Grigor Pankov

December 26, 2009

a few lines composed toward the end of the war  
the room is small
the lights
the fridge
the radio
all turned off
and after a half a day of vomiting
i lie down thinking
that i like this silence
and this darkness better
than men
my past

my present wins
for the moment.
not a king
not a jester
not a servant
but alone
in a fine farm
a calf is born
in a cage of stillness
for it keeps the steak prime
then the animal gets slaughtered
cut to pieces
sent to many middle men
and after many sleepless nights
is delivered to a fine establishment
where it’s prepared by a cook
and a chef  who’s yelling at the time

by a waiter
under the watchful eye
of a manager
to an impatient guest
who wants to get
his dollar’s worth
of fine dining.

and up again
walking in the rain storm
this silence
grows inside me
only possible withdrawn
back from the work
         i get in the shower
holding a beer
in my good hand
seeing waters
on the painful trivialities
    i just break out into laughter
as if i were insane
a drunken clown
dying in a trash can
just outside the circus
someone was looking for him
but now’s too damn cold
and dark
his soul awakens
in the frozen body
doesn’t think of anything
then floats away
looking for another place to nap.

2:31 p.m.
she & i sit in a bar booth
drinking beer
eating a pizza
we talk
talk about films
writers and
other people we know

through the window i look across the street
there is a schoolyard
filled with children playing games
under the sunshine of this thursday afternoon
not knowing
what it’ll be
to grow up
to work shit jobs
just to survive
watch late night T.V.
after a preciously insignificant day
just to feel like doing something real

look for meanings
succeed maybe
at things
important to them through the others

children running through the sunshine
of a thursday afternoon
she & i
we are.
here is “i” lying
in a bed
eyeing around
in an attempt to penetrate
my surroundings
hoping that
it’ll lead me into thyself
there is a feeling of alienation
from something
i even haven’t
come to know yet
it was a night
it was los angeles
in the st. francis hotel there was a man
in a room
with his thoughts
an empty bottle
rolling on the floor
and a mind that tried
and tries
but no escape is possible.

he stays.



on a poor night all i want is to get home and
get drunk
then the shootout between local gangs
for the half a block south of my room
would seem like a normal part of this
stupid but miraculous existence
on a poor night i can’t get too drunk because
i have to work the next morning
to hardly earn money, it’s more of a thing the
body does
to sustain itself
then poverty and wealth become a matter of faith
the police sirens finally pierce the intersection
of burlington & venice
the red lights throbbing though the darkness
the breeze now warm with the odors
of burned gun powder & blood…
others are dying too,
for grand delusions
for food
for love
for water
for art.
half drunk on this poor night
and the only question is–
could we have it
any other way.

grigor pankov was born in 1971 in bulgaria but didn’t like it there and 1996 moved to the u.s.

now he lives in los angeles, where he drives a truck, lifts kettle bells and tries not to get too drunk on weeknights.

One Response to “Grigor Pankov”

  1. Mary Dang Says:

    glimpses into your life. it is hard for me to try to separate the writer from the friend. but i like the emptiness, the rambling, the repetitive, the craziness, feels very much like… life.

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