dropping sixteen bars

no text in his hands, he bends his
own beat, leads with his voice,
raps the spotlight, word_kites, the
place crowded, he’s young, the heat
is on and it’s

loVE // LOve // LOVE

that starts with a song and a
dream and Snow, falling slow_ly,
making it CoverThePain, plain, real,
Real_ly you feel the plastified emotions,
corrosion of life, don’t ya? & DEEP_er,
they walk, INject, INTERact

soaring high and their souls melt,
kindred, unhindered into the place,
this space where all the shit cannot harm,
where it’s warm, safe and the
BRACE // BRACE shouts are only heard
when it’s too late already, between fading

reality, conventionality, this is special,
no crying & slowly dying to the past,
to the last fuckin’ frightening experience,
different this time and the song,
the Song plays on and–

it is cool, Extraordinary, particularly
off-beat & dang, it’s just them and
non-conform, off the norm, breath-
less sex when– it gets out of control, who
can tell? shards start to carve
deep holes into skin & soul, they

paint ‘em pink steam with another
dream, inhale the grass that will last
a few hours more when they get
to the core of what matters will smash &
crash on smeared tiles as they lose

track of the way, the stop, the Better_Not,
the blood drunk sheets where dreams
glow & doped nightmares grow—NO!! fear,
HEAR– the song, The song plays on,
multiplied sixteen bars, rapped
with calm breath, controlled heat,
as he bends & blends– into the beat


wrote this after visiting a poetry slam sunday night..was a great evening with some challenging texts..

…and it’s this time of the week again where we rap and throw verse all over the place, where we let our word-kites fly and have a great time at dVerse Poets pub… Joe Hesch will be tending bar tonight…see you 3 pm EST..

sometimes spilled milk deserves to be cried over

it’s the details, you remember,
often not the relevant ones but
those, that don’t
deserve attention really, things like
sun beams, breaking in
an angle of thirty degrees in a
rusty tin can or–

dandelions, puffed like
fluffy sheep the day i fell
into the ditch and landed in
a heap of nettles, lying
burnt and hot on grandma’s couch,
blistering parades marching my skin,
dust scent on the pillow, millions of
dried bread crumbs scattered
on the cloth & i collected them,
with quivering hands,
as if they were important, maybe also
to forget the pain, like on

that sun-scorched, rotten day–
composure crashed & something
hit me in the stomach,

agAIN– AGain–

i crumpled on the road, a pale-faced
shadow, and the red-lipped lady
with the watery eyes asked if
there’s something wrong and
i just ran but it was merely shades

of me in winter, standing
on the corner on the street, i
touch you ’til you spill warm milk
across my fingers and i leave my hand,
enclosed around– you
resting in the warmth, and when
your breath calms down, i see
the school clock dial is broken &
the roman ciphers
far too bleached to read, it

always smells like heat and rubble
even if it rains and even if there is a pane
between– me sitting in the tram to
somewhere, in an undercurrent of
a certain loneliness– passing
Basel railway station and the clock
above the entrance, just a face with
streaks & dots and hands that move
in endless circles– without ever–
going anywhere


today we’re having Karin aka ManicDdaily guest-tending the dVerse Poetics bar.. that’ll be a lot of fun over there at 3pm EST.. and be careful of the streaming you may find below the surface…smiles

because it matters

it’s cold outside, my hair curls
shower-warm and she asks me
if we walk a bit–

(three miles for a cup of coffee
and a piece of apple cake in fact),

so we pencil shades
into the urban winter &

her flight is booked now–

to the land of dizzying heights,
woven ponchos, where they sell
dried lama fetuses on markets &
where tender, dark-eyed mamas
carry babies on their backs to

keep ‘em warm & yes,

there’s longing in her steps,

we gasp for breath (cause we walk
way too fast), our conversation rolls
like balls across the road, bounces
back from frozen boardwalks–

when the words ebb finally, we

let ‘em lying– warm & comfortable
in the ditch, link arms and

with Labello coated lips, we blow
condensing cloud puffs in the air and
decorate our path
with transparent caducity–

just because it’s fun
and just–

because it matters


my daughter goes back to La Paz in her semester break…just for 4 weeks though..
linking up with emily at imperfect prose 

when the house burns down, there’ll be a Z scratched to the side of your neck

I keep lists
of places I would love to visit,
borders definitely worth to cross,
food to try and yes, one day
I wanna sail the ocean with a pirate flag,
enveloping my chest– ha,

by the way I read about that girl,
14 years old, sailing ‘round the world
and thinking back what I did when I was
her age, a sleet of sorrow suc(k)cumbs
me– (seriously) but–

back to the lists again, they’re not real
of course,
just in my head, blinking, changing
like departure tables on a busy airport
and delays are daily business

after watching Zorro, I decided
to add “fencing” and ”learn tango” to
my lists ‘cause both can save your life
(or at least keep you from drowning)
in the greyish pirouettes of everyday

so when you enter through that door
you’ll never know what to expect–

could be I’ll wait for you, epee in hand
and hurt you seriously, french-kiss you
until you wince & moan, your favorite
dish cooked or some long forgotten
tribal recipe, your eyes bound, so that
you’re forced to detect it carefully, just

by its taste, and I will never tell you what it
is – you’re stronger and I’m quick,
the change from swordplay to a dance
is seamless (if there really is a break) I’m
playing tricks on you and when we end
up breathless on the floor,
I’ll lick your wounds (and more)
with gentle tongue– caressing

your face, & stripping off the mask, i
tear my dress, bind it to a broom stick
and then sail us

to an undiscovered place, But– keep my
sword right next to me ’cause things
can change so quickly, shift & crash or
detonate & burn–

when the board blinks
and the numbers



it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse with Joy Ann Jones aka Hedgewitch rocking the mic… gates will swing open 3pm EST, bring your sword, your mask and your pen of course…and let’s have a bit of fun with (s)wordplays…smiles

hana zakari // bloom


he ties her to the rice bed,
wrapping rows and rows
of seaweed ’round her chest,

it’s the time of Sakura,
the days when spring wells out
from winter’s icy hands, skin
white like cherry blooms

he tastes her, sunk
in maiden lawn,
licks salt grains from
her Sake scented skin,
with little pressure

opening warm pores
to drip—
onto his tongue, she

trembles in the
rhythm of his lips
as they make space for him
to blend into her, feasting—
on her rawness,

doped & enveloped
by sesame seeds,
musky streams
and drunk–

for days


this is a magpie tale

..and the cherries are not really the point

it’s a rainy day &
biting cold bleeds from the road
into the car,

my route runs straight
along the wall, i


my elbows heavily,

it is too CLOSE!!,
too close! just

// B R E A T H E //


ratcheting up the window, i think
of the waffles at IKEA,
whipped cream–

& cherries in the color of a sun,
that dips his hips into the sea
at nightfall–

still can feel the sweetness even though
i didn’t taste, i’d
love to–

weird as it sounds,

i stand there,

even if the customs agent waves me through,
even if they don’t ask for my passport,
even if i’m dying on the road,

there are borders we should never cross,

i’m gonna find a river somewhere close,
a bench to mourn the possibilities,
and that should do,

(still breathing)–

with a piece of chalk, i’m drawing lines
across the pavement, then
take off my shoes &

hopscotch through the world
i know, and know
i need to–

get to know myself



over at dVerse we’re going to cross some borders with our pens today… and it’s my pleasure to tend the poetics bar..  see you 3pm EST

she can(s)

the wrinkles ’round her eyes
are tiny pools,
seething with steam & concentration,

and her hands are quivering
as she takes the dipper &
pours syrup over juicy towers
of mirabelles,

the deep red sealing ring,
a pulsing vein,
swims majestic on the vacuum rim,
stretching cheeky nipples,
almost like a lizard’s tongue &

builds a bridge to summer,
wrapped into a bowl of
limpid sea


over at dVerse, we join the imagists, jump over there at 3pm and learn a bit more about imagism with Victoria Ceretto-Slotto tending bar

you don’t cook in such kitchens, nor does humphrey bogart show up

on the billboard
‘cross the grocery, she,
red dress, heels (Hot!),
soft toothpaste smile, He,

blanc-bleached shirt,
Easy/ Humphrey Bogart style,
no hat though and
can’t see his eyes,

toasting in a spotless kitchen,
silhouettes reflect in a
glosS Polished cupboard &

i scan their place for
dog eared cookbooks,
stained with splatters
of my favorite dish and

chocolate corners,
bitten off the cake & laid to rest
next to the microwave or
dusty jam jars which
still smell a bit of
sun ‘n summer peach, I’m

reaching for my heels,
pour a glass of red wine, the
pan handle drills small holes
between my shoulder blades as
you lean forward, hiSS & Kiss
me passionate, elbows greasy

from the butter I forgot to
put back in the fridge, smearing
honey on your lips and
lick the sweetness, (doesn’t go
with the wine though),

coffee filter for a hat— we get
quite close, and you MoaN hushed
as I, with dish detergent,
dripping fingers start unbuttoning your shirt,
tracing bread-crumb trails
along your neck, (they’ll lead me
further –) &

putting on the the fins, we
jump into a bubble bath of gurgling
foam waves in the sink, dishcloth
for a sail, the floor gets
dangerously slick, binding beads
of raisins ‘round my hips, agravic howl
as you float over me, and–
for a moment wonder if i just don’t fit
into their rinse-cleaned target group
for ads like this


this is my entry for OpenLinkNight at dVerse, hosted today by the marvelous Natasha Head – join us 3 pm EST when we open the doors for poets from all over the world to flood the place with verse.. 

25 & breathing


we live
under the surface
of a dream,

smoking marlboro and
riding waves to freedom
on a seahorse back, we

frenziedly inhale
the deep blue ocean
with a fictile lung,

breathing tiny bubbles
and our lips turn pale

as if oxygen would leave us or
as if deep waters would take over–
as if sharks would smell the blood

hissing flags against the fear,
we’re kissing in the dark–

with salty tongues and
sea weed in our hair


Andy Rojas has written a review on my above poem, you can find it HERE

She’s a Lady



i see her from the bridge,
death loose around her neck,
nah, excuse me (Start again–)
death hangs (more or less relaxed)
over her arms or even
wraps around them (snake-like),
eyes– expressionless,

she walks the river Seine,
oh– can you picture her?
there’s spring under her steps
(no, we can’t see, but Feel it, right?)

maybe it’s morning or, more
probably, the afternoon, and
in the folded layers of her dress

i sense another stream, much more
immediate and deeper, but of course,
it’s hidden, most of us

will pass her on a sunday,
smile politely, busy,
circling ‘round the dog piles, hang
our cleanest summer thoughts into the breeze— (maybe this far)–

five meters down the bank,
she’ll be forgotten & instead

we think of foie gras on a light blue plate &
hushed piano bar musique, that opens out
into the Ganges
(this is Really out of place here, oh i know–)
but the human mind goes
wandering sometimes—
wandering untapped,
uncharted, Un_


Victoria Ceretto-Slotto has prepared a fabulous poetics prompt for us over at dVerse…gates swing open 3pm EST.. and the above painting is by columbian artist Fernando Botero…he’s def. worth, checking him out..