in the cab to basle airport

they blasted tanks
with desert sand, he says–
in Lybia, two hours
from the sea & he saw
Gaddafi in a big parade
back then,
him,

being a young man,
out of work for quite a bit,
it sounded like an opportunity

and so he went,
but nothing ever organized,
he shakes his head,

material and tools were missing,
& i nod, then double-check
my tickets, passport,
“beaten land, but

this is where the first flight took me”
he explains,
“was beneficial in a way, broadened
the horizon that gets small at times
if you’re just staying where you are”

the taxi meter drums its beat
into the silence, we both hang
on our own thoughts

and we’re almost there
“too many lost their lives”, his eyes
get dark
as he unloads my suitcase,
“terrible regime, they brought
the country down”

and it was water tanks they built,
he says &
that this may sound crazy but
he never made it
to the sea
in all these months

.

from 3pm EST on, you can find me behind the OpenLinkNight bar at dVerse, serving drinks, washing glasses and handing you the mic to spit poetry across the place… gonna join us..?

it could be Venice or just anywhere

it’s cold & rains as i arrive,
hand luggage only,
traveling light &
i get caught by fog
that brings me to the edge

of things that matter, wheels
spin in the dark,
thick raindrops
seep into the collar
of my coat and colored light bulbs
lay a trail i caNnot follow,

candy cotton threads
glisten like wet cobwebs
on your lips, silence
in the corners of your mouth,
& chains of light go

ploP– Plop– pLop–

shut one after the other
until darkness wins &

distance, measured
with a smile, stretches
like blue bridges on canals,
cuts space in tiny bits
“keep spiN-ninG”
says the music, carrying froth

upon a shore i lost, the absence
of the scents is
what scares me most,
a fortune tellers booth
shut empty, rolled down blinds
“i’m not afrAid” i
whisPer &

giant muscles of
the ferris wheels’ long limbs
crack as it starts rotating, slowly,
sloWly, like someone
whose not quite sure
which way to turn

.

i’ll be selling tickets and illusions at dVerse today and we’re serving candy apples, popcorn and the one or other roller coaster ride…so..hope to see you at 3pm EST when we put on the lights and the wheels start turning….

cooking freestyle

google ads say (in my inbox)
“bake ‘til golden or
for twenty minutes”, serve
with soy sauce–“ too

much information
for my taste, i’m gonna serve it
with a chocolate mousse, unbaked, just
because i Am rebellious &
think sweet,
which

has a reason i won’t tell you– ha–
but
both will work, so dip
your tongue dEEp, suck the
taste & RoLLaRound the texture
of the edGe–
then try

to mix, you never
gonna fix– it anyway, a ride
aLong the taste buds, if you’re
lucky

it will make it
to your heart which is
not really relevant as this is
about iNdePenDance,

independence of the writer AND
the one who reads, not solely
when it comes to poetry (or
sex) orWhat
you make of it,
i’m wondering anyway
why they do
send me recipes–

.

well..when i read the ad, i just started writing without reflecting much…if google knew what their cooking ads are doing to me…smiles… hope you gonna join us at 3pm EST over at dVerse where Victoria has prepared a fun MeetingTheBar challenge…

the girl & the dragon

maybe it’s the spanish tunes,
dropped with tender fingertips
into a moorish night–
way too cool for may,
and i am shivering, or

my struggle with the roller coasters
that reminds me constantly
how difficult it is for me
to trust

and i say “next time” to my colleague,
“next time i will ride ‘em all”
he smiles & says we’ll go for two
as that’s enough to start with,

after midnite and
a hundred work calls later
on three different mobiles, i sit
in the dark and suddenly i know,

it happened in that chinese circus
with her, sleeping on the bench
after playing with the dragon, he
takes off his coat, steps ClosEr &
i’m terrified– NO!! pleASE
dON’t harm her– but he spreads
the cloak and
covers her with warmth,

i wipe my eyes, breathe hard, stumble
on a cross road where i least expect,

rafts glide through the water,
almostSilent and the scent of mold
hangs in the air–

hours later i
still smell it on my hands and clothes,
& realize that i’m just a refugee
in a land, whose name
i can’t remember

.

it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse and brian miller serves drinks behind the bar…write a poem and join us at 3pm EST

direct- and counter current

i haven’t thought much about safety systems
but below the soil, beyond
the earthworms, that leave slimy trails
on sun-burnt toes, runs complicated
electronic wiring that needs testing & inspection,
with a bit of luck– Try &

connect red, blue & black, heck– just–
be careful in the process, we’re attach-
ing wires to TransFormers, CircuitBreaKers &
it needs well-trained eyes to spot,
locate, identify the causes of a breakDown,
frown, i squeeze my thighs until it hurts, watch
the sweep hand on my clock run circle-Wise,

aGain, Again in restless rounds, TickTock,
tiCKtoCK breaking streams of voltage– i am
more a gardener by nature, Hit
ground hard with my knees, and press
my face into the soil’s damp lips,
breathe scent of rot and birth from
broken earth, and then with what is left,
mold channels that run tight aGainst
the counter flow

.

karin is tending the poetics bar over at dVerse today…and we’re connecting things you wouldn’t usually…more details when the pub doors open at 3pm EST..

on eating Art & more

lines blur, blue like color stroke/s
in WaTer, someTimes on
one50ty gramm, rough papER–
Red /and yell-O, wet in wet
‘n on slow paths bet_ween,
i search4 texXture, diP
my finger tips on wavEing lips,

run ‘em through moist lines,
lose grip and track back to
their core, E-choes, muTed
from someWhere Way
out of reach, feel4
ur voice along my tasteBuds,

trace weight, glide on
the surFace of my palm,
ear bent inTo HardBeat_Ba
Ba_Bum (with a deep u), i

stand CloseUP, smell– that
canvas & in/Diff_erence, shades,
dip my tongue in pools
of pig_ments, wet/ink, breathe, then
mOan aLoud / Don’T–! i–
just let me hold ‘em
in an open mouth

.

over at dVerse, Gay has prepared a wicked cool FormForAll challenge– and i’m not at all sure if i managed to meet the requirements, so i’m not even telling you what kind of form this should be… you def. have to wait until she opens the pub doors and with a sprung rhythm in her voice invites you to try your hands on the form as well…smiles

on killing roaches

they fly,
spilling through the open window
on a humid Sydney night,
and i am terrified, lights
dark, a distant tension in my chest
that tells me that the world’s
not round nor anything i ever, oh i–
crossed

so many roads—

hit my elbow
on the iron heater in the bathroom,
crying all the way to work– lap
wet, the endless highway stretched
like a band with sun and moon pinned to it,
medals to a soldier’s breast
but only
after death–  i
HYperVentiLate, stretch
aching legs,

on sun-baked stairs
under the sails of Sydney Opera house,
a minute– PleaSE just– One
more minute– FlaSH–
BacK– tight

wind blows- Blows– BLOWS— me
eastward as i’m crossing
Harbour bridge, they’re
creeping up the bus
pane,

an old man in
a faded t-shirt with deep holes,
dark eyes, turns around, shows a
toothless mouth, wrinkled face
and smiles at me, Kills ‘em
with oNe BloW of a flat hand
&

the weird gentleness
of someone who survived
too long already

.

hopefully no roaches in the pub kitchen but lots and lots of poetry… join us at 3pm EST at dVerse when joe hesch switches on the mic..

We need them more than they need us, the Wild Things

i used to hang with them
on trees during the summer with
their hairy legs dangling cheerfully
while Piercing beetles
from the bark with pointed teeth– deliCacies,
sprayed with a bit of evening rain,

“don’t you beFriend with them” my mom
said, forehead wrinkled, “they don’t
do you any good”– Look–
she had no idea
how much i needed
to feel soft fur on my skin,
wild heartbeat under giant breasts
(just to adJust my own–)
and claw-spiked paws in
constant battle with the things that break

so easily– oh–
don’t YaGetMeWrong, they were
not always tender, sometimes mean like life
can be on dark days, those
that make you die or cry– or
allAtOnce– i

never had much use for phantasies
of princes on white stallions, rather go
with crazy monster-shout battalions
on a scary trip into the heart of blue
illuminated traffic signs
above a weird busy highway, spark
a firework by dis-connecting all the wires
wrapEmBack, the sirens
of police cars scrEEching–

“there is no such thing as fantasy
unrelated to reality” says
Maurice Sendak– Beasts

without a burden,
we would rest
behind the moon with
chocolate (or vanilla) ice cream
in a tightly spun cocoon &
they couldn’t find the door– how-
ever hard they tried, this is
the magic
of these secret places, see– they’re
clothed in mystery just like
a childhood if you strip
the poor, the boring
and the painful things–
away

.

over at dVerse, we’re celebrating Maurice Sendak.. and Aaron Kent will be guest-hosting the poetics bar.. hope you gonna join us and bring all the monsters and Wild Things, you can find under your bed or in the cupboard…smiles…see you at 3pm EST 

KindOfATimeMachine

we steP
into the heart of the machine,
hammering metal &
a giant penDulum announces
time between the next jump
and– no– Wai t!– a

jester dances to the hour,
fate pulled in a scratCHed mess from
the fortune teller’s booth, half-
heart-edly secured
with bolts & pinS,

a ruffled rooster
Ttsshhrrgg– ignore– it– with
dry lips, i chew the
red pen, feet pressed bare to
cobble stone, thirteen hundred
plus a ranDom RevOlutionary–
‘all it Needs,’ you whisper,

sweat pearls wet
across your forehead, it’s just
weights and
leather straPs, skewed tightly in
entangled movement, it’s not
that

you can’t escape, Think–THINK!
ROtaTION, SpiNning wheels
craSHing from one level to the next while
smoke spreads in time-lapse mode, the
scent of grease, smeared on your hands,
i try to grab ‘em, slip, you must– it
all– DEpEnds on–
the right moment you say, like–
it always does

.

over at dVerse Charles Miller will be tending the MeetingTheBar bar and it’s getting kinda technological…ha..jump on your machine and join us at 3pm EST when the doors swing open..

ponds

.
we came
on our bikes, taking the forest trail,
and i slay dragons
that hide, mean like gnomes,
behind bloom-heavy apple trees,

you say you see ‘em,
only in my eyes &
only when they fletch teeth
as their head rolls
to the ground–

On a wood bench
near the pond–
you dis-sect fried trout for me,
as i tell how i drowned
in Monet at the MOMA,

oil on canvas– mural sized–
water lilies, between which i sat for eternity,
forgetting who i am, crowd
around, fading to silence &
my heart banged loud
against my chest,

those lilies in the pond
are not yet blooming–

on the way back home,
along the river, i
spread my arms until it hurts,
weave carpets from the wool
of newborn sheep with
dots of strawberries

& try to catch the wind,
that sways raw
against my cheeks
with a drizzling spray-paint tongue

.

linking up with dVerse where Joy Ann Jones aka Hedgewitch rocks the OpenLinkNIght bar…so write a poem and join the fun at 3pm EST..