vampire summer

i’ve sprinkled mustard seeds across the roof top,
beads of garlic ’round my neck, a
bride’s necklace for her wedding night—
a small torch throws giant shadows
on the forest floor— i
scratch my bare feet on wild thorns &
walk— keep– Wal-king— as

he must– be somewhere close, i’ve
sensed his presence since weeks,
lost in the Carpathian Mountains, miles from
the next town & howl toward the moon
at nights for fear and for– the victory—

so close, Too close already, hot
breath from ripped lungs, hands gliding
down my hips, red eyes spit
lava on my skin, i— don’t & God i—
Want— scream— he’s over me and
i think garlic is so useless as he slips

his hand under my dress, breaks me open,
splits lips, sinks his teeth, bites, e–
rythrocytes mix with saliva & my cries
as he keeps pushing DeePER— forcing
life from every cell and pours in me– i

lie, dipped in forest fog,
dew drips from lungs of dawn, mingles with
the red, smeared liquid on my skin
but when i lick my lips, pale & empty from the night,
it is not blood but– sap & berry juice–
sweet// thick//a ma-gic promise on
sore tongues–
and summer
has not even started–

.

over at dVerse we have Blue Flute guest tending the Poetics bar today… and when you join us at 3pm EST, just make sure you have your scarf wrapped a bit tighter around your neck…cause well..you never know…smiles

ReVerse and Waterglasses

on days, when life breaks
my skin like ant battalions &
their frontman, carrying the flag,
attacking forts with
yellow war shouts, i

just wanna sit, wrapped
in a blanket on the couch,
reading Rilke and Bukowski–
in the middle of catastrophes,
munch chocolate cake and sip
italian red wine from a water glass,

actually i do this all the time,
and somehow
water glasses feel more earthed
than their proud brothers that

stand on thin flamingo legs,
lips pinched, flutter bumptious
with their wings & YYYYell
with rosy tongues:

“look– Look–uuuuhhh LOOK– at ME,
i’m swaggering, crimson &
reVerse, stiletto verb_ally
down the sophisticated alleys
and i Ne//ver Fall–”

well, really.. i–

take my glass and drink
to all the wordy beetles, i
collected from the city’s rubbish bins,
that lie now, comfortably stretched
on a woolen blanket–
watch the latest thriller on tv
as if nothing in the world
could really shake ‘em– and
they whimsically– smile at me

.

over at dVerse, Victoria will take us along allegorical paths and alleys, where nothing really is as it seems to be on first read…smiles…and what i really wanted to say…cheers to a relaxed style of poetry…smiles…and the meeting the bar doors will swing open at 3pm EST

somewhere along the way–

“what about Amsterdam..?” i ask,
cruise the waterways, eat
gouda and green herring,
stretch our legs in street cafés
like kids that stop their play
for just a moment to slurp
sips of northern sun &
through the haze, watch
dreams take shape, form

cornfields, almond blooms &
sunflowers, ripe with seeds
like in a van Gogh painting,
maybe we’re too tired or too scared
to even talk about ‘em but then
scratch ash with a swiss army knife
off floors and tables–
No one–

finds it strange–
we learned by now
how precious hope is, just the desperate
let it die &

there’s no poetry in dreams,
that lie crippled in the alleys
with cracked lips, twisted limbs on
greyish concrete, whisper–
Save–PLEASE– Save//Our//Souls,

& i—

like Anne Frank,
write diaries of Hope AgAinst hope,
verse that beats reality
because there’s someone who refuses
to give up,
cause soil’s still soft,
and i believe–
there must be wings
somewhere–

.

over at Wonders in the dark, the lovely DeeDee interviewed me about my poetry and a bit more..and she asked some really smart questions.. you can read the interview HERE

not sure how familiar you are with Anne Frank, she was a german, jewish girl who wrote a diary during WWII while hiding for two years  in a house in Amsterdam– 15 years old, she died in a concentration camp…Amsterdam has also the biggest van Gogh collection in the world in their van Gogh museum…. so yep..about to plan a trip…

and today. we’re beating the poetic drums again over at dVerse– join us for OpenLinkNight, share your verse and read some amazing poetry from around the world.. doors open at 3pm EST

on stuffing blue air into dollar notes & obligations

i read Bukowski
’til my eyes hurt & smell
whiskey on the pages,
sweat sticks to my fingers
like fly paper strands– and
why do poets bleed,
hang their lives on fragile ties
out in the rain to dry or
get warm again if
they’re lucky– maybe

we’re hunters in a way,
roll one dollar notes & stuff blue air
into them, wet with our tongue
(done this a thousand times,
believe me–) then blow
light-white smoke in circles through
the room– ’til time stands still
& we can see the words fall
on our chest like obligations,
fingers burnt and pale

as pain creeps slowly from
our heart or into it– happens
both– both at the same time sometimes,
but tonight, i feel it more than usual,

grab my pen & white knuckle
write— Write— WRITE
until the moon paints
random patterns to the sky &
i can fly again

.

this week, our new team member karin of manicddaily has whipped up the poetics prompt for us.. so you may wanna start thinking about taxes, duties, obligations and such things.. see you  at 3pm EST at dVerse..

actually, it were blueberries

i chose to stay invisible
Oh– you can do this, even
if you’re There in fact,
i pass the girl at the reception
and my cocoa curls reflect
just for a moment
in the polished panes
before the doors slide–
& i’m gone

asked later, she will tell you that
she saw SomeThing, but she’s not capable
to frame it with her words,
more like a haze or fleeting dream
that you’re no longer sure of
once you wake with sun beams,
painting stripes across your face–

and by the end of nine plus hours,
i’ve made countless phone calls,
shook the hands of blond, pale interns
& they’d swear they heard a voice,
a bit rough from a soar throat, a rise
of warmth because i’m feverish,

that’s it– i leave in silence
as i came, taking the secret tunnel
and my maglight catches spider webs
along the walls– the smart observer though
will smile– and know,
just by the shades
& by the cherry cake crumbs that i left,
scattered all across the place

.

i’m really sick at the moment.. sore throat, fever, sleeping a lot and when i wake, do the most urgent office work & write fever poetry…smiles.. over at dVerse, Gay is dishing up FormForAll..so you may wanna jump over at 3pm EST and see what she’s up to.. i’m on my way back to bed though…*sneeze*…sorry….smiles

just about arriving

i haven’t slept in more than
twenty hours & it’s raining
as i walk up 7^th Avenue– from Penn Station
to Times Square (a bad idea
with a suitcase on a saturday, eleven PM–)

but i wanna suck her up, bathe my tired eyes
in neon lights, feel the traffic vibrate
my skin, bump life, into the people,
party-goers, buskers, freaks & need
concrete proof that i’m not dreaming,

though i’m walking a bit dreamy &
think rain just smells the same, no
matter where you are and how
you got there (this could be a separate
story– the black driver at the airport
trying to convince me to get back
in the cab, back to the guy that

he suspects is my boyfriend
while he peels my luggage out the trunk–)
but guess– he got it wrong just
like you tend to do when only fixing eyes
on surfaces, misinterpreting the conversation,
held by tired travelers in foreign tongues
(no longer reasonable probably–)

i take the train– and maybe this
is stupid, birthed from an over-tired brain
and curse a bit (in german– to
minimalize the harm–) then think
about the choices that we make–
good & bad or neither– who can tell–
and get lost though you would think this is
almost impossible– but i have learned
that few things– really are

.

think that this is my last NYC poem now..but then..you never know…smiles…linking up with dVerse where we’re getting all passionate about poetry & it’s my pleasure to serve drinks behind the bar tonight…OpenLinkNight doors will open at 3pm EST…so write a poem and join us..

traces of a journey

 .

it’s underground
that you blend fastest with a city,
riding veins, that run
like giant blood streams
in dark tubes— staring
at reflections in scratched panes

& Out_Side Night—

she speeds faster,
ShiFTs & PuLLS me between
greasy, tainted tiles,

CLosER— CloSEr iN—
an endless foreplay
without ever—

BreathINg iRreGulaR
as i pretend to read,
pretend, i don’t feel it but–

she knows–
TRemBLes UnDeRneatH,

wailing howls screech as we’re
entering the station where i
Dis_em_barK
with quivering knees

& know so well how close to it—
she always is

.

my pleasure to host this week’s Poetics over at dVerse.. and we’re going UNderGRound… so hope to see you at 3pm EST..and don’t forget to bring your pen and a subway map..

NYC cabs & High Lines//strictly geometrical

in fact, geometry is everywhere,
even on the backseat of a yellow
New York city cab. the arrow
on the little screen, equal-sided,
re-assuring red, triangular, i wait
for it to move, to
find its way across the map but it
keeps  hanging  long enough to
make me lose direction while

the Hudson shines like fish scales
on a windy evening sun & i get sleepy
in the warmth—there’s something
soothing in the face of math, of
things that play to certain rules
that you can calculate and measure
back to find their roots, grounded
deep in pools of logic, we

have walked the High Line long
enough to feel the rust and budding life
wind around our aching toes, find
comfort in the fact of art expressed
in different ways by hopping in
and out the Chelsea galleries,
listening closely to the artist’s voice
and realize how we see things with
such different eyes like this painting of the
colored woman which for me is like
an anchor and you say that it disturbs you,

there is little that is fact, or facts
alone, and i take out my pen, trying to
find the formula of moving in a
certain sense, define the area of 2 *
(length + width) and  (1/3) * (x) * height but
see, i’m missing out the multiple dimension
that is mostly hidden

for the eyes– you swipe your card
to pay the driver, and i’m buying tulips
along the way because it’s spring & art & figures
mingle in a weird equation, still unriddled
as we step out on the pavement
& the wind blows– in our face again
. 

.
over at dVerse, Charles Miller has a challenging prompt for us…and it’s getting a bit scientific today…so get your pens ready and join us at 3pm EST when the doors swing open..

heck yes, he IS– risen

.

the easter lamb has
dark brown chocolate eyes,
we sit around the coffee table, fam
extended, daughter still smells
of bolivian jungle, struggling
with the cold that she caught
on her journey &

the little neighbor girl
brought her recorder, she plays shyly,
chewed wood between rosey lips,
all the spring songs she has learned
so far– & i am moved– by spring,
the music, easter, by the friend my
mom in law brought,
and she’s thankful just to sit
with us, smiles across
the table– tells us casually about the
cancer she has battled,

i fall silent at a certain point & life feels
fragile, always does, but there are times
i feel it physically– and the rain hangs
like a veil, drips against
the window, later

i wipe tables, wash the dishes &
you taste of egg nog as i kiss you,
start unbuttoning your shirt with
soapy hands, you look around, say
“it’s the middle of the day” (as
if i didn’t know–) & that
we really should be reasonable,
but– i never am–

.
linking up with emily who re-starts imperfect prose again today..

from today, i’m gonna use chinese napkins for direction

bent low atop the table, lights dim,
he speaks half english and two-thirds chinese,
eyes slit, deep in concentration, pen in
wrinkled fingers, napkin way too small
to fit the drawing, but those ink blue lines
will take us out of Chinatown

& at least we know where we’re going after
wandering for quite a bit, the taste of beef &
shrimps blend with green tea & friendship,
reckless ticking of the clock, i

take the chopsticks, ReWiND, StoPTiME,
SWinG ‘em in the cooking haze, a
magic wand, soaked with other world
spices, soy sauce & moments that

hang fragile on chinese lanterns, web-thin,
tumbling in the wind, ink drops, spilled
on parchment, on the streets we walked–
the owner (somehow feels a bit James Bond–)

holds the door, shows us to the corner
to ensure, we’re going in the right direction,
& i’m not quite sure– if we burnt the napkin
after reading– or if it’s forever hidden in
those pages, BReaTHinG– carrying the scent
between ancient & sliced fragments of today

.

join us over at dVerse where we will probably have no chopsticks and no chinese waiter but Joe Hesch, who is tending bar …doors will open at 3pm EST..