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Christos Tsanakas Poem
In the digitimes of trout streams full of numbers,
I’m the dark echo of a moon-ringing splash-machine
named 567-3389, my old phone number,
that crazy pet of howling crisis I’m
nursing now with my tender planted hands
and my tender planted ears
full of dark echo
and soil.
Sure, my life now is an echo of singing numbers
transformed by darkness into emptiness
dreaming of rhymes.
Please, dream of me as Richard Brautigan,
howls a dark empty hat in a dark empty room
suffers homesickness of a poet.
This lonely hat,
moon in black,
remote like tomb,
is in love with fairytales and fishing.
It has a silver trout shadow and all!
[Christos Tsanakas, Athens/Greece/June 2016]
Copyright © Christos Tsanakas | Year Posted 2016
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Christos Tsanakas Poem
We all shine on,
he says (nobody hears),
by the striking light of shots,
with golden bullets in our chests,
in the green eye of a yellow God
standing still beyond Milton Hayes’
absent eyes.
We all shine on
in borrowed time
from honeys and kids
and cats and dogs and gods,
all in the hall of householding
fame, smiling at our last
lost minute.
We all shine on
cookin’ years to tasty days
and tasty beds with pillows
full of absent wealth of lust
to last in borrowed time
with borrowed selves
in absent memories.
We all shine on
like a striking light in the eye
of a one-eyed idol to the north
of Katmandu, seeing the childish
godfaced game above our inner oneness,
that stark shine striking our fearfulness
like the golden eye of a fish in the abyss.
Copyright © Christos Tsanakas | Year Posted 2017
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Christos Tsanakas Poem
I knew a man
who was dining
a cancer.
Alone.
Every single night
he ate with the hunger
of a spider enchanted
by a fly's swirling dance,
with a sparkle
in his eyes.
Oh, his rainy eyes!
This man finally ate the fly,
dancing now by himself
fly's absent dances,
featherly pulsing
the net of time.
He even bought
a second chair
for his dinner table.
Copyright © Christos Tsanakas | Year Posted 2016
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