Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.
رقة كائن آدمي تجاه آخر في أزمنة الكراهية الجماعية والعنف الجماعي تستحق احترامًا أكثر من كل وعظ الكنائس منذ بدء الزمان.
This strange thing must have crept Right out of hell.It resembles a bird’s footWorn around the cannibal’s neck.As you hold it in your hand,As you stab with it into a piece of meat,It is possible to im...
Memory, all-night's bedside tattoo artist.
هندوانهبودای سبزبر پیشخوان میوه فروشلبخندش را گاز میزنیمو دندانهایش را تف میکنیم ::Watermelons Green BuddhasOn the fruit stand.
«ظلُّنا واحدٌ.لكن ظلُّ مَنْ منّا؟أودّ أن أقول:«لقد كان في البدايةوسيكون عند النهاية»،لكن لا يقين في ذلك.ليلابينما أجلسخالطا أوراق صمتنا،أقول له:«مع أنّك تلفظ كلّ واحدة من كلماتي،فأنت غريبٌآن لك أنْ تت...
In the circle of yellow lamplight,These few roof-beams and columnsOf what could be a Mogul Emperor's palace.The Prince chews his long nails,The Princess lowers her green eyelids.They both smoke too mu...
If the photographers are soul-thieves, whose soul is being stolen in a photograph of the night sky? The soul of the last one to go to bed and the soul of the first one to rise in the morning, perhaps?...
I remember, someone said, how in ancient times one could turn a wolf into a human and then lecture it to one's heart's content.
Everyone vain, dull, peevish, and sexually frustrated dreams of legislating his impotence. Mao’s uniforms: a billion people dressing the same and shouting from his little red book continues to be the...
Poetry is an orphan of silence.
Once I knew, then I forgot. It was as if I had fallen asleep in a field only to discover at waking that a grove of trees had grown up around me. Doubt nothing, believe everything, was my friend’s idea...
Never since the beginning of the world has there been so little light. Our winter afternoons have been known at times to last a hundred years.
كلما كان الظلم فادحا كان الغضب أعلى
The truth is dark under your eyelids.What are you going to do about it?The birds are silent; there's no one to ask.All day long you'll squint at the gray sky.When the wind blows you'll shiver like str...
The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.
Most of the American films were made in southern California, so if you were in Europe, watching those palm trees swaying in the wind with someone like Rita Hayworth gliding underneath them in a white...
History is a cookbook. The tyrants are chefs. The philosophers write menus. The priests are waiters. The military men are bouncers. The singing you hear is the poets washing dishes in the kitchen.
In the Libraryfor OctavioThere's a book calledA Dictionary of Angels.No one has opened it in fifty years,I know, because when I did,The covers creaked, the pagesCrumbled. There I discoveredThe angels...
الحلم الأمريكى الجديد أن تصبح فى غاية الثراء وينظر إليك على الرغم من ذلك بوصفك ضحية