake up,
While the city goes
too sleep.

Hundreds of egg crate houses,
Sick beds,
And people—
We are bound too—
connect with,
ghosts we cross.

The river keeps on the city
with dark eyes.
Bye, bye dreams.
Hello world!

One-hundred soldiers lie in bed,
They sleep forever through the tyrant— the war.
Tonight I will dream
By their side…

The tyrant— the city.

Vladimir Nahitchevansky, born in Brooklyn, NY. He grew up living between the City and the rural mountain town of Phoenicia, NY. He co-founded and edited YST Publications, as well as W O O D, A Concentric Journal Of Generational Poetics. He received his BA in Written Arts from Bard College in 2015. He now lives in Hudson, NY.

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