Valery Kourinsky

03.23.1999

ON TOP OF THAT

Thoughts stuck between winter and spring
like tortoise crawling to the warm place.
Thoughts covered with testudinal shell of past
and mottled by black and white of death and life...
>From there to here. From December to March.
>From cold clearness to the warm haziness.
Choose, poor mind, between two worse case,
choose hope-against-hopely,
choose unchosable.

I am feeling this pan-existing pain of stuckness,
caused by my separation from the half of my soul
lasting in his being there, in confines of previous meeting
with the closest to me set of wonders
that in dictionaries figures as human creature.
I am sensing distance --
that becomes every while
bigger and bigger--
as a physical disjoining
of the best spirito-ethical chapters of my internal script,
ordered by Her Majesty Evolution of our kind.

And I write the events that generates the growing abyss,
which is not a chasm, because I fill it voidness
with my infinite poem dedicated to my love
to almost mystical unit of the known and the unknown
that has your occasional name,
on which I depend in a heavenly and earthly way
during each my deed, for each my life
beginning with each new waiting for you.

The slowest stream of time may be easy found
in hollow of my despair
that is, may be, constructed as basement
for future skyscraper of beauty's discovery,
support for the same heaven
that invented such hellish punishment for me.

Unenunciable multitude of agitations
elevating this level of existence to higher dimension
(oh, my brothers!),
giving senses to yesterday's crazy articulacy,
annihilating and generating me in the same time,
proposing love
as a single general unit for measuring
of whatever kind of events in all sciences of that world.

To be so distant from point X is very painful indeed,
it rather means: to be absent
in the fullness of reality.
And there is a suspicion:
this is an additional error in the book of problems,
in this collection of tasks,
which are on top of that insolvable.