how it feels// if you feel//someone’s watching

a little girl cuts grey&chewing cows
from a picture book with dog-eared pages
&i put them in an autumn-drunken landscape
paper-maché for the road ahead–
winding wild&headstrong like i on my worse days
with the peaceful attitude of rivers though

that have seen too much to worry

“first time you walked through these company doors” he says
“i was impressed.
you wore a black suit, brown boots, still can see it
hair cut really short, you were very straight-forward,
professional &–“

“–did i seem unfriendly?”

“no” he grins “just very organized//effective–“

flaShbaCk– last week– it is strange
if someone tells you how they saw you
years back&

sometimes landscapes do this to me
after four hours driving nonstop in a company car,
Bavaria, childhood places spread out like a picnic rug
&i wear heels instead of rubber boots,
grey skirt, scent of–
shorter days

the mountains look like giant’s dents
when someone has forgotten to remove the toothpaste
&i understand the urge to//

give them names
to climb
&presS your cheeks against their breast
rope and ring
swallowing the fear of being eaten

later i sit in a street-café //woolen overknees,
thick scarf
my breath, powdered sugar
on an fruitjuice splattered sun

&i don’t want
to draw
or talk but move my face
towards the fading lightrays
inches
from the fragrance of the past
&call my mom

to say i made it
safe

.

seeing the things around us with fresh eyes – that’s the theme for MTB at dVerse today… doors open at 3pm EST..

now that the kids are gone, we move our bedroom from the basement to the first floor

there’s a poem
just above the shelf
or hundreds //actually
but none i would want to read

the shelf is bending mad
under their weight
the weight of all the words, stitched bleeding into
something that–

&some of them are shit
&some would look at me

if they had glasses
and i’d say “i’m NOT a poet, doN’t
stare at me like that”

i walk into the bathroom
sheet of paper&black fountain pen
in front of the mirror draw myself
without looking at my hands
trace lines

&can’t //find anything

pace restless–
“you’re tired” says the nut tart by the sink
(i eat it)
“it is all the painting” i admit, the choice
of color wrecks me&—

i sliP
between the cracks, the book backs
leaning intiMate

into their neighbor’s chest
because their is no space for MorEanDmore&mOre//WorDs
unsure

what the next text
is about

as no one really cares.
to tell ‘em

.

we’re celebrating our monthly OpenLinkNight at dVerse today… write a poem, join us, doors open at 3pm EST…

i could’ve bred fish-swarms in my shoes

a sliver of a dream caught
delicate in yellow autumn shine
a mountain
that would eat its kids& not.
because it’s hungry
just //
the wind—
is more// like swallowing
a pink balloon
a heavy storm and lightning
air that tastes of first snow

a russian girl&german boy.
neither speaking the other’s language
yet
talking stars. astronomy. a dictionary
spread open on their lap
&this is
where my need for lists ends

“see” she says “we talked all night,
he was a friend&if we fell in love, i feared
i’d lose him”
heavy mountain wind hitting our cheeks
a sky that looks like in a big adventure game
at one point/we all carry stories
&

(i had a  cogwheel stanza here but—)

platform three in pouring rain
and fogged up train panes
twenty phone calls in two miles
it’s bitter cold
rain hits a
blinking cab sign

all the undreamt stories that i am sneak//careful//like a cat
brushing my legs with furry tail
then disappear//purring
———-’round the corner

.

over at dVerse, Tony has us write list poetry…. doors open at 3pm EST… i’m back from a business trip and catching up now… smiles

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…