despite the rain–

i leave the grey coat at the station, in the downpour of a day,
trains rush by, a little boy with baseball cap
&i don’t understand the math
of things that–

i have read
all night by a dim lamplight in the woods, wolves howling to the moon,
a sharp shaped scythe blade,

text a message to my girls
reply//reply//not what i’ve hoped though
&my husband says he’d join me at the slam the night before//

it all starts with a christmas song
a weird melody that mingles with the rain
it’s surreal//at best

i pour hot water in the bathtub
this is where he finds me
head first, bumbling far out on a branch,
a slowworm curling round my neck
“what the heck–“

“pssshhh, i’m a sloth” i say “moby dick or mr. spock–“
hold my nose//breath//dive
&wave

“i’ll send a postcard from the other side
&in the meantime rhyme
a traffic jam with only blue&yellow cars–“
he laughs, puzzled
just a bit “i put out the garbage bin// be careful//with your ears”

“the sky this morning” i say “was pink chalk
like in a painting&–”

somehow there’s no way
of getting over it

.

we’re celebrating our last OLN of the year at dVerse tonite… wanna join? doors open at 3pm EST…

what we’re born into&why&why we cannot fathom things sometimes

each day births itself
with little wrinkles round the eyes
sneaking sleepy down the stairs
in a blue-striped sleepshirt

i pour coffee, barefoot in the half-dark,
not a single sound&christmas waits
outside the front door to be born
&born again//into my core

“dangit” a colleague at work
taxes me with hungry eyes in the canteen
“those shoes are hot– are you having visitors, a birthday or–?”
i had darn good sex tonite// i smile
aloud say “nah, nothing spectacular”

it’s just the feel that stays like milkstreets
on the bottom of a cup, flowers painted wild all over it
amniotic fluid on both cheeks, in the nose,
i sneeze&it feels warm&

later in the week,
prissi will be home for christmas
&i’m gonna watch her sleep
like first days, ruffled feathers in a daisy-scented breeze
alive//across the market place,
the churchtower clock strikes 3

a wintry wind blows careful
with pale lips, enveloping my chest
a dance of leaves&snowflakes, me
somewhere in between, slightly out of breath
&smiling
.

Gay has us write Birthday poems at the pub today… doors open at 3pm EST..

risks&promises sleep back2back on train seats

i break bread with the raven
on the sidewalk, fervent raindrops splash-
ing on my knees&rivulets of mud
paint weird patterns

we’ve been talking
through the night, my back aches
“i have run too fast” i say
&he is
—–strayed feathers all around me

“mainly it’s the people, isn’t it
that make a place
feel home or–“
we chew slowly

as if every concrete pole&streetlight
tastes a bit //of us
of friendship
sharing
with the homeless with a plastic bucket next to him

“the sky is just today” i say
“it never stretches beyond the moment
in a way that it feels right”

a little girl with a poppy-red bike pedals by,
balloon strapped to the handlebar
heavy wind wrapping her pink-cheek face
in a thousand well kept secrets

&her smile is crumbs
slipping on the asphalt, between trucks&shards&cigarette butts,
birds chase after
i attach a feather to my coat

“nothing will get lost” i shout
over a crazy symphony of traffic

&the day falls sky-ward,
curls around the moon’s bright nose
“see?” the raven says

&there’s no need
————-to answer

.

we’re writing “bread” today at dVerse… doors open at 3pm EST…

overnite the temp dropped heavily /&maybe that’s when things start shifting

basel

basel, sketched this while waiting for the scandinavian group to arrive..

.

i turn my head, slowly
traffic’s peeling by, thick as machine-grease&
raindrops on my face
as if time slipping between
childhood days and–

“the battery has just 12V & we need 24” he says,
that can be solved
but we’re pressed for time
his one eye’s blind&stares beyond me
to a place i cannot see
red worker pants, black shirt,
dark curly hair

later i knock at the glass front of his shop,
hand him a box of chocolate
“thank you for your help”
“hey that’s ok, you don’t need to–“
“no” i smile “you saved our ass
they had to catch a flight at Zürich airport&–“

the traffic’s bad today, i crawl
2 meters in 10 minutes as my mobile rings
there’s nothing i can do
but stare at his dark skin
locomotive driver’s cap
above dark button eyes

he arrived once in a parcel on an island
was it Lummerland?
something along those lines
i smile

&he waves back
a band of steam on the horizon
cars honk&he nods in Luke’s direction
“he fixed a defect on the half-dragon’s volcano once”
“i know” i say
the metal of his screw-wrench red, reflecting
in the shine of taillights
love a man who knows to use his hands
i think&

“thanks again” he smiles
&i walk over to my office, wondering about his eye
the northwind whipping rainclouds
thick as elephants
across the wintersky

.

referring to “Jim Button and Luke the Engine Driver” by Michael Ende who found their way into my business day… smiles

The prompt for mtb at dVerse today is…. write a poem where…
-         something or someone that/who is not real suddenly comes alive
-         a character from a book shows up in your poem
-         someone suddenly disappears and finds themselves in a whole new place…

There’s a few things she could learn from Berlin

view from my munich hotel room

view from my munich hotel room

.
the city brushes her teeth
with water from the sidewalks,
combs her hair
in one swift movement with the breeze
&hardly sees me
as i walk the stairs up to the Karlstor

she has coins&gargoyles in her pockets
laughs loud
as the fire juggler throws a flaming staff
upUp&crashing
glowing red against night’s arms

she wears a blue/white Dirndl, woolen stockings
&a Basilisk sits in the nest above her head,
pairs of doves pick bread crumbs
from her stretched out hands

she eats Weisswurst, Pretzels&sweet mustard
driPs yellow from her lips
&i’m not yet sure if i trust her,
strolling along lit-up paths, the christmas market
feathery angels on thin sticks

in a run-down asian restaurant,
i take out my sketching kit&trace her outlines,
the black man across from me
who doesn’t speak her language,
a few workers on their lunchbreak,
the thin woman with a leather skirt&bright red lips

later in my hotel room i cannot sleep
and sing a lullaby to all the chimneys that have
laid their heads to rest outside my window

she puts on a sleeping gown,

a pure white negligée
tight above her breasts
“just for the night” she says

&i sing on

for some more minutes

.

Gabriella has us write City poetry at dVerse today… pub doors open at 3pm EST

don’t count on me for real deep conversations//i–

image3

.

“i taught the moths to fly–“ i say
silvery smile against the night
counting knotholes in the ceiling,
covered white, they’re not
exactly stars but–

i think of the old man, bent
and frail in a café in munich,
two grey women, chatting grandkids, fashion&
the latest gossip from the neighborhood
as i pull out my sketchbook,
black ink outlines, searching
for beyond

the house is quiet
i get in the bathtub, boiling hot
scrub the chill&dust off my slowly reddening skin

“they always fly towards the light” i say “i think–
wherever that might be”
&hang a sheet of silence in the half-dark,
his warm hands like bark against my skin
“sorry” he mumbles, tracing the S/curve of my spine
“they’re rough from the cold”
“that’s fine”

“i used to have a moth school” i say
“did you teach them to chew clothes?”
“of course” i smile “&then the flying,
always loved the flying most–“

i’ve got you in my radar ducks//just– i should hike the PCT maybe–

on the train to munich

on the train to munich

.
we got our fingers down the throat of–
&i swallow, having to confess that
at the end of me// the day//the month//a biz trip
or of anything
i’m a platform atheist, 110%

it’s Munich this time
trains race by

causing weird whisps of wind to push me//back&forth&
for a moment i wish back my curls, yet more than anything
i step into a story
knee-deep//hip-high//right//upto–

&amazon says
clicK&
pleaSe choose your deVice&

let’s touch base about this
from the get-go
361 degree//see?
i miss every second stop
&when my eyes give in, i sketch

the business man with a blue tie,
talking Lotus Notes
ina sprinkling-magic voice
the guy across the aisle, reading a mag
his colleague’s eyes
strayed// far out of the window

a “in many ways&not so much strategic” staircase
step by step with endless blistered feet, flesh rubbed raw
from walking to //or from//
&i feel close/ly leverage/d
dizZy from cascading paradigm shifts
existing only in the deep folds of–

i feel her
every word that lays, stitched&bleeding like a quilt
in itching patcHes
‘round my hips

i hate my dad//just for a second
for not loving me the way he should have
how things probably had changed, and i take out my pen
having no words
in me
but lines

and marks to set
one foot before the next
living the values in that space between the cracks
between the throwing overboard
“you can’t move out after you painted everything”

and fill ‘em
looping back//my ice axe forced into the snow, defying gravity
with things i find
along the lines
of tracks that roll their eyes in endless
whispering rows

.

for MTB today Tony brings Jargon, Buzzwords and Management-Speak to the pub… so give it a try…? doors open at 3pm EST…