Do Not Go Gentle…

What troubled waters flowing down the arid streets.
what a wonderful ghost of death dashing
along each plane,
wincing at the frightened passengers,
knocking on the windows with skeletal fingers,
sitting on the wing,
flailing its legs. Pretending
it doesn’t hear the intensifying cry of the kids.

Oh Allen Ginsberg,
I mourn your death, but more I mourn
the loss of my luggage that vanished away
in the labyrinth of Kennedy Airport,
I still proceed with mourning
though I’m in Armenia now
and my shoes are strolling down the streets of New York City –
heels clicking along (oh what beautiful heels – brand-new!),
travelling the underground elevators.

Oh Allen Ginsberg, you passed away – oh Moloch! Oh Moloch!
You didn’t live to see how I mourned your death,
how my eyes were raining tears,
I didn’t have even a handkerchief to wipe them away,
since my handkerchiefs – brand-new, tightly folded,
disappeared along with my bags – they may be cleaning an American’s nose
right now.

Flutter oh black flags,
the last Beatnik is gone – at the very wrong time
on a bright Spring day, when I was investigating
all the passers-by in the heart of
Washington, D.C. – confident that none of them knew
I was leaving next day
forever.

From the photo story “The Puppet Life” by Anahit Hayrapetyan

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FOR SALE – was written in big tearful letters on a building gate.
FOR SALE – was written in small exhausted letters on a car trunk.
FOR SALE – was written on a kiosk door.
FOR SALE – was written on a drug store display window.
FOR SALE – was written on a factory wall.
FOR SALE – was written on trees in the woodland, as well as on bushes and sporadic mushrooms.
FOR SALE – was written on the cirrus and stratus, the sun and the stars.
FOR SALE – was written on rivers and lakes, gorges and mountains, cats and dogs.
Sold Out – was written, in invisible clandestine letters, on an enormous signboard at the government building.

I Shaved and Wrote a Couple of Lines

I shaved and wrote a couple of lines.
Heaved a sigh watching
little birds fly away
right in the day’s eye.
Then I shaved again
and wrote a couple of lines,
heaved a sigh watching
the day return
without a single bird.
What happened to my day?
I resented watching
my lines fly away
heaving sighs
right in the day’s eye.

From the photo story "The Puppet Life" by Anahit Hayrapetyan