Kiki Dimoula Poems

A dream on patrol

in abandonment's tenements

arrested an old acquaintance suspicion

red-handed, leaning on

a shuttered likelihood,

eavesdropping.



"Please understand," I told it,

"the folks you nab are no garbage.

Don't mire them in. I break my back

retrieving them. They're for repair and return.

You're not their expiration.

A poor exhausted nap is what you are

under the cool of tears

while the repairs occur so they won't hurt."



A skilled restorer, inspiration,

precisely montaging all their trials

without which the body doesn't trust

any reintegration.



New people never did exist. And even if

we named a couple first-created

it was to win imagination's

majority confidence vote.

They always show up second-hand

from their mysterious origin, a mystery too

how old that is, what slavery it comes from,

horsewhipped in cellular plantations

for dinosauric eons.



We don't know a thing.

Every beginning came to us

a simile with its mystery.



A fabulous restorer, inspiration -

of every worn beginning

renewing art, artifice, and life

from ashes to Lo

Lala Lola all fall up!



Only their box is new.



I send them down again with the old price

since they have lived before.



So, have we too?

Then what's the quick?

And is the seam a gimmick

to make us love?

If life is reparable

where's all that's lost?

Still being stitched?

Can such delay be overcome?

This inspiration, is it careful,

correctly marking, numbering each piece,

or does it use my body by mistake

to fix like new what yours

is lacking?



So old each new sorrow.

So dearly paid for its new box.



O millionaire

answers and your unknown

hooded, secret abductors.
...

My God, try to remember

where you hid

the findings of that awful accident.

I dug where I detected

some buried wrecks of logic, but besides

the illogical's propellers spinning still, I found

no other explanation.



I want to understand what overturned the rule

and brought about that fatal

by exception.



What happened? The road was straight.

The warring anarchic differences —

which charged you from their lair

behind the serene Edenic equality

of blooms blooms and the flowers ―

you cleverly quelled, corralling them

in a spacious gradation:

large

small

smaller

least.

And so the major matter: who eats whom

was settled in the court of mass.

The hunger of the smaller feeds

the hunger of the larger and so on.

It only surfaced later that

the reasonable was not

so fruitful.



And while the large fish ate the small

the ephemeral the butterfly

eros ate eros

proliferation the unique

the soul was eaten by its fretting

over leaving us

the seven goats devoured by the wolf

except the smallest one who hid

behind a story.

What happened, God, that final moment

on such straight road, were you daydreaming

and the rule reversed and we fell in

that fateful by exception

so now the small worm eats

the large



human

except the smallest one

who hides behind

a story.
...

Hello, hello, can you hear me? Hello?

I'm calling from far away. What?

You can't hear me? Has my distance

discharged? Are you speaking from mobile

space? Press zero again? Again?

Can you hear me now?

Yes, can you please put my mother on?

What number did I call? The Sky —

this is what I was given. She's not there?

Can I scream her a message?

It's very urgent, tell her

I saw in my sleep she died and I

small sobbing child who peed itself

fear-soaked all the way

up and still

not dry.



Tell her to come and change it.



If she can't, tell her please

her old warning ripened, that the old

man would eat me if I didn't

eat.



It ripened. I became

a meal of age. Not in a small dreamy taverna.

In some popular dive now managed

by the mirror.
...

I wait a bit for the differences

and the indifferent to darken, then

I open the windows.

It is not urgent

but I do it to keep motion from warping.

I borrow my former curiosity's head

and twist. Not twist exactly.

I nod a servile good evening to all

those fawners of the fears, the stars. Not nod

exactly. I fix with a gazing thread

the silver buttons of distance, some of which

are undone, tremble, and will fall.

It is not urgent. I do it only to show distance

my gratitude for its offering.



Without distance

long trips would shrivel. The universe

our need to flee had pined for

would be delivered to our door by motorbike

like pizza. Like a leech

old age would suck on youth and I'd be called

grandmother from birth

equally by eros and grandbabies.

What would the stars then be

without distance's provident support?

Earthbound silver, some candelabra, ashtrays

for the spent butts of pugnacious wealth,

and fawning's investment bubble.



Without distance

nostalgia would speak to us in thees.

Her now rare timid rendezvous

with our plethoric need

would fatally assimilate

frequency's street-smart speech.



Of course, without distance, our neighbor

wouldn't seem a far-off star — he'd be

in prime proximity, two steps would bridge

his outline from a dream.

As also nearby the soul's

ultimate escape would stay.

Why so much wanderlust? Whole rooms

are empty. We'd go downstairs

to live in our basement body

and distance with its myth and odds and ends

would incarnate to flesh.



If not for you, distance, Lethe would,

much easier and faster in one night,

traverse her difficult protracted adolescence

which we, for euphony, name recall.



Not recall exactly. I fix facsimiles

with a gazing thread — they've come undone,

are trembling, and will fall.

Not fix exactly. Servile, I orbit

those fawners of time which I, for brevity,

named recall. Not recall exactly. I refuel meteors

with extended annihilation.

It is urgent.
...

The devotion night will show us

oppresses me. I prefer



to remember. Not that my well

of living images is dry.

But each time I place them

in their expressive postures,

I see by morning they have moved.

I know it by the scrapes their drag

from their original positions leave

on stability's luster.



It's why I insist

on remembering: to not mar the luster.

Not because it makes me feel more durable

— it being the infinity of time already lapsed.



If I insist on remembering

it's not to accommodate God — arousing

the inert figures, I provide him

also with some motility.



I insist on remembering

not because ease offers me this choice

gratis. By arduous feeling and sacrifice

and turning despair inside out,

I eked out how to squawk-dyi squawk-ing —

I speak crow-Latin to keep the menace

ignorant of my refuge.



If I insist on remembering

it's not to find excuses

for always speaking in the same

worn words — what do you think the new ones

are? A temporal childish defiance

to the old.



If I insist on remembering

it is no battle-flinch

no backwoods retreat. All kinds

of people constantly pass by.

What I remember can be seen

from the most central districts.



For a little hope, a hint of renewal

I remember. I'm totally fed up with all

that ineluctable and future Lord

squawk why-have-you-forsaken squawk—

without exaggeration!
...

The devotion night will show us

oppresses me. I prefer



to remember. Not that my well

of living images is dry.

But each time I place them

in their expressive postures,

I see by morning they have moved.

I know it by the scrapes their drag

from their original positions leave

on stability's luster.



It's why I insist

on remembering: to not mar the luster.

Not because it makes me feel more durable

— it being the infinity of time already lapsed.



If I insist on remembering

it's not to accommodate God — arousing

the inert figures, I provide him

also with some motility.



I insist on remembering

not because ease offers me this choice

gratis. By arduous feeling and sacrifice

and turning despair inside out,

I eked out how to squawk-dyi squawk-ing —

I speak crow-Latin to keep the menace

ignorant of my refuge.



If I insist on remembering

it's not to find excuses

for always speaking in the same

worn words — what do you think the new ones

are? A temporal childish defiance

to the old.



If I insist on remembering

it is no battle-flinch

no backwoods retreat. All kinds

of people constantly pass by.

What I remember can be seen

from the most central districts.



For a little hope, a hint of renewal

I remember. I'm totally fed up with all

that ineluctable and future Lord

squawk why-have-you-forsaken squawk—

without exaggeration!
...

Do you remember the small carafe

a crown of blue blossoms painted on

its wine-bearing lip?

— you bought it in Alsace for me

without enthusiasm

what for, you said, we never drink.

You never know, I insisted, one day we might

in some haze need to meet.



Its handle broke for no reason

other than a deep crack in my touch.



I hold it now from your hand

steady with your hand

my hazy alcoholic figment

fills it up with wine.
...

At night,
that angelform melting,
kneading the body with sleep's lotions,
creaming its defenses, it is
no physiotherapist.
It is your new employment in storage,
treasuries, safe deposit boxes — you can't see
blindfolded by the bosses.
Invisible telecontrols
direct your secret practice.
Your work is this: to not know
what it is you guard or until when.

Dreams? Do they trust us? Most often
we rob them leaving in their stead
beautiful forgeries as real.

Now, for this storage post they choose
for reasons of security
bodies who sleep alone
on hard unyielding anatomic beds

since stuffing, inner springs, latex and curves
are busy growing someone else

on the empty side —

their fluffy anomalies roll him to the dent
your worn attention sinks, your sleeping trust
keeps making room for him till danger
grazes what you guard.

Before these measures were enacted
you sometimes woke up in the morning
on the floor, dream

eye punched
purple, strange fungi sleeping
on pillow-top and foam,
and every store-room open.

Now, before sleeping, latch
windows, bolt the doors
and, as your ribcage is unlocked on either side,
drag tables vanities the wardrobe and the hutch
washing-machine night-table the TV —
blockade and barricade it.
...

My small child

got into mischief once again

climbing the ledge of the universe

his hand jostling the red

plate hanging on the skywall spilling

all the light down on himself



God startled

to see the sun

dressed in child clothes

scrambling back down the ladder

of my mind



And now I sit

and sternly scold my child

as secretly I steal his poured-on

light.
...

Below, the sea waits always

for a wrinkling wind.

Athos Dimoulas

"Supreme Generality"



Some wide-flung windows

hoist Summer up by insect derrick.



I count: a couple of letters

are missing. The bottom rocker of the s

is gone. It had been loose last year.



Now where will all this dimininution sit

with its host of eunuchs?



Still, the diminishing is firm —

it withstands tons of pain. Sit freely.



I think I'll add a recliner to the list

to replace the broken s.



I also need

a small transistor radio

glued to the ears of the waves

tuned to the pirate stations of the sands.

An easily sensitized song reels in

characters that almost match the ones

summer is missing and then some. In case

you remember others. You'll have

plenty of seats.



Filtering glasses too, lest I remember more,

though now and then I do wear smoky contacts.



A hat for the sun

although it blazes less than when

night and day you'd invent it.

I'll try on an old sunburn

curious whether my back's

old crazy passion for it peeled.



New swimsuit — my decline has gained

a lot of weight. In fact, I'd relish

a new body — to sit along its miles and stroke

the airy wrinkles of the sea.

But logic will finally prevail:

the logic of this body at my disposal.



All the sea's Ss one by one

are carefully hoisted bubble-wrapped

in blue transparent water

by seagull derrick.



What sea? Mere

illusionist pirate water —

a distant cosmogony's refugee.

Corruptingly immense

because of the precipitous

and schistic initial temper of the cosmos.

Harlot escape's optical pimp.



What sea?

Time for the logic of the body

at your disposal to prevail.



Get dressed and swim.



(Tear-Dumping Strictly Prohibited.

Maturity already is
rabidly salty on its own.)
...