3 types


Three Types of Loss
Andrei Codrescu

The loss of one’s temper in a room with absolutely nobody
to catch it
is a loss of time insofar
as time is the only place things
get lost in naturally

losing things constantly implies
a frequency of loss which when measured
is equal to the wavelength one is on in
relation to the things one loses

action that cannot be translated in loss is the only
worth remembering

things doomed to loss meet
and get lost together that much faster

all things have in common a tendency to get lost
it is only human affections that
keep them in place

then there is a person called Mr. Loss
who answers house calls the same way
a doctor does—he is supposed
to diagnose the condition of things
on the move and by inevitably confirming
everyone’s worst fears he makes
the condition official

the universe gets lost
and then reappears bathed
in a different light

everything has a place to get lost in
and this certainty makes
most things stay put

since one does not lose what one
does not have
most things make themselves necessary

loss of memory after a sleepless night

implies that the things one could have been

dreaming about were the nails that kept
those memories in place

loss of memory at a certain point of heightened interest
in the thing one can’t remember
proves the fact that although this is
a universe of nonsimultaneous phenomena
most things would like to be seen in context

memory disregards context
it is an enemy of experience
therefore unreliable and since
basic memory is a condition of survival
i assume that we survive
in spite of experience

when one forgets as a philosophy
each forgotten thing is raised to the status
of a god (i.e. an objective condition)
and makes everyone else remember
things that they haven’t experienced

some memories bring with them brand new
experiences different
than the original contexts in which they occurred
and thus set up the conditions
for brand new memories

most things endowed with memory die

prenatal memory is common property
but it is not

words and pictures are the only
things one can forget at leisure
and look up later

what gets lost in translation
reappears in disbelief

translation is the only form of communication
where loss is practiced
as part of the game

literal translations lose music while
poetic translations lose the original

elements which translate themselves
into other elements
do so at the expense of energy

fat translators are common:
they feed on what they cannot translate

the conscious and the unconscious
are languages in a state of translation
and their respective losses
are the gods

translated in english
most things take off their clothes

things lost in translation
band together symbiotically
and haunt the world

war is an aggregate of losses
through translation

the day is a literal translation
the night is a poetic translation

energies translate without apparent loss
but the use of them
makes up by being pure loss

translation and use are in a parenthetical

fate is the necessity for translation

Photo by Alex Dukhanov on Unsplash



Andrei Codrescu

Power is an inferiority complex wound up like a clock by an
inability to relax. At the height of my power I have to be taken to
a power source in the woods where I am recharged. This power
source is not actually in the woods: it’s in my mother. It hums
quietly in her heart like an atomic plant and the place to plug in is
her eyes.

Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

a serious morning


A Serious Morning
Andrei Codrescu

being serious is a
perversion of natural form
an extension of a bruised baby hand
behind which towers the tilted needle
of a dim father’s body.
and the bees of his eyes dying with contempt.
i’m awash with the serious tools
of a mysterious trade.
the hushed windows of my receding house.
the power lines humming death wishes.
the dry wines in the palm of the hand.
if i were to laugh my ass off at all this
i would take up
a form of politics that ends
with a cheerleader licking the wounds
of my machine gunned body

Photo by wonho kim on Unsplash



Andrei Codrescu

fear is my way
of not being here although
i am afraid of falling asleep for fear
of a frightening thing taking place in my absence.
i am also
afraid of the axe i keep behind the bed hoping
that no one will come in or rather
that someone will
and there will be blood.
sitting there in the dark seeing myself kill
over and over
is not fear,
it is pleasure
though when the awareness of pleasure floats up
and i learn that it is pleasure
i become very afraid.
this new house is fear
of the unknown neighbors stretching for miles
in each direction with only
space for houses with no one in them
space for dark windows over basements filled with fear.
the long stone walk from the door
to the top of the stairs
has three major checkpoints of fear:
the cottage on the right where the spooks sit
on the bicycle chains,
the old jew’s apartment with the curtains drawn
over the candle light
and finally the stairs themselves going up
through minor and major stations of fear
which at the age of six are like the days themselves,
long, inexorable.
and now the fear of even writing about fear
the fear of awareness

Photo by Elmarie van Rooyen on Unsplash



Andrei Codrescu

death covers me with fine dust.
i love used fat books. they are
like used fat bodies coming out of sleep
covered with fingerprints and shiny
snail trails.
i wish to read the way i love:
jumping from mirror to mirror like a drop of oil
farther and farther from my death.
but god gives us fat books and fat bodies
to use for different reasons
and less a metaphor i cannot say
what haunts me

Photo by Robert Anasch on Unsplash



Andrei Codrescu

[[1]] by mistake, one day, i unplugged grammar, the refrigerator of
language, and all the meats of prejudice began to rot

[[2]] grammar is plugged into the wall of our minds and if i concentrate
long enough i can still feel my mother’s deft fingers inserting the

[[3]] i can, for that matter, also remember trying to put my cock
through a noun and ending up fucked by a mysterious “it”

[[4]] there was a man who spoke in complete sentences and one day he
was run over by a train

[[5]] translation can make what comes “after” come “before” and
thanks to this i am capable of filling in endless forms with a smile

[[6]] i have a dim view of commas when i walk

[[7]] the cannibal group i belong to is presently engaged in wiping its
many mouths of dripping pieces of syntax with the long towel of
my mother’s skirt

Photo by Latrach Med Jamil on Unsplash



Andrei Codrescu

Luminosity is an issue
perhaps a platform.
This is my love song
to the owl.
I enter the closet at dawn
to follow the funeral of a century.
It is a question of going back
to the house without doors

Photo by Dominik VO on Unsplash

drowning another


Drowning Another Peasant Inquisition
Andrei Codrescu

Jealousy runs only skin deep.
Underneath lies the joy of not possessing.
Thus spoke the sage caressing
his one and only claim to love

as all were seated, thinking.

Between friends silence is your best bet,
he continued.
O oneness of bodies firmly planted breasts
and proudly set cocks

as on the streets, the rest
are pulled along by long streaks of bad luck

of which we know the reason.
The many windows framed in yellow light
are pulled together making
mind structures, more mind chains
around the masses, falling through the season.

One day to see
One day you will be free

That day you come and see me
That day you see me, hear

Photo by John-Mark Smith on Unsplash

biographical notes


Biographical Notes
Andrei Codrescu

my biography

in the absence of facts,

rests on shaky ground

every day
i add thousands of new entries
to my biography

without me
my biography
is your story

when made into a play
my biography
speaks with an accent

when alone
with my biography
i give up life

in my biography

the pictures that go with my biography
haven’t yet been taken

Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

orbital complexion


Orbital Complexion
Andrei Codrescu

The technology of soul restoration

is a clever dose of miracles, insomnia, drugs,
poetry and cannibalism

How do you put an old newspaper back
on the stand? Without losing
your grasp on the technology? Without
blunting the tools, and easily,
like a warm wind?

The great surprise is in having revealed
an exact prior knowledge,

so that each one, rooted like a smiling cheese
in a storm of knives, could lift
his or her snails from the cabbage leaves
and eat the world

Photo by C Drying on Unsplash