BACK TO THE
OUTSKIRTS: NEW & SELECTED POEMS by Aleksey Dayen
FIRST MARRIAGE BLUES
I
was down to zero
again
shivering and trembling
inside and out.
Took out from the drawer
the wedding band—
symbol of my first marriage.
Sold it to a Puerto Rican jeweler
for 50 bucks.
With that money,
I went to a grocer
and
bought
bread
and butter,
meat
and cheese,
and four packs of cigs.
Stopped by a liquor store
bought
1.75 liters
of
some Southern bourbon.
Went
home
down to zero again.
Emptied what was
left of
my marriage
on the table.
Not much—
I
said to myself—
but good
enough
for me.
I poured a drink
and
went out
onto the fire escape
to watch the children play
in the middle
of West 106 Street—
Duke Ellington Boulevard.
CORPORATE AMERICA
they call it “to be
polite”
“be polite and smile”
do the small talk
all that you can find
in hardbound
tell aged anecdotes
and
don’t go outside with
a black eye
show concern about your health
show concern suspect everyone
just the other day
I lit a cigarette as
I
exited the liquor
store
carrying a plastic
bag
with a pint of Jack
girl in her
mid-twenties
came up to me and
said
—because you smoke
you gonna have cancer
and
soon you will die
I looked down at her
5’1’’ white ugly
bitch
hair dyed blonde
bitten fingernails
and
unshaved legs
I replied
—your problem is that
you haven’t been
fucked for
a long time
do yourself and
everyone a favor:
fuck someone
she stood there
scratching her
elbow as I
walked
away
here’s the problem
with America—
very few fuck
and no one makes love
anymore
A LULLABY
for Boris Lurie
“. . .
a mother sings a lullaby”
—Jack Micheline
a mother sings a lullaby
the song about nights
in the Warsaw Ghetto
and about WW II
non-stop in concentration camps,
about sinking ships
that sailed to New York
and kissed the ugly toe
of a green-painted French lady,
about a small space in Brooklyn (Williamsburg)
and hours and years in the Laundromat
and pennies for the pension fund,
about a junky daughter
and the death of a husband
in a bordello on Times Square
. . . and other little things
a mother sings a lullaby
to her only son
killed by some black guy
in an anti-Semitic riot . . .
it happened in
brooklyn on my way to
new york from a
friend’s house late at night
a tired man in his
late 50’s in a dusty robe said to me
why the hell did they
change the subway lines services again
they didn’t change a
thing I said
looks like they are
learning an alphabet
by slapping different
letters on those trains
assholes he said
I liked his point of
view
but it didn’t change
a thing
so like my tormented
joke
nothing can be
changed in a city
that never sleeps and
where
people don’t change
just grow old and
leave for
florida to die
FROM ONE SLAVE TO
ANOTHER
yes
I also had to slave
8:30 to 5
with ½ hour for lunch and
only two smoke breaks
times I had to go outside
to have a smoke
an old homeless
would approach me
and ask for a cigarette
and I gave
always gave
one day he said:
"I did time,
8 and a ½"
"So what?" I replied
"I killed a man,
got paid for it,"
he said
"You are free now," I said
and gave another cigarette
ending our small talk
then went upstairs
to get fired
for an extra
5 minutes
that I took
PYRAMID ON WALL STREET
On the crossing of Exchange
Place and Broad Street,
I looked up and
spotted
a pyramid
at the top
of a skyscraper,
a pyramid
like the one
on a Mexican postcard.
I was in a hurry
but stopped,
lit a cigarette
and stared at
the clash of cultures—
a foreign symbol
of the past
on top of today's
icon of progress—
a pyramid from
the ancient Yucatan
at the tip
of the center
of the world's
financial center—
Wall Street,
a pyramid—
painted yellow
by sunbeams—
the reason
I was late.
A STRANGE CALL
She calls me and drops her
famous last name
like I give a damn
then she says that she
needs a place to stay
and my apartment would be
perfect for her
as she is for me
poor girl has no idea
that I’m tired of bitches
taking my space
and though sure that she’s
a sincere young thing
just looking for love and
an elderly writer
I still have to say NO!
These days
NO! has become my theme
my usual answer to almost
any proposition
since people have nothing
to offer
except their pain—which
is old news—
I’ve experienced more,
greater.
I’m exposing pain only in
writing,
in publications—not in
person—
not over the landline
not over the cell
(unless it’s a toothache).
Pain is private
shouldn’t be passed
to strangers
even at funerals.
I feel for that girl
and can help
but won’t
she did not give me
a good reason to help or
trust
nor even like her.
in a bar
late at night
a girl with a duffle
bag
looks promising
—Jane from Ohio State—
she said and then:
you have an accent
and you look like a Jew
where you from?
—From Moscow . . .
Russian Jew—
was my answer
And she went: Wow!
I offered my place
for the night
—No funny stuff—
she said
—I don’t laugh during sex—
I said
—You are Dirty Russian Jew—
she replied
—You’ll call me Dr. J in the morning—
I blabbed
as we left
dear city
I’m writing to you
on your outskirts
damn you
why did you kill me
without asking first
why did you get me drunk
and stab me
right into the liver
and then twist the knife
thirteen
thousand times
I love FAMILY POETRY
the famous American
poetess said
a decade since her
menopause
do you write FAMILY
POETRY
she asked
hell no
family is
the highest point
of suffering
on the tip of
the mountain
of
sorrow and despair
ice covered
could be a good
subject for a novel
or short story
and that’s it
poor old poetess
translated
into dozens of
languages
former fiancée
of one
great dead
Beat
who used to
hit her
in the
face
face
still sexy
despite age
nowadays
every poetess has
at least one book
out
about her family
thousands of books
like that
all identical
JAILBIRD BLUES
I have only two more days
to serve
And I have a hundred blank
sheets
I’ll arrive home before my
mail
gets there
So what am I gonna do with
these
paper sheets?
I can turn each one into
a little
plane
But my cell is too small for
flights
I could write a poem on each
paper piece
But I don’t know how to rhyme
If I knew how to draw
I’d draw my wife’s portrait on
every
paper sheet
But I don’t know how to draw
And my wife left me long ago
I can get home faster then
any postman
To find a pile of letters and
postcards
in a
puddle
on my
porch
And grow that pile with a
hundred
blank sheets
Then see if my key
works
time refuses to move
in jail
it stays with you in
a cell
moves only to and
from
crapper
and draws back
when your name is not
called
while cellmates
leaving the cage
—hey, correction
officer!
those guys came long
after me
and already have been
transferred upstairs
when is my turn,
am I forgotten?
young Latino kid says
—chill!
c.o. yells
—Jesus!
—hey, c.o.
I’m saying looking
officer straight in
the eyes
give me a few sheets
he gives and I go
to hang jailed ass of
mine
over the crapper
—damn!
your name sounds
as good as a winning
lottery ticket
as it’s called
when you’re jailed
AT 3 A.M.
Parked cars
are like sardines in a can,
people like zombies
at 3 A.M.
I’m back in the city.
I’m back. For what?
Another lonely night.
Should I buy myself a hooker
or write a poem?
One or the other .
. .
Gimme a buck, he said
And I looked into his
eyes
and recognized
a poet with whom I
performed
a decade ago in an
East Village café
His clothes decayed
and his face and his
jacket
looked at me with
their holes
And I gave him two
and introduced him to
my friends
And he said: Maxim
And I felt ashamed
for not remembering
his name
to spend a night
outside
of common sense
in a strange town’s
motel
deep into the bath
and try to wash out
your past
then fish out that
starving body of yours
and ship it to a
king-size bed
and while being in
bed
you’ll focus your
eyes
on a falling ceiling
that will crush
what’s left of you
evening at its best—
my beer
notebook pipe
and what's left at
the bottom of a brandy bottle
and no one phones—
my blessings to them
Jewish holidays are
over
I don't celebrate
them anyway
means that a bagel
shop around the corner
will not be closed in
the middle of the week
for the next eleven
months
so as my publisher
this evening I'm
watching re-runs
of the sitcoms filmed
in the 50's and 80's
lame but still gives
me cheer
and I'm pumping one
can after another
it's autumn
and redheads look
lovely in Central Park
finally in touch with
nature
and bookkeepers are
trying their old raincoats on
worn as those books
they're working on
there are days that
it makes sense to wake up
for a few reasons—
to have two cups of
coffee with a splash of brandy
and half a pack of
strong cigarettes
and news on TV and
web-sites
just to know that
you’re not the only one
who woke up to smell
death
that already built up
the nest under your bed
and put a mirror on
your ceiling
and built a straw in
the shape of the structural beam
that dives into your
cup of coffee
ELITE
I look at ‘em—
smart and funny
successful and
established
they’re gonna drive
home in expensive
sport cars
long-legged girls
on a passenger seats
will bend over to
give them a lousy blow jobs
(nothing compare to a
hooker on 146th Street)
they wear Armani Hermes
Versace
and spend nights in a
gym
but now
they smoke cigarettes
and make small talk
next to a pile of
black smelly garbage
bags
that created an
Everest
ten feet from the
Russian Samovar
on West 52nd Street
AN ODE TO THE
MURDERED POEMS
Just before the storm
under the clouds
under the atmosphere
18 steps down to the 42nd Street subway
I take the F-train far to the outskirts of Queens
I want to see you in Rego Park
the desert where you lived with your parents
when we met
hoping to get back the poems you took
But you tossed them away
and didn't tell me where to find
the garbage can
On my way back to New York
I cared no more you changed your name
from Jewish to Jewish
Translated from the
Russian by the author with Stanley H. Barkan
CHANCE
she was hot
that’s probably why
she wasn’t cold
standing outside a
bar in a t-shirt
while the weather
tower
was showing 42 by
Fahrenheit
coward me!
stepped on a cigarette
butt
and walked back
into a bar
thinking I had a
chance
chance floating up in
the air
CHRISTMAS EVE
Christmas Eve
I’m drinking tequila
and reading books
about the Holocaust
and life tastes more
bitter than a lime.
I’m back home
from unsuccessful
shopping—
holidays come before
work.
and I won’t have a
beer
the next morning.
The hangover will
stab
my head from temple
to temple.
My pulse will jump
like an athlete at
the Olympics,
and I won’t be able
to pick a number to
call.
BLANK SHOUT
blanks easily
passing through
I shout: GUILTY!
and a local hooker
on a corner
blowing for a NJT bus ride
and I pass
I pass windows of NYC’s glory
constructed by shame
I piss in a back alley
on a tabloid magazine
I pass and piss
and come home
and strolling
around the block
and shouting:
KIDS!
life chamber is a-waiting
all dirty asses!
Parisians securing their bikes
Parisians ordering cheap red wine
Russians making sure
they won’t get suborned
and surveying their block-posts
and same damn shame
raping
the same
and the same grandma
covers her gray hair
and looking at the PUSH sign
and the rest of the story
will be covered by the
cable network
LYUSIK
The day
just before he died,
I visited
him in a hospital on Kings Highway.
I looked
at a bone making its way through his foot.
I sang a
song to him that he sang to me many years ago
in
another country that vanished from the map.
I
remember him pouring a drink, saying:
“You are
too young for the straight alcohol,”
and
giving an old dress shirt, saying:
“It’s
gonna be back in style.”
Also
saying: “You are too skinny—
I can put
you down with one little touch.”
Then
showing pictures of himself—a skinny young man
in long
black trunks jumping into a lake.
Your
birthday is coming soon,
but I
won’t visit the cemetery—useless.
Hey,
let’s have another one . . . a drink
like the
one I bought you at 10 a.m. in Coney Island.
It was
hot, but you wanted it.
I
promised to take you to a strip club
but never
did, being too cheap, and, anyway,
It’s a
long way from Brighton Beach to Manhattan.
I’ll see
you soon . . .
LAST NIGHT POEM
A woodpecker and a
deaf cat
At 5:30 AM are waking
me up
I’m looking at her
Who’s face is colored
by aurora
Making first trip to
the a slop-pail
Craving coffee-vodka-tonic
morning breakfast
Opening laptop and
reading the news
Being afraid to
delete the last night’s poem
THE DAY AFTER
September 12, 2001:
My friend Pasha and I are taking
a catnap in
Washington Square Park.
A violin is playing Fiddler on the Roof,
and drugs are sold in "nickel" bags—no cops.
We're exhausted—a long night behind us,
too many ladies’ shoes in debris—hard to walk.
Getting up after hours of sleep,
walking to my place,
Seeing shining sun and smog,
cleaning hair and shirt from the grass and debris,
Saying to myself: "I’ve seen all that.”
Trying to make a call—no reception.
01/06/2007
Another
warm winter
60º
fog
New York
at 9 a.m. feels like
summer
nights in Leningrad.
Windows
metal curtains fire escapes—
everything
in b/w.
I’ve seen
all these too many times
in
different cities on two continents.
The
colors are gone
accompanied
by upbeat.
The mood
is cool-jazz,
broken
umbrellas filling
garbage
cans like dead ravens.
And
almost no traffic
this Saturday
morning.
Only
tired, shaky drunkards
and dog
walkers
and
lonely lovers
are
hitting the streets,
some
looking for an adventure
some
making a buck
some
going home
to get
their final rest.
SNOW
snow snow
again snow
heaters on
pulse faster
women call
articles written
snow
TV silent
I read lips
translate stills
as moving pictures
I dress in black
but the weather
paints my clothes white
with snow
I like the color
of black & white
like photos of my childhood—
lost
in piles snow
MARCH
It resembles Baryshnikov’s
character
from Sex and the City,
the same city
for her . . .
on the same streets . . .
I’m in a reality program.
All serials come to an end.
Chapters progress
despite age.
The moon grows larger,
but March
does not exit February.
It's still cold and wet and
windy
and dark enough for poems
to inscribe the season.
FOR V. S.
My friend,
We are too old to die
Look at our children—
They might need a
buck towards a subway ride.
Hakuna Matata,
I’m looking at my
deaf cat—
Counting traffic
From the living room
window.
And that says it all…
AFRAID
I’m more afraid of
ugly women,
amateur poets,
and lousy artists,
then of
robbery,
arson,
gunfire,
terrorist acts,
or
corporate meetings
BROKEN LIVES
I guess any woman
can work as a stripper
in Irvington, NJ.
The Go-Go place
I stopped by for a drink
had only beer-bellied,
middle-aged
Latinos in bikini.
And when I finished my
vodka tonic and stepped
outside,
a crackhead white trash
in her fifties, I guess,
offered
a blow-job for twenty bucks.
And a unisex salon
on the next block
was still open
at midnight.
I had a whole night ahead of
me
supervising broken lives
of employees in the transit
garage,
with my ex-wife among them.
TABLE TALK
I can’t stand family
gatherings around the
table
where the main topic
of
each conversation is
food.
Sauce and toppings
best bagel &
cream cheese in town
testiest dead meat in
farmer’s market
near the Villas of
Red Rove
and fresh Upstate
veggies
etc.
They eat food
talk about food
with a mouth full
talk about
and fart to the side
talk food
and burp loudly
table talk with
nothing
to talk about
table full of slaves
of
their own stomachs.
STOP BITCHING!
tickets for this
concert were
a gift for my 37th
birthday
I just got back from
an exhausting Western
European book tour
and all I wanted is
to
drink my V&T with
a chaser
spit at the ceiling
and bitch about my
own
writing as well as
the others
and not going even
near
thousands of people
screaming at the
stage
and feeling petty for
a
73-year-old performer
an old fart on a
stage
gave a two and a half
hour terrific concert
slim and fit and tall
and
smiling with a voice
full of
wisdom and a sharp
eye—a real poet
I felt like a bug
watching
this Canadian Jew boy
saying to myself:
stop bitching
you have a lot
to live for
chin up
it was the best
and the scariest gift
in my poor entire
life
by far.
IT’S UP!
Too many people
believe
that they are friends
of mine
like this one who
calls
on a weekly basis
asking
how I feel
if I still on a wagon
what doctors say
how’s J&C
what’s going on
and
what’s new
I strongly believe
that a real friend
don’t ask these
questions
a true friend knows—
if something is up
(besides my penis)—
he’s the first one
to know
from my direct
phone call.
WE ALL DIE ALONE
Back in a days when I
was
a loud young poet
with a
full set of hair and
visible
muscles under the
shirt
I would give two or
three
readings a month—
for a free booze and
female’s attention
Most of those ladies
were in their 40’s,
50’s, and 60’s
they would tell me
whom from their youth
I remind them of
And some of them
would jump
into a cab with me
than—into a bed
and some would
introduce
to their daughters
(depends on age)
Nowadays I give
readings
once a year—tops—
no longer being
a stage whore
I remember my
internist’s
phone number by heart
and think twice
before
submitting solicited
writings of mine
into anthologies,
periodicals, or before
appearing on the
radio,
or even going to
public events
where some stranger
might recognize my
scar face
<…>
And it’s time to take
a dog to a local park
And catch a glimpse
of an evening sun
And to remind myself
that
we all die alone.
LOVE A LIVE ONE
she was crying:
"I lost him, I lost him
he’s dead, but I'm
still in love with him.
Why did 9/11 happen?"
I took another sip
from my vodka and tonic
in a plastic glass, and said:
"It’s easy to be in love
with a stiff,
than trying to love
a live one."
TERRORIST ACTS
every terrorist act
is followed
by a dozen phone
terrorists attacks
by people who know my
phone #
“did you hear”
“they say black widows of Chechnya
committed the terror”
“who did that”
“TV says—Chechens,
newspapers agree,
radio voices the
same”
“suicide bombers were
from Georgia”
“CIA tail was found
and the Brits were
involved as well”
“I blame it on so
called Patriots”
“they are just trying to scary us”
“Muslims, I
KNOW,—Muslims”
“we should kill them
all”
zombies
media zombies
…I worked in mass
media…
Have a moment of
silence.
And a drink would be
appropriate too.
THERE ARE NO SNAKES IN IRELAND
For A. K.
There are no snakes
in
Ireland
Lots of Polacks and
some
Asians in Dublin
as well as
the souls of great
writers
as well as
the souls of Vikings
galloping
horses through the Arch
forcing cobblestones
to
a drumbeat
heading East to
slaughter
fishermen
then board knarrs and
karves
and sail further
inland
where no snakes can
be found
and Liffey river is
too narrow
to continue any further
too narrow—no wider
than
a snake.
That’s why there are
no snakes in Ireland.
NYC WAY OF DEATH
1=10—that’s how time
in the subway counts
latinos & blacks
with
their pants half-way
down to the knees
play loud shit on
their
phones and other
digital
crap—no headphones
Gibberish over the intercom—
its pinch squeaky
sound
impossible to
comprehend—
noise—everywhere
child in the stroller
screams—
provider where’s the
boob?
I wouldn’t might to
see and
touch perky breast
on that teenage mom
from
Columbia or Ecuador,
I guess
and the terror noises
are not even about to
stop
and the train stuck
underground
between the Bronx
& Manhattan stops
immigrants are just
too loud
the emergency cord is
torn
white trash kids
won’t shut up
the emergency doors
are locked
there’s no way out—
that’s the only way to travel—
according to the
chief of MTA
enjoy your NYC way of
death
not to be or to be
continued
TO THE GALLERY OPENING GOER
Remove a sock
that is stocked
in your pants
and stick it
into your
stinky mouth—
where it belongs
then suck on it.
WASTE MANAGMENT
All day
I’ve been answering
e-mails & phone calls
opening door to UPS & USPS
commenting on art-shows
proofing front and back covers
smoking one cig after next
later when the cat meowed
I realized that it’s dark outside
and both of us are hungry
and that she is about
to come back from work
JUST HAPPENING
I’ve been asked
when was the last
time
I wrote a poem.
—Couple of months,
probably.
I don’t set the
stanza time alarm.
—Poor thing,—that
person concluded,—
you must feel
awful. It must be hard on you.
—Not a bit,—was my
answer.
—You don’t lie to me,
man! —He screamed,—
I’m a poet
myself; I know that writing is hard,
but not to be able to
write is even harder!
What an idiot, I said
to myself.
When I don’t
push keys I find
million different
ways to amuse
my existence. But
when I do—
the poems are just
happening—
don’t even have to write
them.
I just type.
A BETTER POET
he would be announced
by
an IVY-league
professor emeritus
in black Dockers slacks with a brown
belt of fake leather
wearing white with
blue straps
running shoes
(it must be fun
to see him run
to an expiring meter)
but enough with that
genius
the audience would
applaud
the
audience—twenty-seven
SSI female recipients
eighteen SSI male
recipients
and three students of
the
professor
emeritus—three
students from a dorm
across the street
who weren’t shower in
three days
oh!
God loves Trinity
he would get on a
stage
bring mic a bit hire
fix the scarf on a
shoulder
place print-outs and
chapbooks
next to mic
and take off his slim
reading glasses
and bow and greet the
audience
he would give a
five-minute speech
about his driving
experience
from D.C. to New
Haven
that preheated him
for
this poetry event
and how America is
beautiful
and peaceful and safe
with a newly elected
democratic president
right at that moment
I’d come in my pants—
many thanks to his
wife
who massaged me under
the table
by the way
she’s a better poet
than he is
PROS
There are some pros in moving to the outskirts
such as—no one would knock on your door
assuming that you are home—
who wants to toss good 3 hours of their lousy
lives away
in NYC transit?
Neighbors don’t know you—being afraid or not,
they just smile or grin at you
and not working on a small talk unless it’s
raining,
in which case the word “shit” would be
appropriate
coming from any direction, although every each
of us
was born wet.
The liquor store owner is the winner in this
situation—
these guys never loose—
new customer is more than welcome and the next
time
you’ll enter the store,
“the same size?” question will be thrown at you,
and you’ll stick with the magnum.
And here’s a tip: don’t be so happy seeing your
phone bill
shrinking—the very next day cable guy
will reach deep into your pocket …
The outskirts are not open-hearted to the
newcomers,
especially if you are a city dude—neighbors will
gossip
and spike behind your back, you would not give a
damn
and soon you’ll be ignored—just another
strangely dressed
nutcase—who-knows-what.
Socializing will go down the hill and soon
you won’t miss your bar stool
behind what use to be your everyday counter in a
bar
where everybody already forgot your drink, face,
and name,
so as you—theirs.
Money will be saved, you’ll concentrate more
on the important staff
and will re-discover that
drinking alone is a bliss from the gray sky.
Welcome back to the outskirts, old fart!
CROSSINGS
A friend of mine
is crossing Himalayas
this very moment.
I’m trying to make it across
the two-way boulevard.
Don’t know which task is easier
or more rewarding.
LAST CENTURY
it’s a past century,
said a gray-haired
friend of mine
looking at women at
the gallery opening
I agreed:
their dresses and
coiffures
got stuck with their
youth
in the 60’s, 70’s, and
80’s
drunk away in the
90’s
while men here—
men standing next to
them—
men of the same age
look in their prime
can these women see
it?
asked my buddy
mincing a quirly
no, I assumed
dripping mascara
blocks their sight
and then we cracked
jokes about
new faces on the
political Olympus
and bitched about
jacked-up prices on
Leica, Tamron, and Sigma
and the new FLM GmbH ballheads
having vodka over ice
as a chaser
of our the day to day
thoughts
FLOWERS
. . . even a flower can be political—
sword lily
on Stalin’s grave
got the same look and feel
as gladiolus
(from the same bunch)
given to a loved one
but don’t have
the same
scent
BOOKMARK
Long Island Rail Road
Station # 9012 PennStation
Sold Tickets Amount
$12.00
______
Total Amount $12.00
______
Payment: Credit 4018 $12.00
Long Island Rail Road
. . .
going your way
TSM # 1208
Transaction # 306992
Date / Time 08/29/04 10:54
Destination: Casa Non Compos Mentis
FULL OF IT
I don’t get you are full of shit
that often, though—I should
but every time I do—
an old episode comes to mind:
a man on his deathbed at home
losing battle to cirrhosis—
no feeding tubes, just
pain killers
morphine shots—
whatever and
whenever
a dying man’s widow-to-be could get
by blowing neighbors’ cocks in a hallway
a man could not eat
was barely able to
speak
being a ceiling gazer
he just shit
wasn’t fed for more than a week
being horizontal—
no
strength to get up
and feed the john—
he shit the couch
his wife—mouth full of sperm—
would do her part—
change the sheets
once a day
so he would shit and piss a cleaner sack—
in one direction only—due to the law of gravity
his body was about to get ready to follow physics—
down
no more tough choices:
bottle of port with
a snack
or
a bottle of 80
proof
sitting on a bed corner next to him
watching shadows
playing on a
ceiling’s football field
and disappearing with flies into the window’s net—gooool!
I was trying to cheer him up
saying
you’ll be gone shit-free,
life is a Cabernet,
old
fart
a man smiled with his tiny white lips
tried—with his colorless eyes—to get my attention—
at something on the
ceiling . . .