A tak …

Odkryłem, że aby pokonać w sobie śmierć musiałem rozproszyć w życie na nieskończone pasmo wrażeń. Zostać dźwiękiem, kałużą albo oknem bez środka i początku jak mistrz zen albo ktoś w terminalnym stadium Alzheimera. A jednak łatwiej pokochać serce bijące od nowa niż krwawe plamy na tkance pamięci.


Znienawidzona syrena zawodzi ‘hau dip is jor low? Mr. White’. I tylko Zimne stopy zwisają spod kusej kołderki rzeczywistości. Cyferki na cyferblacie dyslektycznie dezintegrują pod naporem sennego surrealizmu. ‘Is it like nirvana?’. Jedyna piosenka, której mógłbym słuchać tej piosenki godzinami, zawieszony między snem a jawą, w słodkiej samsaronirwanie. Może kiedy umrę odrodzę się jako (ta) piosenka. (Ciekawe czy można odrodzić się jako piosenka…)

Jogiczna Logiczna Komunia z komunalną postkomunistyczną komunikacją kombinatu. przy elektrociepłowni Kawęczyn, (przed kombinatem na arterii znowu jakiś zator).

kiedyś przepisywali na to mikrodawki trutki na korposzczury. (Ząbki kruszą przepisaną trutkę na pośpiech receptę korposzczury(ów)). Pozostało tylko dbanie o (Życie) jako postElizejska przejażdżka pośród Przechadzka Wśród Prozaicznych Powidoków Poetycznych Porywów. zdegradowanych do rangi pospolitych obowiązków. Zabudowany. Wisznu. Dbałość. I to jest piękne, albo ma być.

I tylko dbać o to co kochasz. Sennych bękartów.

Wisznu (omotał) Sziwę, kiedy Brahma nacisnął drzemkę I na świecie została tylko Dbałość o słodkie potomstwo poetyckich porywów.


Mój Pierwszy Nekrolog

W związku z bagażem doświadczeń pozostawionym na stacji Politechnika

pociągi kursować będą w dwóch pętlach zaciśniętych na śniącej szyi miasta.

Prosimy o opuszczenie stacji metra, gdzie podmuch zimnem ogłusza nozdrza jak rozpędzona stal.

Przypominamy, że w każdej kieszeni znajduje się telefon alarmowy, z którego można skorzystać w celu powiadomienia o niebezpiecznej egzystencjalnie sytuacji. Prosimy

o udanie się do komunikacji zastępczej, gdzie zadrzemawszy zadumacie się nad kruchością istnienia.




The problem seems to be

… the problem seems to be that my scarce deposits of creativity and inner richness lie dangerously close to the source of psychosis … thus I am afraid to dig there lest I be flooded with images, thoughts and feelings and knocked out of life for half a year …

… or the other way round, the daemon of psychosis has poisoned the source of all richness that make life worthwhile, feelings, emotional intimacy with loved ones, beauty and creativity, thus making me afraid of what makes life worth living …

“Tu padre es marinero” or Saint Brendan’s Gospel/Tantra

I am getting too old for this job. It is full of contradictions, always been. I am free like the bird, yet confined to crammed quarters like a criminal. Ship’s not very different than a prison, really. I have a friend doing time in Thailand for a tiny bit of marijuana so I know. Not bigger than my son’s psychiatric ward. I have met people from all races, all places but what I see each day is only a few of irritatingly familiar faces. See how I rhyme? I might have even been  a poet, or, how they call them these days, ‘wrappers’?

I see myself as a real Provider, shipping stuff across the globe. Particularly important when You lived in communist Poland as I did.

I remember when the Polish martial law caught me in Argentina. They say I could have gotten asylum easily. I never really considered it. Trading one junta for another. I really liked being a Provider. Grabbing all the necessary and extra things from the Free World and bringing it home to my loved ones. My kids were little when they tasted algae and octopus. I brought them gifts their peers could only dream of, they really liked to assemble that wooden dinosaur skeletons. And the LEGO blocks. Some of my collegues liked to bring something extra-extra, I am talking clandestine. I don’t judge them but I stay away from that shit.

I missed my boys growing up. Well, half of it. We didn’t have satellite calls so we sent our voices by mail on magnetic cassettes. Wonder what’s the bandwidth of that.


I’m sorry, my boys.

Tu padre,





Saint Bonifacia’s Gospel

I repair. I mend. I sew. I do what You are too lazy to do. You bring broken, torn, Too long, Too short. I give you whole, one mended, fitting perfectly. It’s easy. Just take the needle. Pierce through one piece, Pierce the other, pull them together as tight as you can. Repeat. You could do it yourself but you are too lazy these days. When I was Young every body had to know how to do BASIC repairs. But you are too busy, always running, rushing for the New, New clothes, New life, New partner. Take, break, throw away. Soon you’ll drown in your trash. Fixing always bought me Joy. I don’t do that for that shitty money. One philosophy student once told me when he gave his jacket for reparations that Indians have secret scriptures they call Weavings or Looms or Tantras. They believe reality is like a cloth, interweaved, interlinked. I know little about philosophy, never went to universities, all I know is how to take a thread and pull rugged edges together, stitch the wound in a fabric, patch holes in reality, I giggle to my silly self.

Maybe I should have become a surgeon, if I was smarter and my parents could afford to send me to study … but I like what I do. I repair. I mend. I sew. I do what You are too lazy to do.

St Christopher’s Gospel

I’ve been working Way too many years on that taxi. I’ve seen Way too much. Just to feed my wife and Kids i carry ppl when they shouldn’t be going. They are sleeping, sometimes literally and I am trying to Wake them up. Soon it Will be too late. They are replacing me with these obedient uber drones and soon mindless robots Will drive them to their own oblivion according to their wish. What is gonna happen when ppl stop needing each other. I work in many mysterious ways. Sometimes I Just talk. I tell them what they should know. What is important in life. Sometimes i feel they listen. ‘Oh I don’ t call the police when i’m in trouble, they won’t do anything. I call my friends. ‘ Last Time i was meant to drive that zombie to the whorehouse. The guy was So drunk he was almost dead. I promised myself i was gonna stick to the plan, drive him to the bordello, get my cut, my daughter needs a dress for the prom. But as i was my Caravan drove through the starless night something cracked inside me. Was it on purpose or by happy mistake he ended up waking the pissed whorehouse neighbour, a simple Man who worked in er, a more adequate host who gave him a more adequate greeting. I hope he learned sthg from it. Another Time i was gonna drive these youngsters to the party, already soaked, especially the girl my daughter’s age. Usually i bite my tongue and teeth and clean the vomit of the seats later but this Time i snapped. ‘i Will only take her if she stands for 60 seconds all by herself’ . Everybody started counting. She was short of only 4 seconds. Oh, how i laughed.

Sometimes when they are late for another super important meeting I drive them through the crammed and ja med Streets of Praga, the bad part of Town. ‘here, when u walk after dark u can Come back in full Monty, no wallet no Keys!’. My cousin died of heart attack. No super important job. Sometimes when they seem distressed i give them a Tour of a more picturesque part of Town. I talk to them or show them a church. If i had the chance and wasn’ t a taxi driver i might Have been a therapist, after so much practice, or even a priest, even though they can’t Have family. But after all i like my job, i think it might Just be my calling, i think to myself as the pendant with st Christopher, the patron Saint of my profession and my name swings  in the breeze from the window ajar.


-Grandma, how did it all came to be?


– The sky, the Forest, the birds, the stars?

– It’s late my boy. The fire is burning out and grandma is getting cold.

– But grandma, please.

-Some say it’s all a story we tell each other. Everytime you open your mouth you create it anew. That is why it’s always fresh like the Mountain stream and never stays the same. ThAT is why everything is possible.

– And when there were no words yet?

– Before words there was sounds. Listen to the fire, my boy…

-I am listening.

-And what do you hear?

– trzask as it breaks Little twigs and huk as it bites chews through the BIG logs.

– fire is the mouth of the God. We feed it and the God speaks to us.

-through fire?

-Yes, through fire. ThAT is how we learned the God’s tongue.

-The God’s language?

– Every Time the God trzasks a twig we answer with the clap of Our hands. We tied the strings together So we can strum as the God hums chewing Our Wood. Even during the Day we clap and we strum So the fire always Burns in Our loins.


-Why are we black as tar and they are White as snów?

-It wasn’t always this Way, my boy. A long Time ago everybody was the same color.

-And then?

-Then we became their Shadow.


– Yes, of those that claim to be Born twice.


-Yes. Once as a human of flesh and Blood, and once as their character/role.

-Yes. A holy priest, mighty warrior, obedient peasant or honest merchant.

-Like the actor in the market place playing a role?


-And what is Our role?

-We didn’t Have a role. ThAT is why we did what anybody Else wanted to.

– Like what?

-We took their trash, cleaned their shit, wiped the Blood of their floors. We looked where they were disgusted to look, took care of what they wouldn’t touch. Our skin grew dark with their pain they wouldn’t show anyone, the dirt of their hearts. And they grew pale like the Blood sucking demons, from their ‘cleanliness’. Little did they know that with their dirt we sucked their life.

-If they need us why do they always chase us away? Why do we always Have to run?

-Because they are scared.

-Scared of what?

-Of Our dark wisdom. Of their own Shadow, pale with fear. They are like a baby too Young to take care of its own shit.

-They were scared even of Our touch. They made many petty laws. We stayed because they needed us. But Our hearts light as a Bird grew heavy with their suffering . We sang when we srubbed their floors, screamed their sorrow to the fire and when we were overburdened with baggage we started Our Voyage. We gave love to the unloved, show them the beauty they overlooked.

–  They say we trick them…

– We show them what they need to See Just to teach them a lesson. When the tears wash their eyes they look at each other with love and cast their fears on us, the Others. And that’s the Way it should be. That’s the Way the World is. Black and White. Stillness and movement.

– Sad is Our life.

-True but false. We are the lowest of the low which makes us the Kings. Their hearts are cold and cut with lines and borders. They spend their life locked in prisons of Stone. Their life is like a broken pot and we are water that slips through the cracks back to the endless ocean.

-What is God like?

-God is the destroyer of death. It’s whatever name we throw in its face. It’s love, music, art. It’s Our Daily rituals, cooking meals, tending to Our homes, taking care of Our children.





I asked for Faith that could move Mountains. Now I ask for Faith humble and silent like prayer of a refugee, whisper of the wind tuning the prayer wheels, like the last breath of a ców.