–i still smell the lips of him who blew it//into being

clicK //cLick cliCk
he likes me
likes me not
cliCk
he–

“what ya doing?”

head bent in a 35 degree curve, light
flashing my face, then shade
fingers ‘round a bead of pearls,
triggering the switch
a silent silver moon // tightly screwed
against the tiles

“it works”
“of course it does”

i was a witness
first row, as the driller bit
sharp teeth&metal cuttings spread
transformed to thousand curls
like daisies on the floor

somewhere in a factory
a yellow planet’s born//
to the beat of a machine

&in the attic of his gramma’s house,
a little boy
hangs it with spider threads on a blue washing line
amidst a sea of fellow galaxies
his granddad
from the far end of a dream smiles bright//
&wrinkly

“tell me–” i say, ear pressed
to where light leaves a thin shadeline
underneath her breast

“i smell the boy” i say&

“will it hold?”

“i fixed it with a screw in the right corner”
“hmmm”

i pull the bead
clicKCliCk
&i’ve yet to grow to fully//
understand
the magic

.

Today at dVerse, Björn has us write about objects or situations as if we see them for the first time, trying to convey the feelings and wonder that go with them – one tool can be defamiliarization in the way of Viktor Schklovski or writing from so. else’s perspective, by using an unfamiliar poetic voice or by describing without naming.. pub doors open at 3pm EST

after laying down the portable electric drill

an unhinged carpet stretcHes paws
from thousand&anight to—
it can’t fly though

&i’m peeling tangerines
cross-legged on its tousled face,
a bohemian floor lamp//
on one foot, her head bent knowingly

a jubilating frame, simply/holding
what is in its hands
&piles of clothes, waiting to be put into the wardrobe,

just above the bed, sing-me-the-blues-joe spider
spinning threads that glisten girlish
in the lamplight
happy, felty clogs with a red dot from my last coloring experiments

a sugarcoated moonflower drape.
skirt slightly askew
so you can see her legs if you look closely

one short-tempered 23:40//on the clock
in scarlet-red

a power plug, hot-blooded, waiting for the switch to
re-establish contact

heavily hypoglycemic tea mug, blossoms strewn across her womb
&in the corner by the wall

a furry-eyed and rusty pipe,
filled to the brim with notes//the kind
that you struggle to eXplain
humming slightly offtune//B-key

tempered melodies 

 

Marina over at dVerse has us make two lists, one with things around you, another with adjectives describing emotions/feelings. Cut them up, randomly pick pairs and weave them into a poem without using abstract nouns (such as love, passion, jealousy etc.).. pub doors open at 3pm EST…

in fact// i put the brush aside to write this

FullSizeRender

i cut red cabbage into tiny slices, onions
add a glass of red wine, chestnuts,
on the other plate
simmers a pot of venison

a starry sky so different from van gogh’s
of paint dots in my hair, arms, cheeks

“can we finish one thing properly before we start the next?”
my husbands says, a little angry&
i try–

my shoulders ache
from painting overhead
potato stamps wait half-cut, watercolor, brush
“not sure if this works out” i mumble,
wipe my hands, lay the table
“i invited miriam” i smile,

balancing around an unhinged door,
bathroom mirror//
on the floor, three paint pots
“has to dry now– will continue later”
&it’s close to midnite
cleaning-rags dance in a tight embrace
with spilled paint, cobwebs,

drapes breathe in the night air, flower fields,
the ones, that i sewed yesterday,
that look like little moons
in abstract landscape
&the humming of my old machine
as threads slide through a mace of steel

touch story after story
listening, my hands brush over seams
of dresses for the girls,
piles of pants for tim//for me

&all that’s whispering along
her patient melody

.

for dVerse where Victoria has us write ART..

i think a man who cooks is frickin’ sexy or//show me how you cook&— or//a messy cook’s a messy lover (not//that i would mind–) smiles

i sort my tastebuds in the shape of continents,
of lands with rugged hills&cliffs,
the scent of sheep
coconut woven like beads along the ocean’s smiling lips
the salty touch of oysters on my tongue

food is never just a sum
of its ingredients

my kids with rivulets of warm milk
on their cheek//still on my breast
the power of chasing dreams,
a tiny rat in paris
who refuses to give up,
perestroika & glasnost
politics & cultures that are strange for us

pink kitkat on my desk, fresh from japan
and pumpkin in a butterbed
sizzling joyful in a pan while i sew drapes

memories of scarred knees, picking berries
in the forest with my cousin
taste of sour dock while hiding in the grass when
playing cowboys and gendarmes
rivaling the scent of daisies

the grease-film on your lips after chinese take-away
the urge to–

&the starry sky of dripped-down döner sauce on new, blue jeans
U2 playing on a rooftop in SF
the taste of dust//of nameless streets out in the slums
the first real meal after a surgery

home-cooked peach jam,
currywurst in kreuzberg where the wall once ran,

it’s history& yet-to-come
olive oil&fresh bread on my tongue,
it’s heimweh*
&the need //to strap a rucksack to my back
to breathe the scent of pines

it’s cake crumbs on a market place in rome
john, chapter one

&longing

for your word
to feed me

 .
*heimweh = homesickness
for dVerse where Abhra has us write food today..

“there were no balloons back then” the autumn fair says with a wistful smile

i, sketching the basel skyline..

i, sketching the basel skyline with the ferris wheel, set up for the autumn fair..

.

fivehundred&fortythree years grown,
candyfloss leftovers in the gaps between her teeth
she smiles at me

slightly yellow
as the sun presses her cheeks
yearningly into the stream

from the Martin’s tower
churchbells ring, pulled by a man
with a black glove only on his left hand,
he will get the second when the fair ends
two weeks later

sound of hooves on cobblestones,
dewy breath caught in a whirl of light,
cheering kids&monks in grey frocks
walking the city barefoot

“take me on a ferris wheel ride?” she asks
a shy smile almost hidden
in the crevices around her lips
juice of fresh baked apples
on her chin

round my hips
backpack straps
carry burnt almonds, pottery&spices,

her eyes change color
with the movement of the wind

“how were things back then?”

she grins,
lost for moments
as we walk
side by side
a dog barks

achoir of pans&crackling fire, an eagle’s glide,
a fishwifes’ merry giggles–

“much like that” i think
as the ferris wheel spins

squeaking//joyful

through the night

.

Gay has us writing “Fair” today over at dVerse
The first Basel autumn fair took place in the year 1471

really//i don’t know him

the dead man loves a cyclone
more than sunlight
he glides knife-tight over riffs
and washes his clothes in blue lagoons
with million sparkling fish

he doesn’t mind
the smell& finding them
later in his pockets

he refuses to mis-cooperate
with anyone
plays hop-scotch with a wooden leg
and smokes thick cigars
in a wool-swing from Bolivia

the dead man
wears his shirts un-ironed
but loves polished shoes
and golden earrings
like a pirate

he rides silvery mountainbikes
on a volcano rim
thick snow clouds in the folds
under his breast
&he wears yellow lipstick
un-explaining why&where&everything

he spraypaints chords&only majors
on his neighbor’s doors
to cheer them up
as they pull in the driveway
heavy rucksack with the happenings of the day

&in the nights he drinks mojitos
on the porch under the moon’s lush silhouette
with heavy breasts
(just as they feel before the period)

&he leans back
into that space before&
how he left
plays chess all night
with swarms of fireflies
(&never wins)
but talks them into practicing
another tango step with him
cause he still dreams

of living

.

over at dVerse, Grace has us write from a dead man’s perspective…. have a go? doors open at 3pm EST…

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..