besides i wore a black dress, smoke-shade scarf with little dots, grey business blazer &red lipstick to distract from crazy curls

on my lunchbreak walk today...

on my lunchbreak walk today…

.

i wonder if it’s in her body
or the quaver flag’s long neck,
sitting beaming on the stave
half-moon round&
filled—

with her own melody ?

i’m a commuter on the highway

&it started with a six string
love affair //at eighteen

cross-legged on the kitchen table
with three chords a friend taught
“it’s enough to play
most songs
add their minor bros

they all just cook with water–”

in front the soccer stadium as i pass
a locomotive, green// tin
somewhat out of place
i sing her song towards the slide down pane

as if i knew it

just the feel,
a slice of moment//mood
within a tune
&rusty patches on her cheeks

reflect.

the play of sunlight

.

Anthony has us write music at dVerse…doors open at 3pm EST

pumpkin season//

we play table tennis on the dining table

pLiNg PinG pOnG

a soothing sound
there is no net

we put a cushion on the border
but it didn’t work
so we don’t count//just play
&that is fine with me

earlier i cut a hokkaido squash
into tiny slices,
knife pressed in its yellow flesh
i’m worn

my hands still ache a bit
“you’re cooking soup?”
“nah, i sauté it //butter, jeera&–“

our voices echo in the room
it seems so big now

later you will lay your head against my shoulder,
pull me closer
i’m not saying no
i wouldn’t

&you know, as you love me

i’m a boat with huge white sails
amidst a crazy storm,
rain hitting in your face

“there’s a promise” someone whispers

&the wind sits on the window sill
with hazy eyes
beside the rocking of the waves–

is silence

brushing teeth

photo-285

.

bend-able
a mint-splash hint
of fresh
the sea
as carried in its womb
&rhythm
as we move
along each twin’s erected
witness/es
to trace back life
long after our decay

.

at dVerse today Björn wants us to write true avant-garde in the spirit of Gertrude Stein…focusing mainly on sound and simple objects and doing our own verbal cubism…doors open at 3pm EST

on the margins //of myself

the driver calls from zürich airport
where he’s waiting for a russian group
as i fry mushrooms on a sunday
in a big pan//in a bath
of olive oil and ginger garlic

“there are four guys from sudan,
they saw the company sign &–“

“ok, let me talk to them” i wipe my hands
the connection’s pretty crappy
&i try to get the details
while the mushrooms shrimple, half their size
turning this and that way
restlessly

i stir ‘em, chop up salad leaves,
blue grapes, tomatoes
&pour vinegar on top of it

“ok” i nod “let’s do this”

“no big changes with the newest IOS” my daughter says
loading picture frames and hundred little boxes
in my car
“it takes forever though”

my phone rings– moscow
“is the transfer paid for?”
“yes”
&where–

i take the field-glass
check the meadow, mountain, sky
and cannot find myself

which is weird&frightening
so i read poetry instead– thumb firmly on the vein along my neck,
ear on the verse’s chest

you know, it is like boldly drawing in
just everything you see & then–

i take a worn out coffee pad &place it in the bin
capturing the lines that balance on the edge,
the small notes
all that’s getting lost
so quickly

&my phone still
loads, & loads, & loads

.

Marina has us write poetry along the margins at dVerse today, poetry that happens while we’re busy with the important things in life and maybe almost miss the small but really spectacular and life-changing things going on around us… pub doors will open at 3pm EST…

i took the shortcut through the fields–

haze rubs chubby cheeks against my legs
a silent
6am
when i ride my bike into the forest– time
hangs like ghosts in dizzy trees
slow drizzle

i am body-less
hardly see my hands
just whispering of tires on sand
&autumn stretches long limbs—yawns

a tree throws nuts at me
“good morning”
“hey!!”

i brush his leaves
&shiver
with the magic of lost maps
that space between–

“you scared me”
“need a rest?”
“i’m late for work already”

by the bridge,
i tumble out the wardrobe
a first street lamp meLts
yellow glowing cheeks on tar

as raindrops lick my face
as leaves dance in a wet dress on the street

i stretch— my heart
a madly pacing rataplan
amidst a waking world

.

a bit of magic from my bikeride to work last week… beautiful autumn days over here… wish i could share the scents as well… smiles
for PU

Nope, doN’t ask for the formula

there were quite some platforms cracKing
even famous ones
emptied in themselves

not that i would mind //though
tryin’ to catch ‘em//open hangar
silver signet and “i love boots”
she says with a wicked smile, almost excusing

scent of silent albs, kerosine, &traitors passing by
and you’re camouflage, cut into another tincture of
apartment blocks line up // korean schoolkids on the boardwalk
trenchancy stripping their colored grail
with furious passion,

i’m a thill among them,
stealing glimpses of the slake
and slip ‘em in my pockets
sigh by signature//a paperclip, fragrance from a neap
collected during nightingales i cannot sleep,
&listen to your breath//the moose my only witness

.
Victoria has us write OULIPO (N+7) at dVerse today…. my formula…is a bit different.. smiles…used my old PONS school dictionary and got a bit carried away…smiles

around the year 1200 or//under the linden trees//no wait–

“i fought this dragon–” he says,
trash cans in his voice&
sweat dripping from forehead to nose,
pearls down his chest,
a gem-ornated sword limp by his side
& thousand more wait at the door
outside the forest

concrete chunks between their toes
torn power poles–
the scent of slow decay

his eyes are sharp still, blood-smeared, whetted knives
and those that look at him turn blind

“you really wanna read that book?” he says
“i dunno”
“is it for the sex scenes?”
“it is for the story”
i drink fennel tea, that’s just how far my
vices go//

“&have you ever loved?” he asks
“like kriemhild loved you?
“you know you’re gonna die– right?”

for a moment i can see him,
outside legend
stripped bare of his magic cape
outside myself–

“if getting up at 5 is superhuman power, i–“
and all the question marks start somewhere

at a bend//or just before — one
can you tell?

“fear for your life?”
“we know how the story ends, right?”

&he bows
slowly
with a big smile
on his lips

.


at dVerse today, Abhra has us bring myths and legends alive again and mix them into our present time… i chose siegfried the dragon slayer for my piece…pub doors open at 3pm EST…