Peycho Kanev is the Editor In Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 5 00 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, The Monongahela Review, Steam Ticket, Midwest Literary Review, Third Wednesday, The Cleveland Review , Loch Raven Review, In Posse Review, The Penwood Review, Mascara Literary Review and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. In 2009 his short story collection Walking Through Walls and in April 2010 his poetry collection American Notebooks both were published in Bulgaria. His poetry collection Bone Silenc e was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for O ne N ight, will be published by Desperanto in 2012 . http://www.kanevbooks.com

Three Poems(October 25, 2011. Issue 32.)

Crazy enough

Hangover,
Sunday summer morning;
through the window I watch my neighbor
with his lawnmower going at the green grass,
back and forth as he performs some high scale symphony:
there is no color in his eyes left and no life in the body,
he is just a machine going at it with amazing precision.

The sound of the machine fills up my room and the green
of the grass is no longer the green of my youth,
the yellow of the diminishing sun is no more the color of
Vincent;
colors be damned,
symphonies be damned,
let Mozart burn in hell,
the flies on my walls start to rattle,
while I light up a cigarette and puff a cloud of smoke to
the ceiling.

The summer streets out there flat on their backs,
the squirrels twaddle and sink in the branches,
the garbage trucks sweep majestically away
as the summer sun goes high and high.

Suddenly the man turns off the machine,
take a sip from his beer can and look at my direction.
He sees me at the window, nod and lift his beer,
I smile in return and this day begin with
so little pain.

Cheap movie

The World War II
Somewhere in the Balkans;
Small village with ten cottages.

In the middle
Is the church:
Body like old woman
With the cross on the top.

All the houses turned into
Ruins from the bombing
And the air raids.

On the muggy streets
Corpses of animals:
Ducks, goats, cows, chickens,
Frozen in the dark wind.

No people in sight
No children's laughter,
Stillness and black clouds
Over the ramshackle rooftops.

The only man alive is the village's idiot;
He enters the church and tie around his neck
The rope of the bell-
He hangs himself.

His body goes up and down
Like some drunk angel;
Jumping puppet from the hand of
God.

The bell tolls empty in the morning air,
One can hear the call for miles around;
Everything is calm now
And yet something is wrong

One white duck appear in the entrance
Of the church,
Leaps into the sky and goes higher in
The clouds.

This happened so many years ago
And yet I prefer it to your cheap war movies,

Because, you see, our souls are not
Pigeons.

My old watch

My old watch is slicing me
little by little,
piece by piece,
second after second.

My old watch is showing me
that it only can measure itself,
not the growing of my beard
or the blinking of Supernova,
nor cycle of the fly.

There are some small parts within:
wheels, rollers, pins and pallets,
working together like my own components:
liver, bowels, kidneys, veins, heart.

Making their little statements
as I move elegantly toward
the lips of the grave;

but there are some miracles around me:

12 angels on the pin head,

dogs running under the sun,

ships entering the harbors.

My old watch is life's chain;
it goes from father to son,
like old spark of fire from
the dawn of History.

My old watch is showing me
that is time to kiss my girl,
feed the cat and
water the flowers.

That is good enough.