dang it, but– i found his toes intriguing–

in munich, in pouring rain..

.

“i know nothing
about dragon toes” i say,
he glances sideways
in the sub between
Isartor & Munich Hauptbahnhof,

a minute back,
i placed my suitcase
in a locker, bought a travel guide
in an overheated bookshop,
(there i saw him first–
on the front page of an Asia mag,
between lanterns
& a shouting crowd)

little sweat drops
on my forehead mingle
with the rain,

& he looks out of place,

“don’t draw me” he says,

“if you do, erase the claws”

“i–”
“you a painter?”
“no–
what about you?”

“i am symbolism
of a dynasty, a folk, a hope–”

“i’m not familiar with your culture”
“yes, i know–
i wanna taste the rain,
& followed your red rain coat”

“royal blood?” i ask,

“kinda–
whole clans got executed
for not following the rules”

“i never do”
he smiles (for the first time)

*next stop– Marienplatz*

“Mr. D.– your royalty?” i say,
offer my arm & hot breath on my cheek,
we get out of the train,

“i didn’t lose a single toe,
all the way here”
“yeah, but
you came on a mag–”
“oh, that doesn’t matter”

“let me show you something” i say,

——–& we walk out in the rain

.

smiles…kelvin has us write Asia in the pub today…food, culture, travel, experiences–good and bad, people, tradition…wide open field..he will even provide us with some Tagalog (Philippines’ mother tongue) words to weave into our poems once the article goes up at dVerse at 3pm EST.. see you then…and happy saturday everyone..

the temptation to make things fit to our taste & why the painters packed their brushes away, & the kids stopped crying

she has teeth
like a swiss mountain chain,
Les Dents du Midi, jagged &
wildly irregular,
leaning here and there,
for support or fun,
entangled–

people gasp
for breath when she parts lips,
babies cry, & fortune tellers
search for the extension of her lifeline
in the crooked beige and white.

but unabashed, free climbers hang
with messed up fingers on the bearing-out, then jump
onto the cushion of her tongue– (ha, fun), &

painters comb her hair
into diffusing clouds, shadow-dye her eyes
“looks like the lake geneva”
oil paint—driP DriP droP dRop dRip
to catch her odd, odd beauty

they meet in a sidestreet, he a dentist//straight,
measures & fills gaps with self-stewed amalgam,
sits on a streamline aluminium chair,
starEs at her,

boOOOm phUOng cLash //
————1000Volt flash,

pearly beads of spit drip from her slightly skew
corner of the mouth– someThing
in her wild smile touches him (doWn
to the intestines)

&he drops the ruler, between passionate
lip on lip //valley hiLL Hip hiGh pEak sEEd e-
Ruption–

lava dust, crest to ground–

marries her–

at the breakfast table– tUliPs, butter seas,
gold on honey sweet/Soaked wheat rolls,
bees hum drunk, turkish delight lakes on
the soft spots of her thighs, he takes
the waterscale– with scrutinizing gaze
divides, adds, multiplies, explains—

“these teeth need work–”

the painters shake their heads, “this—
you should love her like she is”
the dauntless climbers freeze in shock,

& she stands naked in the kitchen,
washes dishes in the moonlight,

————–liPs

—————–sealed close

.

temptation is what mary wants us to write for poetics at dVerse today..so…grab a pen..smiles… i’m in munich for the weekend, exploring the city (in pouring rain..) but back at my laptop by 3pm EST when the pub doors open..

terZaRima// just be wise&DoNotTalk to swans too much

you’d think their view on life is white,
weightless & a bit afloat,
(it’s not, & i don’t talk to them too often),
feather downs in windy nights,

waterWet sprinkles on my nose,
rippling wave worms set a yawning pace,
fishes, (wiNkWinKwiNK), belly up along the boat-
side, (nah, not dead– for sun tan reasons)

blowing seed(s), dande(Lions) in your face,
i say, “cycled without helmet to the moon,
once” (true)a tight against the lightspeed race,

the thing with oxygen is– it’s lun(e)-
atic(ly) important & i’m not a mermaid
(tickle me), a seaweed wig (thangGreen) &soSoon

i’m panting– brEATHLesS
anyWay–

.

smiles…my (almost) terza rima sonnet for dVerse where tony serves drinks behind the bar..

maybe she had rhubarb cake (still warm & with a pudding icing) in that basket

i caught him in the fog
on the highway entry, early urban morning,
overRunning Red traffic lights,
shaggy beard, Harley buzzing like a bear,
he, a wolf, with no cash,
so i took him to the station house
“i‘ve seen this face before–“,
missing puzzle pieces,

fairy tales are nothing but–
my assistant says, “i know him, see–“,
he holds a phantom drawing in the air,
signed: red riding hood

“come on”
later
in the yawning lamp light,
(“pancake yellow bulb spits on a greasy surface”,
my colleague’s denotation for interrogation room),
i tell him his rights,
he asks for no lawyer though,
squinting tired,

“it wasn’t her” he says, “it was the cake,
the stuff they sell in bakeries,
just crap–”
(i silently agree)

“so you said the hunter
let escape you? why?”
“haha– it was a deal– i had this decent
sporting gun collection, stored
in different caves over the years”,
(i don’t ask where he got them from,
i should’ve though, i know)

“playing the gentleman, ha–“ he rubs
his fur, weary, grey streaks in the black,
yellow teeth from the nicotine,
“see, we all make our mistakes”
“you don’t even have a drivers license”
“i got other problems”

outside in the street lamp’s warm glow,
drizzle, his colleague– black leather jacket,
silver rivets, crazy hair, a shade red,
paces up and down the road,
could be a fox, my expertise
to this effect is less than marginal,
(i collect roaches in my free time)

my last day before old age pension
(which explains things)
when we step out in the haze
of night, (too cool for may), i shiver,
opposite the school yard, cherry trees
wear wet, white wedding gowns

“what happened to the girl” i ask
“she’s working as a waitress”
“well– you still have contact?”
“no, i told you, it was just the cake”,
i shake his hand & on the way back home
buy rhubarb, flour & eggs, (i haven’t baked
in ages– actually)

.

smiles…fred has us writing myths, fairy tales and folklore, especially rgd. the myriad of creatures that appear within them… give it a go and see you at 3pm EST when we open the dVerse pub doors.. 

i do better without maps

pink & yellow chalk
lines blur
in the moisture
of my breath

to little lakes, tiny boats
reflect the wind within
their rainBow(ed) womb,
traffic rushes by,

cheeks cool to the pane,
i’m drained from biking,

–lips
——tu-lips

(he bought them for me
when i came
back from berlin)
“how was work?”

“not bad” he says,
sea-deep eyes on me &
barefoot on the doorstep,
i put on

my negligée,
wipe chalk dust

from the soft curves of my brea(th)

(t)rip slowly,

“we’re moving”
“got no map”
“that’s fine”

& spring blows
weightless pollen
dreamily

into the waiting night

.

karin has us writing trip(s) at dVerse today… can be a real trip, imagined or even a trip and stumble…fairly open..so grab a pen and join us…gates will swing open at 3pm EST

spring in berlin // undivided

“i didn’t think berlin’s that green” i say,
“actually–” he smiles,
“it’s a forest with some houses”

my bike purrs peaceful,
stretches like a cat into the spring sun,
handle bell jingles softly,
shivering over cobblestone,

kreuzberg, west, on eastern territory,
cheek to cheek with the dividing wall,
——-tulips,

Osman cleans
the small spot off the rubbish that a punk left
& plants vegetables, sells them on the market,
in between land,

there are a thousand faces,
& a billion stories,

i stare at polaroids of those,
brave enough to fight a mad regime,
bled to death, shot// left lying on the strip,
border between east & west,
he was only 19

on the pavement,
on a shaky chair, opposite the church,
i eat rice & tofu,

a little japanese boy
tip-toes after me as i go to the bathroom,
waits in front the door,
mumbling in his own tongue,
knocking secret morse code,
&smiles brightly
as i open it again,

he plays with Milow
(rescued from a splintering chicken bone)
on the cobble plastered place,
chasing sun rays,
barefoot on the grass,

you never plan
to fall in love, it happens,
like a sunrise, rain, natur(e)ally,
un-dramatic,
much like evening leaning casually
into the night, i drink my tea

& on the walk back,
from the darkest corners of her past,
hear this city whistling,
brave and unbowed
into spring’s awakening face

.

we’re writing spring today at dVerse…so dip your pen into a ray of sunshine, write a poem and join us when the doors open at 3pm EST..

don’t play with ‘em

“no” i say
“the moon looks like a pancake”,
(those, only my mom can make)
fat & yellow
in a black jack sky,

see, usually
i wouldn’t talk to them
(it’s hopeless)
their view on life is fuzzy like their fur
we meet on crossroads,

one ways
& on lawn chairs
set up on a dead end street
(or traffic refuges)
play a game of chess
(i make the moves, you guess why)
then we go our own ways

don’t attach to them
too closely
watch ‘em on a poker table
& you understand
it’s wise advice,

we play roulette tonight,
“rien ne vas plus”
i put 4000 on 29, (mad, i know),
the bullet rolls, silver—

cliNk, cLink, cliNk, Clink, clinK

& stOPS–

they stare at me, furry lips,
close to my ear, breath wet,
“lucky streak , let’s try again”

i taught him how to twiddle thumbs once
in return for (no, won’t tell)
but mostly we’re inventing stories
in the tight loops of a traffic jam

“you’re right about the moon” he says
“ya bet” i smile,
then take my coat
—–& leave

.

we’re writing monsters at dVerse today.. cute cuddly monsters, monsters under your bed, scary monsters, misunderstood monsters…grab your pen and join the fun when brian opens the doors at 3pm EST

how pirates really look

she pulls heavy wooden oars
through sky high waves, muscles ache,
red-blond hair a tangled mess,
a ragged canvas sail hangs
limp from splintered masts,
she checks the wind– “north” she says,
“north east, portside has a little leak”,
& stinking pirate spit
still clings to the boat deck

yet she made it

neptune smiles
from emerald depths with charcoal velvet eyes
and yellow teeth as she leans wide
over the railing, cool spume
on her burning face,

“day 11″ she writes in her logbook,
“i can make it before daybreak–” &

“mommy, please”, she says
(chestnut speckles in her eyes)
“can i get a bit more foam?
also the water seems/a little cool now”

.

smiles..a little fun for poetics… we’re writing anecdotes with kelvin today…see you at 3pm EST in the pub

let’s call her Gretel or– you recognize a woman by her perfume

she keeps the last crumbs (dark bread)
in her Gucci bag,
wrapped in a silken hanky
next to Bvlgari’s Eau thé rouge,

(the woman in the Einstein house
in Berne wore it, not well though,
rather on the far end of
whatever you’d call gravity)

she sighs, forest sunk deep in both eyes
& cannelle-sprinkled latte in her hand,
fire scarred– looks at him,

“i find it hard to live with it, still–“,
“Dang” he snaPs “Her or us,
“we had no choice”

“– the scent” she shivers,
“charred flesh, can’t get rid of that”
pulls out the perfume bottle,

—-whiff—whiff—whifF

“redbush tea & pink pepper in it–“

(shoulders trembling)
“there’s no root  though–”

she leans back, a chestnut tree
throws gentle shades on cobbles, bathing
lazily in end of march sun,

“Hänsel, hear the birds? almost like– but

heck, yes, spring–
(she wipes her eyes)

is beautiful in Paris.“

.

Mary has us writing Modern Day Mythology at dVerse today. Take a fairy tale or another well known character and put them into a different setting/time/location, maybe tweak their character a bit…smiles..this is going to be a fun prompt.. looking forward to seeing you at 3EST and hope you’re enjoying the easter holidays

we sometimes miss ’em cause they’re dressed the wrong way

i had a strange dream,
though, each time i retell it,
it falls apart
like ancient scrolls
under the first light whiff of oxygen,

“let’s get out the sub at Bryant Park”
he says, we carry oil lamps,
light’s not yet invented,

& walk all the way to Times Square
in the dark,
“Illuminate New York– that’s
my next project”

we share a kebab– yogurt sauce
drips straight through winding tunnels
blindly following earth’s gravity,
he leans toward me,

“10% is inspiration, the rest sweat”
i’m rather freezing
“that’s the thing with opportunities–”
he nods, “it’s kinda strange” i say,

“in my dream, the necklace i liked most
was just an empty imprint
on black velvet. i realized only
after holding it in hand–
non-existant”

“not yet seen–?”

he takes a napkin,
like a painter wipes
little sparkling stars into a bright,
illuminated path,

“it’s too dark” he says
“and people sleep too much,
doesn’t do them any good”

“being awake & waking can be different things”
i state,

“don’t get philosophical”
he shakes his head & walks back to the subway,

“Thomas” i shout “one more question–”
but he’s already ‘round the corner,

leaving shimmering, yellow dots along 7th Avenue

.

smiles…you may have guessed already that it was Thomas A. Edison i “met” in NYC… over at dVerse, it’s my pleasure to host poetics this week and we’re writing conversation/interaction poems with famous and/or historical people. So can’t wait to see whom you’ll bring to the pub at 3pm EST…