Genya Turovskaya, p.1



the defect of those who do not

          tolerate the minute particles

remember this is the new world strain

toward one radius          some to another

          sum of all

happiness is not a potato

to remit

our dismaying origins      we

                                       (in)        (need of)
must count ourselves        dire

among those for whom there can be no forbearance

in this book or elsewhere

the unluckiest ones of all


upstream                    beautiful theories

their ships had

suffered the limits of their bodies

with uneasy heart

          some fragment of their lunacy

consented for the sake

of rhythms more inexorable

          a thousand circadian cartwheels

ludicrous circus marvels of the emperor

          of manual occupation

again in our little bed

motor idling

in the mitigation of loneliness


what alleviated


forsworn by the damage

careful of the censors I am now

reliant on


papers                         evening vagaries

ride the tourist bus through the

bad neighborhoods




          like anything that has been broken once will

break again                              abruptly

iron weathered

powdering into gray states

weeping in the elevator

Death is so alarming

          (the length to which)

          (the impossible subject)

          less and less

a pensioner                              a baby’s head

its armature so small and languishing

          held out

her arms to me

          let me

do the work of my life