Hangover,
Sunday summer morning;
through the window I watch my neighbor
with his lawnmower going at the green grass,
back and forth as he performs some high scale symphony:
there is no color in his eyes left and no life in the body,
he is just a machine going at it with amazing precision.
The sound of the machine fills up my room and the green
of the grass is no longer the green of my youth,
the yellow of the diminishing sun is no more the color of
Vincent;
colors be damned,
symphonies be damned,
let Mozart burn in hell,
the flies on my walls start to rattle,
while I light up a cigarette and puff a cloud of smoke to
the ceiling.
The summer streets out there flat on their backs,
the squirrels twaddle and sink in the branches,
the garbage trucks sweep majestically away
as the summer sun goes high and high.
Suddenly the man turns off the machine,
takes a sip from his beer can and looks in my direction.
He sees me at the window, nods and lifts his beer,
I smile in return and this day begins with
so little pain.
Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he slowly drinks his beer. His work has been published in Welter, The Catalonian Review, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review,Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and does not talk on the cell phone for days.He is nominated for Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new collaborative collection "r", contains poetry by both himself and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II. It is now available at Amazon:http://www.amazon.com/r-Peycho-Kanev/dp/0979129494/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245429788&sr=1-1
Sunday summer morning;
through the window I watch my neighbor
with his lawnmower going at the green grass,
back and forth as he performs some high scale symphony:
there is no color in his eyes left and no life in the body,
he is just a machine going at it with amazing precision.
The sound of the machine fills up my room and the green
of the grass is no longer the green of my youth,
the yellow of the diminishing sun is no more the color of
Vincent;
colors be damned,
symphonies be damned,
let Mozart burn in hell,
the flies on my walls start to rattle,
while I light up a cigarette and puff a cloud of smoke to
the ceiling.
The summer streets out there flat on their backs,
the squirrels twaddle and sink in the branches,
the garbage trucks sweep majestically away
as the summer sun goes high and high.
Suddenly the man turns off the machine,
takes a sip from his beer can and looks in my direction.
He sees me at the window, nods and lifts his beer,
I smile in return and this day begins with
so little pain.
Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he slowly drinks his beer. His work has been published in Welter, The Catalonian Review, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review,Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and does not talk on the cell phone for days.He is nominated for Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new collaborative collection "r", contains poetry by both himself and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II. It is now available at Amazon:http://www.amazon.com/r-Peycho-Kanev/dp/0979129494/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245429788&sr=1-1
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