Creator

in the darkest of ultimate possible depths
there’s an infinite centre of growth
if the planet is ready to slowly collapse,
then the question is whether you quit, or perhaps
keep on playing — and learn from them both

if the number of words ever outflows the time,
we are left with a reason to live
and a reason to finally drop off the dime,
and a reason to surely remember that i’m
always willing to hope and forgive

that’s too bad we are often not having enough
solid chances to prove we exist
but it’s thanks to the mess and the darkness and huff
our spines do get stronger and perfectly tough,
and the hurricanes having them kissed

who was kissed by the wind, he is ready to go,
he’s more ready than anyone else
he might seem just a shadow a second ago,
you might even not notice his dim afterglow,
but you’ll feel irresistible spells

they will tell you the names hoarsely whispered by wind,
they will mention you probably can
also follow the steps of the razored and thinned
ones who often accept they’ve mistaken and sinned,
so are free to let go of the plan, —

and the freedom is golden. you suddenly learn
you are able to outgrow your fate
with the light that has given you blisters and burns,
through the clouds, that are roughly excessively torn,
you are standing to love and Create

don't you give up

don’t you give up on me, don’t you dare give up,
when i’ll be curling in agony, — it will pass.
there have been times when i desperately had to stop
just to prevent me from breaking the fragile glass

that sounds so weird, but my life was consisting of
anti-examples, all showing me how to not.
every predictable breath could reduce to cough,
transferring strongest belief into second thought

don’t you give up on obstacles — they will change,
right when you won’t be expecting your gods to hear
sitting on top of that mountain within your range
won’t necessarily trigger the biggest fear

good that you are unaware how much it aches
banging and banging and banging on rotten door
might be the time to let go and release the brakes,
might be the moment to cancel that need for more

although i’m tired and silent, don’t you give up,
you’ll be surprised what you’ll patiently unexpect
modern professional options to overdub
drastically lose to imperfect and incorrect

silence

the ways, how silence lies between
two people, sharply may vary
sometimes depicting things unseen,
thus useless to a focused eye

there comes the time when silence is
as sharp as freshly sharpened blade
that brings the other to his knees 
to make him realize he’s late

a silent cloud that hangs on top
of cosy little empty towns
like long ago forgotten prop,
accumulating extra sounds

then pours those sounds when comes the time
on top of someone who deserves
a lesson for committed crime
or justice to his rotten nerves

a silent night, that’s rest to some,
to others — torture ‘till the rise,
an empty void to overcome,
survive until the morning skies

adjust the compass, calibrate
its tiny intuition peaks
to guide you through the utmost state
of listening before he speaks

the way of silence giving space
to faze, embarass or support
is gambling on a paper chase,
a trust you have to learn of sort

it may be comforting and light,
or may just hang there like a sword
it takes you both to feel alright
before is born the precious Word

quilt

I was born white. Caring family, mom and dad, a country that was just one year from getting out of the Soviet Union and 14 years before joining the European. My passport said Latvian, and I believed it to be true, until I lived to my teens and figured out I’m quarter Latvian, Polish and Belorussian, quarter Jewish, half Russian with a hint of German blood. Half of my family was Old orthodox, quarter Jewish, and remaining quarter christened me to be Catholic – then I took the nationality out of my passport stating I belong to them all. Living in an independent country with a bunch of interdependent people, being able to speak loud, say what I want, without too many consequences.

Dad did his best to teach me how to carefully pick my principles and stick to them until I die and never betray any, nor ever to change my beliefs. I grew to learn he was all wrong. Mom did her best to teach me unconditional love – those lessons brought me to some harsh outcomes, but probably that’s a part of the lesson as well. Do whatever makes you happy, if it doesn’t harm anyone else, is the lesson I’m sticking to – hopefully this one stays with me until I die.

We are different, all of us; skin colours, behaviour patterns, religions, names. “You have to grow up and learn all people are following the same patterns,” once said one of my employers, and all I learned ever since was that despite wars and betrayals the world can be beautiful, it can depend on an angle you’re looking from, and she was also wrong. The way you can hug a person in one country and cannot enter a private space of somebody in another one is just a dance with some certain rules; you might not know them but you’re still leading your part. Actually, you might not like dancing at all, but you were born in your dancing shoes, so don’t fuck it up.

Quilt is a multi-layered textile, traditionally composed of three layers of fiber, combined using the technique of sewing the layers together. You, me, each of us in this room, we are just a multi-layered textile cloth sewn together to cover the globe. We are a good large quilt, all of us, and there have been so many times I’ve damn hoped the stitches will never fail.

I know three and a half languages, two of them I talk while sleepwalking. My family lives in five countries and I have friends living in more countries than I can count. The least thing to learn is the ability to be grateful in as many languages as you can, even if the only thing to be grateful for is the fact that this planet speaks more than six and a half thousand languages, and I believe each of them has a word for love.

light

the world is my favorite mess
its wrinkles - my favorite flaws
there’s something in carrying less
of cemeteries, ashes and claws

there’s something in caring more
for people who wander around
‘cause if you undress to the core
you’ll see it began with a sound

how long has your half-rotten ship
been sailing to infinite lands?
you’ll see, if you loosen a grip,
your life-long detour never ends,

i wonder and wonder and stop
inhale and admire again
the last irresistible drop,
the battle of monsters and men,

the humans who’re taking the lead,
whatever they’re climbing onto,
and those who are cautiously hid
behind their angle of view

the world is my favorite heap,
disorganized, tangled and tight
but when you have fallen so deep,
next thing you observe is the Light

calm down

taking care of little things
taking pictures of autumn gold
to your window november clings,
wonder what was the truth he told

through the phrame of your latest pic,
auto-focused on grainy glass,
there’s a sparkle within a thick
sacred message “this too shall pass”

after learning to be a huge
irresistible warrior hound,
next you’re learning to build a fuge
that’s as tiny as it may sound

fill the shelves with your fiction books,
pour some tea to your dearest friends
satisfactory as it looks,
hug the battlefield while it ends

to the art of those pumpkin pies,
smell of cinnamon in your hands,
under humid november skies
lie some infinite autumn lands

now you walk through them, calm and slow,
captured hero through tiny lens,
when you try to recall that glow,
you’ll be given a second chance.

as quiet as

he says there’s nothing in the world
as quiet as a snow,
as painful as the art to hold
and art of letting go
as skillful as the epitaph
to clearly put aside,
as pure as a silent laugh
before its amplified

i tell him there’s an art to live
and craft of breathing in,
you’re lucky if you learn to give
and eager to begin,
no matter what you start anew,
despite you’re bruised and scratched,
there’s cost of anything you do,
untied and disattached

and if the cost becomes too high,
you’ll learn to unexpect,
since it’s the only way to try
stand honest and direct,
there’s nothing in the world as quiet
as notes you cannot hear,
so put your ugly thoughts aside
and play to someone dear

and then you look above your head,
each cloud up there has seams,
but things by which you were mislead
can’t hold you off your dreams,
as grounded as you walk on earth,
as slippery your way,
remember everything you’re worth,
and all you’re meant to say

he says there’s nothing in the world
as quiet as a snow,
as painful as the art to hold
and art of letting go
and so i promise i will learn
stay thorough and tranquil
his music echoes in return:
i will
i will
i will

lighthouse

that big dirty planet spinning around me is just a huge dark-blue bucket of stars which have actually long ago died, some of them have been dead for not too long – those still shed the light on some strangers, and those strangers think they're following a beautiful road full of streetlamps shining down just so they don't ever get lost. 

i once was that stranger.

i'm not anymore, for i've become wiser – now i know what's hidden behind the streetlamps, lost souls, let's sit together and promise each other we will never again talk about the meaning of life. take that meaning in your hands, roll it in your palms, see how it shrinks, convulses then disappears at all.

see? your hands are free now.

the whole galaxy to fill in. throw a dice then decide what comes first: before you can think of anything else than music, there comes music, so you feel it in your hands and your palms and your arteries until you consist of music and there's nothing else to put in.

stupid damned dice failed again.

so you continue moving along that road. lit with streetlamps, scratchy and coarse, do not stumble. reach the sea, special place, good enough to throw the damned dice away to disappear in the dark cotton waves, there's a boat, take me further, take me away, take me home, take me nowhere until i'm lost.

everything's dark but the music.

it's glowing within, full of stars and souls and buckets and meanings and palms and convulsions and galaxies and dice and cotton waves and nowheres and darkness. nothing else exists, noone to show you the meaning, no way out, no way out, no way out, until someone tells you he's coming back to be a lighthouse.

then there's a lighthouse.

come look

come look at us, funny, not mastered to pray,
come look at us, lost in our searching for way,
come down to take part in our upcoming shows,
the seeds that you've planted so weirdly arose

look after, look after, we're mumbling too loud,
look after me, visible far from the crowd,
look into me for i deserve you to look
i'm open, i'm ready, your coloring book

present me a language i'll master so deep
somebody will love and will beg me to keep
way back from the schedule, i'm leaving behind
the stones that were keeping it harder to find

the sky is enlightening the snowflakes that fall
and warm up the earth that is brighter of all
he's telling me language i speak is a gift,
i'm sticking to thought that will keep me adrift

he's telling me music he speaks is a prize
i look at the snowflakes that started to rise
he's saying he'll never allow us to stop
those words in my head slowly piling atop

he's telling me things we create and enlist
are colors you've had no idea exist
let's find them the names let's invent them anew
let's never conclude what we've started to do

come look at us, shy, unrecalled, insecure
come hug us to hearten us, to reassure
we'll break and we'll cry and we'll fall and we'll bend
and nevertheless you'll be holding my hand

leo

Leo is tired of trying: he sits and watches
dreams that he’s carefully dreamed of are mixed with lying
seasonal mix, reassuring and reapproaching:
none of that lead him to actual real trying

Leo is tired of dreaming: he’s tried to conquer —
lead him to thorough experience whatsoever
years of learning the truth made him kind of stronger,
missing the final results never got him clever

Leo is really tired of dissecting magic:
messages, public relations, releases, credits
nights by the bottles of wine start to seem less tragic
days are the ones that require his cuts and edits

mid of november so suddenly dawns at Leo
socks to the drawer and dreams to the hidden closet
making the deals with subconscious seem so real
«look at the life you are living, it’s you who chose it»

Leo is tired of wandering in his nightmares,
maybe that’s spring that could save him: he’s getting older
Leo’s a part of yourself: get a little kinder,
pour him a whiskey and pat him on graying shoulder