maybe You can tell me–

pushing certain buttons
can be delicate, it implies
a dash of intuition some-
times which, well–

he’s Norwegian
(if you saw him you’d know why
i call him VikingMan), a sales guy,
robbed off spitting seas & buckling boat deck–
he left his camera lying

in the taxi (yes,
we got it back–), & now make
our way through end-less
floors, no wind or storm
& all potential enemies
hide silently behind thick
mahogany doors, lap-

top like a piece of swag
pressed to his chest,
he jokes “if all else fails, we push

the swedish button– yaKnow
what this means?”, i smile
with just a look & by the way
his hair sways like a flag
through corporate corridors, i

balance in white blouse and
heels across a slingering deck &
in a mix of venturelust & sea-
sickness, think “yep–
it is a shame that
no one really knows
where all the pirates went”

.

over at dVerse, Brian Miller pushes the right buttons to unbutton our poetic creativity.. see you over there at 3pm EST.. and if you ever hear an Norwegian talking about the swedish button, he’s trying to tell you to press the reset button on the computer…smiles

somehow square–

we watch the rainbow fly
watch as clouds jump sky
the clouds, a crowd– silentio
rainbow jump, crowd cream dipped
FlySky– (psshhh–) silentio, dipped toTheHip
.

so if you thought that poetry has nothing to do with math, you should go and read Sam’s FormForAll square poems prompt at dVerse today… the above poem has as many words in one line as lines and can be read left to right and top to bottom…i don’t say it’s good poetry though…haha…ok..be brave and join us…smiles

after 15 miles, turn right and follow– /snapshot from a business trip

i measure time
‘til the satnav falls again
and think about that van Gogh
painting, street café by
night, which makes me
wanna go to Paris & reminds me,
i am not yet there–

i don’t have to drive,
but i’m responsible for navigation,
(always a bad deal–),
streets are beehive busy, dark clouds
in fierce contest with the cement &
my eyes– well i try to keep
them open, “did you know,

white sharks eat their brothers
while still in the uterus, which
means, each shark is a murderer
before birth”

“oh–”, i

swallow & then google it
because i don’t believe, and
while i do, listen to the sound of tires, that
intimately rub their cheeks with
concrete streets, “i think
we have to turn,
then take the other exit–” PhlopP!

the satnav falls again &
as it hits the dashboard,
i jot one more mark onto my list
of things that crash a myriad times
but magically keep on leading you
the correct way

.

yep…it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse – and the party starts at 3pm EST…come, write a poem and join us..

she didn’t sing the blues, but she could’ve, right? (oh– and a business trip)

i never talk much afterwards, nah
just enjoy the being spilled-
loose in the moment. When

i left, i wrapped a parcel, hid it
on your bedside with a card that s(t)ates
“thanks for TryingToSeeMe–
asIAm” &
a breeze of s(hum)thing in
which i know you’ll love to see me
when i’m back–

the blues lies empty
in the glass jar on the kitchen table
(those, that i have filled with
summer fruits– the red ones)
and the tiles sing that old Mary Poppins
song– it’s Supercalifra– you all know
how it goes–
i haven’t swept ‘em

for a bit, and answer with
a swashSplee dialect–

SpeTimSpecloDonFiCiFeeso– (sure, pro-
nounce it english and/or backwards– just
be careful not to slip & stWhip the words like cream
in swircles from your tongue–) see,
here comes rhythm in & that’s

the only thing i say as you
breathe “I
Have Ne
Ver
seen you Like that–” &
your mouth is wet with berries

.

smiles…yeah..i had fun with this one…and hope you gonna join us when Anna Montgomery guest-hosts the Poetics bar at dVerse today…it’s aaaaall about words…and – indubitably – you will love it…oh..and this is how i “designed” the word “SpeTimSpecloDonFiCiFeeso” just took a silly sentence that jumped to my mind which was “special times need special clothes and i don’t give a fuck if it sounds precocious/atrocious as long as it doesn’t feel so” and fuSsambled some of the letters…just like in mary poppins ya know…smiles..

ART unLimited, and uneXpected

“well, this is funny” from his accent,
he’s american and talks to no one
in specific, just enjoys the statements,
which shout, “Hear me, hear Me–”

i am in a hurry, having only
a two hour ticket, running through Hall 1,
ART unlimited, to see as much as
possible, to find one gem that’s
gonna hit me & realize, i forgot
to breathe, to listen as i stop & watch

how the muscles in his arms move
as he spins the wheels, with
subtle elegance navigates through
chatting people, tiny doors,
sudden darkness and a light show
that pours one more message, i

stand motionless as people spill
into the crowded hall, his eyes,
focused on the moment, finely
chiseled face, pale with concentration,
gently framed by shoulder-long, dark curls,
& interwoven with first streaks of grey,
i wonder how he’s dealing with the spiral tunnel,
winding up to “after kerouac” –will make

him smile– with controlled moves, he lines up,
fragments of whispering art with tongues,
legs, hands and faces reflect hundred fold
in the shiny chrome parts of his wheelchair,

by the angle of
how his shoulders bend & mouth
into a straight line with the collar bones,
i trace their texture with my eyes, smoothly
visible under the fabric of his shirt, see

the perfect in the broken & think
art is found, often in the unexpected
and in listening to the things that talk
with a more silent voice

.

a little snapshot from my visit at the ART Basle exhibition last saturday and if i managed to create a sense of place/setting, i probably did a good job and Victoria who is tending the MeetingTheBar bar at dVerse from 3pm EST on today, may be happy with me…smiles… i’m on a business trip, posting from the hotel and will be in meetings all day– back home late in the evening, so my commenting will be a bit delayed…

leaving footPrints–

what unites us is
that we’re all budget flyers &
Barcelona airport has a terminal
where only easyJet departs,

discuss our
CO2 to thousand footprints or
environmental consciousness,
but they’re creating jobs,
& more than i assumed,

a french couple with baby & toddler
spills a glass of sprite across the floor,
i wanna help them clean it up,
but a madly banging headache
breaKs & spliTs
my brain in tiny bits, so
i don’t move,

and no one else does–

silently, we slice the air
with gazes that mean nothing–
hung between the home
and where we head or come from

“Please proceed to gate numBer eleven–”

a group of students plays football in the boarding line
as we wait forever & i read Bukowski
while my head goes banG– bAnG–

bad as it can get
when we fly over Marseille, Cote d’Azur,
Montblanc– i start

thinking about how it feels
to work my fingers up your spine
as you bow over me, sweat drip_
ping slowly from your forehead & small crumbs
of travel dust caught in the soft curve
on your lips– i find you

at arrival,
playing pinball (some things

never change), crash
amidst the flashing, buzzer’s,
tchrk– tsh–plingk–ttssrhk
in your arms, &

pressed against your chest,
i say “hurry up,

we need to get home really quickly–”

.

it’s OpenLinkNight again where we get drunk on verse and fly without boarding a plane..and Joe Hesch will be the man behind the dVerse bar tonight

if i could paint i–

you may think
that the extension’s endless,
you can
pull—– pull—–

further–
longer— strong_er,

bit of pain—
bEArable,
but then—

the heart– suddenly
snaPs back like rubber strap,
to where the roots lie–
driLLs big holes inside your chest&
striPS you NA_
ked, if

you’re Joan Miró, you etch
reD and Black, blaCK // Red in
small-scale, & your hands smell
of blood and charcoaled earth of civil war,
touch DEStrucTION&
no matter
where you are, you’re–

stretch//– sCRAtch//– NooO!!! you’re

neVer sAFe,
oil-Rage

Picasso-like, in painting Guernica,

bombs in your eyes, fall
when you hear about the kids that die
in a school on Placa San Felipe Neri– &
the only thing that you can do is, take the
crumbled stones and build anew, i
was a teen, working

in city hall, social welfare branch,
when a group of refugees came into our
town, and they were sitting in the office,
smiling, smiling, a bit lost when my boss
explained assistance to them,

only now,
i think,
i see what spans like rubber band,
reaching
from their bare, white teeth,
deep
into the choking chambers of
a badly savaged land

.

Karin is the woman behind the dVerse bar today and she has prepared a prompt for us that takes us to the heart of exile and beyond.. Miró and Picasso were in France when the civil war savaged their beloved Spain and they both captured some of the terror in their paintings.. the school on Placa San Felipe Neri was hit when Hitler bombed Barcelona and they rebuilt it with the crumbled stones that were left…learned about all this on my visit to Barcelona last week..so really thankful for a journey that taught and touched me on different levels…

i think i felt the catalanian heart beat

i’ m not sure if there’s a poem,
one that stays with me
and does this city justice–

someone said Miró
helped us understand,
this world is made of instability & beauty,
things that last, only for so long and–

who can tell what comes
next, standing

in the nave of the cathedral where
Antoni Gaudí poured
forty three years of his life
to make these stone walls talk,
then died in the streets of Barcelona,
in an accident, knocked over
by a tram, clothed in rags,
they didn’t recognize him &

i weep for all the dreams
that might never come true,

a woman on the bus is blind,
eyes closed behind dark glasses,
fingers trace the buttons on the pole,

i feel her concentration, gently
focused on the next stop, next step,
period– there’s dignity

in every move of
an old trashman as he empties
bins by hand &

i sit on the stone steps on
Placa de Josep Oriol,
a homeless, bent, felted beard,
asks people in the street cafés for coins,

a handsome guy with long braids
swings a rope between two sticks,
conjures soapy bubbles
& in seconds–

plop
——-plop

————–plop

they’re gone–

leaving nothing but
glistening rainbow droplets
in the blond curls
of a little catalanian girl

.

a bit of a capture of my time here in Barcelona, will fly back tonight and visit back as soon as possible… linking up with dVerse where OpenLinkNight goes up at 3pm EST

Joy(ces) and responsiBILLities

„the blue or the red shirt?“

always give them room
to choose– within the limits,
reasonable, says psy-chology

“rubber boots or sandals?”

THINK!!!let LogiC work, a big word for
a two year old, my kids had
question marks pinned in their eyes,
more than once, a bit like Scrooge McDuck
those blinKing dollar signs,

“it rains outside?” that
makes it easier, love me

space to choose, orient, check
what’s on staKe & tracK
the possibilities, res-pon-sibilites,
left/right,

deCide,
———-DEcide–!!

& measure outPut in success or DAM(n)age,

we sit on the pool rim, feet in ice cold
water, sun paints toffee dust upon us
“i’ve made uP my mind”

i say, no fuTure
& the blinds, down DOWN,
thick tree trunks CraSH– blocK the
way, cracK badly, but–

the auguries change, and
i go back & walk the other path,

red or blue pen?

i leave love notes
on the toilet paper and i don’t write
‘em in red, nor that i love you, just to
not feed the clichés, mine are more like
“thanks for talking & i came (x num-
ber of) times last night”

and it’s your ChoiCe,
what you’re more proud of

.

this is my entry for today’s Poetics at dVerse with brian miller tending bar & i CHOSE (hint, hint..) to join the fun even though i’m roaming the streets of barcelona when the post goes online…so my commenting will be a little bit delayed…

when the world is not enough

she never went that far &
some would say she wasn’t gone
at all, but i knew better,
there

were maps and sounds, whole
crazy landscapes, sunk
into her corneas, i got
glimpses of ‘em in those evenings,
we sat in the yard to suck up
gravel-dirty rays of sunlight
just before the fading of– she

said that she could enter best
when she climbed tight along fine hair
of their body (lashes
for example–) &

it’s not much different from
what we’re used to, other than
a pulse that robs you of composure,
then falls quiet–

before unfolding, never sure though
if it’s them or you or–

“are they having ice cream?” kinda
practical, i thought that this would triple
the adventure, but she didn’t answer
any of my questions, there were times,
she switched so quickly, i–

no chance to follow, running fast,
she gasped for breath with
lake-blue lips, never felt safe,
she neither, she admitted but
that’s not the point– “be careful,

not to lose but tie her to a rope so
you can pull her back in case,
because the soul gets lost in seconds

sometimes” i was clueless,

understood it only backward, partly
i think, not at all, & never managed
entering again after she disappeared &
no one told me where she went, i

have my own thoughts though,

on some evenings while sitting
in the sun warm gravel of the driveway,
i find traces of the maps she left,
drawn with charcoal and fine lines of
dried blood from our bashed-up knees,
when climbing out again–
did almost kill us

.

we’re discovering new worlds or paint our own at dVerse where Charles Miller is the man behind the bar tonight.. see you at 3pm EST