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,

BANG– BANG– BANG–
agAIN– AGain–
until

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

turn

.

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

SCCraTTTCChhh

my elbows heavily,

it is too CLOSE!!,
Damn!!
WAY
too close! just

// B R E A T H E //

again–

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

& 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,
watching–
knowing–

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

again

.

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