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Peycho Kanev


They paint the walls and the ceilings in the hospitals in white. Outside the snow
is falling. The fire in the fireplace projects a beautiful color. Let’s call it orange
or red. Let’s call it warm. But the room is shadowy except for the glowing bottle
of vodka on the table. The Russians are coming, screams Hoover. Obey me, says
Darth Vader. I am the American culture, says the American culture. In the bedroom,
under my white blanket, I am blanketed with whiteness. Colors don’t need counter
colors, but sound needs an echo. I give a little whistle. No one answers back. Loneliness
is accustomed to receive loneliness in return.

The Freedom

Of the four or five in the room there is always one who will be the poet. Of the one
judge in the courtroom there is always one who is corrupt. Of the four presidents in this picture there is always one that will be/was a mass murderer. Or maybe even more.
It’s stifling. The stove in the kitchen with its gas ring’s flickering blue Anemone fills
the room with the smell of bitter almonds. The slogan "Arbeit macht frei" was placed
over the entrance to a number of Nazi concentration camps during World War II, including Auschwitz. Of the millions in those camps millions will die. Work, labor, toil
and you will be free.

All the Time

Along a dull deserted street the wind smacks out of hiding and gallops thunderously like a cattle stampede. But the trees stand in windless unrest. You are on the bitter street,
a wire-puller, a bigot, a liar lawyer, a mirror maker, a man child. Smitten of utter happiness
the politician walks on the street, with hands in his pockets. After a while the rain wheels
in the sky, the grass bows before the storm. The cathedral stands under the sky as a cathedral.
On the street a beautiful girl tells me: “Bonjour. Tu es très beau. Viens avec moi.“ Everything has to start somewhere.

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