Haibun in English

mountain ridge walk:
the sun which has set fully
shows its edge again!

My mother reads
The Red Kabbalah by Grigory Klimov
and goes into the uproar while
binging on the agribusiness pear
to be eaten overripe
with the sweet rice from the food co-op
commissioning the murals of minorities;
the black men robbed me of my Soviet camera
at the MIT Bridge which we—intermittently—
called the Harvard Bridge;
the minority men refused to return my film cartridge,
the flick of my life…
Yes, I died in the river.
Since then the Germanic world had turned digital
and I was given my life back, half the century later.
Ah, this life is a wasted opportunity to ask the question;
I don't care about the answer anymore,
no time to hold the wisdom,
the disintegration is in process...
Farewell, mother, nothing will be OK.
Read my Russian poems instead,
they are in the common grave with the Brodskys, and (Max) Brod, and Browning, and Brutus...
They have stopped talking to me.
But Arseniy Tarkovsky...
G-d has not read closely the text of my life before the long overdue trashing masked as recycling.


2012