in dubio pro reo //

this is not a protest poem against doubts/the moon’s new nightgown, sickness, rage,
not a poem against Anything in fact

except stuff that drills little holes into our bones/undiscovered first/
until they cracK/aMessofShards&all we are
ScReeeEAMs, bREAKs,sPReads arms, face down on the floor, hoPeVersusHope//doNt daRe2BreaTHe
—————— —until the keeper of the clock bows low

in my hand
a white cane, shepherd’s staff, a snake, spade, satellite, a set of missiles, spear, binoculars, a pen–

we write letters
like we did before “Digital”
flow of iNk, a stamp

the waiting

&all afternoon-after-school magazines tumble wildly through her room
glossy mOuth&chest, price tags in three currencies
we couNt &split them
equally, cross checkmarks in a list,
pile paperstacks onto our bikes,

&share the money

friendship. is the sum of thousand tiny things
i say.

to no one. in specific

to the moon and back//with just one tank of gasoline

they burn incense in the studio
&i am a virgin when it comes to piercings,
right ear: 1
left ear: 2
zero in my lips or brow or–

“cutting your frenulum of tongue” a tall man says “will open up
a new dimension in your life”

maybe the woman’s not quite sure
&maybe i’m missing something, but—

“i’ve never been to a place like that” i say to my daughter
“life’s so fragile anyway
and piercing holes or cutting bands designed to hold
things together, hmmm. i dunno”

we’re in the kitchen
side by side, slicing gourgettes,
i squish limes into a bed of avocado
winter knocking at the door with a thick bobble cap
caughing like an old man
while the pear tree starts to bud

“we used to sledge on the hill close to the autobahn” i say
“when i was a kid”

&sometimes i just want a moment of it back,
damp hands and frozen toes,
no internet, not facebook “likes”
just a bunch of kids that hardly knew which school the other went to

now my mom is fading,
like two inches a day
&one day she’ll be gone,

leaving just the scent of snow

and fresh baked cake

“i want no holes in this”

“the piercing guy was getting on my nerves” my daughter says
“i waited outside”

&i nod
as if i understood

the whole weight of the world’s weird journey

.

i wrote this about a year ago but never posted –and i think i just need it on my blog as a diary entry… smiles

according to psalm 139,1-18 or //how Indy got it wrong stating that X–

they were stored (sparkling vermillion)
in the back of the garage already,
i didn’t see them though last year
when we moved my mama to her new flat
after christmas
&we didn’t pack them— still—

in spring she puts up flowers on her balcony,
sleeps middays in the velvet of their breath,
weak/ wrinkled smiles all over&
i could’ve touched

the fading
in her eyes— but crossed it out with thicK blaCk marker, bargain/beG,
wrapped in a camel merchant’s cape//in scorching desert sun:OneYear
—- &He accepts

the bus that races up mount Tibidabo’s crowded, i stand
squishedTigHt between locals, Barcelona tourists,
sweating families, a small korean boy, pale, voMit
spilling from his mouth, his brother staring stressedOut

down the aisle— it is good friday
church pacKed, i touch Jesus’ feet/Chest,liPs
inTimate worShip, sipping red wine from a tiny plastic mug
ruNning his hand along the cracKs—He answers
me in spanish//    outside

on the hilltop, night wears a pink baseball cap
dark glasses, fleece hood//headache
thousand lights/my outline in the pane a shade/
against the moment, face bright_hot,
&in my hands a map where X marks just this spot,
revealing traCes— of his glory

this is not a poem about poetry, nor about my mom’s death, nor about pörfegtshän (or how so. german would pronounce it)

“not all words are dead” she says
in a small voice
legs stretched

converse

tights

the castle in a shiny yellow dress with
golden balconies
for lips

we wait hours
while the sun massages our cheeks with spring

“the way someone can go without a single syllable is—”
things have changed

“you lost quite a bit of weight”
“i lost—”
but then

my limbs are packed with pollen from the day’s first tulips

students on the castle lawn
worship the sun
with wide-spread arms
my skin peels,
–cracking through a layer of make-up

“not all words are dead” she says

&then drops silent

for a felt eternity

in/flammation

smiles

.

time’s a maze
i lean
against its pulse/ing body, ant-like
like the razor’s buzZ as i shaved my head
the other day

we sit on the hosital rooftop
pale/ing fall-sun to the face

the city at our feet
a tower, distant
watchmen with giant wings

my son reads Nesbø

&his skin’s warmth seeps into my pores
as i hold him tightly, pray
“you’re wonderfully made”

and a mighty army’s battle cries eRUPT//lavaHot,
splitting life’s molecules,
for one long moment

time spa—ns
and His arm moves

there’s another level in this maze
a million light years from our wildest dreams//&fears
that none of us
has fully understood yet, rain piles
rears uP like a cobra//hiZzing
alMost palpable,

the tower on the hill
(that broadcasts swiss tv since 1980)
on the flip side of our galaxy/of what we see
(&where we stood two weeks ago)

flashes a red light

.

my son was at the hospital last week with a pancreas inflammation – they didn’t really find out where it came from – he’s back home now and doing much better – prayers appreciated..

traveling//unedited

“bangkok drowns herself” she says

&there’s two ways
to paint her —out of millions
bit
by bit

like my steelbrush
whose feathers split
until there’s just one layer left
that cannot hold

things

“take some pics” she says
“of houses where you can
detect it”

there’s no period nor upper case
some vacant symbols
daNgling
in the wind

and missing space where you would
breathe

at least

.

ha- my little one is in bangkok at the moment – and my future teacher daughter says that bangkok is drowning itself cause they pump up too much ground water – says her geo prof

 

i need to learn. to talk. about things

the sky has rolled its slender figure, curled along the spine
to watch the city smile, feet stuck
in deep blue socks

asWe talK about making love
a rooster’s featherdress

glistening madly in the headlights
of all things
that pass or stay
within a certain frame

the thrill–

like drawing
with my newest steelbrush, niGht-
thicK sheets, black impermeability
unmasterable, yet
you think, it is
until the world eXpLodes into a thousand hailstorms, heading t’wards– i
F
a
L
L

4
the unmasked// chaos// rough
plain canvas of–

intimacy’s the sum of ink drops, staying,
leaning wet heads on the parchment’s bright,
uneven chest

could be we understand
even without hearing every syllable,  i

(draw a map, throw it away&)
blindFold mine
to make them use their sense of taste.

as they advance

.

we’re doing this marriage course at the moment – and we learn a lot – at times it’s tough &challenging – at times a revelation – sometimes i wanna give up & run
what i realize is that i really have to learn to talk about things – about everything in fact – and not assume or guess – or think the other knows -or can decode – ha – it’s an adventurous path – smiles

i’m in zürich all day today – so will be making my rounds in the evening…