3 poems from Ross Vassilev

therefore...

walking
down the street
with the sun
the wind
the blue sky
God is waiting
for me to say
something
profound while
the white
butterflies dance
in my head
the cars speed by
and I remember
that day
in 2nd grade
when I got up
and exposed
myself to the girl
sitting in front
of me
I tell God
he doesn't exist
so I'm talking
to myself
therefore
I am God with
nothing but
these eyes in my
head staring at
my white hands--
I am alive.

dying state

there was a poet living in South Dakota
who used to submit his poems
to me back when I was running
Opium Poetry. they were long, honest
down-to-earth poems, no word-play games
or light-hearted bullshit. he wrote me
long, rambling emails that went
something like don't let them fool ya
stick with the real shit
and not their bullshit and kick their asses
every chance ya get and so on.
he told me about the never-ending pain
in his leg and how whatever disease he had
almost killed him the week before.
then he stopped submitting.
in fact, he stopped submitting anywhere.
I exchanged emails with him once more
but that was it. he musta stopped writing
his fine boots-on-pavement poems
and who knows why.
sometimes the drive or need or desire
just goes away, I guess.
R.B., I don't know if you're still alive
or dead. if dead, I guess all your
problems are over, including that pain in
your leg. but if still alive
then hang in there, buddy,
cuz the struggle is what it's all about.

vampire weather

white light
and naked branches

I turn on the radio
just to hear the voice
of the dj

the year is dying
in Ohio

1000 miles away
white pigeons strut
up and down
the streets
of the revolution

but here
there's an undefined
sickness

it's in the blood
in the eyes

so all I can do
is start a revolution
from my bedroom

while Fidel grows
old

and Che
becomes God.