galaxy hopping

sometimes, you wake up
from a dream
and fall into a nightmare
(or was it vice versa–?)
who can tell exactly at this point–

i sit with her in Times Square,
she throws lights upon me
like a showgirl, like a whore
who wants to sell me something
i already bought–

my pockets stuffed,
start tearing at the seams.
i fell into this rabbit hole on 64th street–
(after over-running a fair share
of real red traffic lights)

but guess–
the world keeps turning,
mother moon continues on her orbit,
men with suits and ties
walk down 5th Avenue,

and nothing really changes
despite the walking and the scenery,
from galaxy to galaxy, just virtually
on old ‘n rusty railroad ties–

in the end,
it’s texture on the wall
you see, hot tea and
greasy tables in a nowhere place
that get you warm again
and back on track–

did i mention–?
i am bound to leave,
just like we all are &
it happens seldom, but it happens
that you wake up from a dream

Alice smiles
from Times Square towers
in a sea of flashlights
while white rabbit– well really,
we don’t know–


i’m about to check out of the hotel, spend my last few hours in NYC…oh i had a wonderful time here…and then heading home again…so most of my commenting will be delayed until sunday evening… Stu McPherson is tending the dVerse Poetics bar today…and it’s getting a bit nightmarish over there… hope you gonna drop in at 3pm EST and see what he’s whipped up for us..


Manhattan, sunday, 8am

her pulse beats slowly
on a sunday morning
& her make-up peels off at the edges,

sweepers with dark hoods,
pulled deep in their face,
caress her breasts
with short yet tender broom strokes & i
like how real she looks
with all the wrinkles ’round her eyes,

it’s spring, crackles of excitement in the air,
cherry trees already blooming,
& the streets are quiet

as i walk down 7th Avenue,
coffee, cream cheese bagel in my hand,
happy to meet her in her frailty,
feel her breath, exhausted from
so many lovers & i watch her

as she’s waking, pale
between grey concrete sheets, sighing
in her half sleep, take

the last sip of my coffee,
like Tiravanija, i have come to rest &
somehow i’m not worried about being
or arriving any longer, anywhere–


it’s OpenLinkNight again at dVerse and i’m posting from NYC today…smiles..Rirkrit Tiravanija is an artist by the way.. saw some of his work at the MOMA on sunday..

oh and…one of my poems just got published in the Notes Magazine issue #4 so…joy..smiles

shades and moonstains

i’ve been a walker all my life,
between forest paths and dragon teeth,
promises that no one keeps &
seasons in the middle of monsoons–

i never mind much, going step by step,
it seldom shifts, easy in a way,
& tonight i’m folding delicates
in the half dark, yours, always white,
hot wash, 95 degrees, you
never change the color, somehow

comforting & contrasts with mine, mostly
dark, stained with sweat and blood,
even after washing– yet you say: “don’t shower
when you come to bed–“ and looking
in your eyes, i know you mean it– later
you lie warm, sighing in sleep–
soft breath brushes my cheek like
hazy breezes that paint patterns
in the woods as i flee
on my lunchbreak,

“why do you walk alone–?”
lost in thoughts, i flinch, he’s
sweating in the spring sun
on the building site, muscles,
t-shirt, tight and as i pass him in
my business suit, i smile thinking
there are questions,
you can walk for miles
& never find an answer


over at dVerse we’re having James Rainsford tending the Poetics bar with an inspiring photo prompt…and when the gates swing open at 3pm EST i’ll be on a plane on my way to NYC… so my commenting will be a bit delayed..

image credit: James Rainsford, used with permission

there is possibly no pavement on this route

from Times Square to Niagara Falls,
takes just five days and 90 minutes
if you walk–
that’s what google maps says,
also that pedestrian route plans are
in beta phase & that
they give no guarantee–
as if i should expect this, we

stand in the kitchen, peeling oranges,
in fact we have a who-peels-faster competition,
and i always win–

rain licks rusty holes
in my composure & i lean
against the fridge, reciting Pablo’s
“Poetry” with broken voice, in english
first, then spanish, deeper, Deeper,
’til i feel what it should feel like,
being summoned from the night,

my hands rest on the kitchen sink,
to stay grounded while the fever spreads
like ripples in a pool, reaching wide &
wider into distant parts of yearning that
brought me first here, made me
blind and seeing all at once,
as if SomeOne

spits in the mud, rubs it
in your eyes, grips you & loves you
’til you’re lying pale ‘n hot
between the sheets, begging for more

“t’is what i want” i whisper & start
crying cause there are no ways
or i can’t find ‘em and know nothing
’bout it, nothing that
exists, what you could plan &
nothing more than
being all, complete or
lost and drunk on
what invaded with the storm,

that’s roaring wild
under the surface, yet
remains an unwalked road
in beta, that largely stays unspelled,
uncharted— hidden
in the twilight
of the heart


at dVerse we’re partying again and walk that uncharted roads with a pen in hand and nothing on our mind but verse, verse, verse…. so write a poem and join us at 3pm EST when we’ll push open the pub doors..

the frog part is the worst–

you sit on the far end of the couch
& i could reach you easily–
just have to swim through the
wild humpback whale’s

——–g a p I n g
—————-teeth, put on

my armor & slay half a dozen dragons,
hand their heads, (still bleeding– thats important)
to a druid who cooks a kettle full of magic soup,
and gives it to the fairies,
wrapped in pollen– YellowPure® —
(thats the only brand they will accept),

tongue-kiss three slippery frogs,
brush a quivering quaver note with their saliva &
beam it to the old, wise woman, whose home
is deep in the HappilyEverAfter forest,
(& hardly no one knows exactly
where this is–)

i shout aloud: “Oh– I– Can FIND her–”
but you’re buried
under cup sized headphones
& don’t understand what i am saying–

“got problems with your internet connection..?”
(–a moment back, i was commenting poetry–)

“umh– no– but–”
aaaah— i see–

flashes from the black gnome’s fort
(who works together with the wise, old woman)–
thick, blue dust


from the ceiling of the living room,
right above your head–
(it smells a bit–
must be the dragon blood–), i ask with sparkling eyes–

“would you rescue me in case
i was held prisoner by a thousand year old
dratted killer-rose with razor thorns,
tearing your flesh when you come close–?”
(that’s an easy question, no–?)

–and glide dramatically to the floor

“well” — you wink,
cross the room, pull me close

–seriously, i had never thought
that it would be so easy–


it’s my pleasure, tending the dVerse poetics bar today.. and you know…once upon a time, there was a group of crazy, wonderful poets…and…can’t wait to open the doors at 3pm EST..


i’m constantly collecting fragments,
without even realizing,
& they mingle with sleeplessness–
not that i couldn’t sleep,
there’s just no time because
ToDo’s pile like a babylonian tower,

Europe froze & i mean literally–
standing at the tram stop,
waiting for a group, if you’re not fast enough
the tram doors close again & you’re shut inside,
riding on or pulling the emergency–?
a decision, made in milliseconds &
our eyes meet through the glass pane,
trigger pulled– it took me
quite a bit to calm the guard–

on saturday i went to Heidelberg & sunday
took ’em to the mountains, it was icy,
Panama & Dom Rep lost the way,
and i was searching up and down the slopes
for a trace of them, called all the numbers
checked back with the restaurant &
lost myself searching–
like we tend to do sometimes,
becoming part of snow capped fir trees while
our footsteps disappear into the night–

later, frozen in the tram, already dark outside,
head leaned against the window pane–
i would meet them in the Asian place
and all i wanted was a bed, there’s
a paralyzing tiredness in rush hour trams,
& also soothing anonymity

as no one cares for no one,
and i think of silly things like ice bears,
entering the tram– just because i’m tired,
just because my mind needs space
to lean into, what would we do?
would we care at all?

& that’s when all the parts,
collected over several days, collide,
locks break open and my fingers
are not fast enough to type ’em in my iPhone,
dammed up verse, bleeding
life, lost along the way–

& he sits next to me, his soft fur–
felt through my winter coat–
brushes my shoulders–
i don’t run– dangerous or not,
at times you risk that you get torn apart,
just for a bit of warmth while on a way
that never leads you anywhere


at dVerse, we’re going backstage today…and our new team member Charles Miller has prepared an inspring prompt for us and is even bringing Dante to the pub…  i’ve written the above poem to let you a bit in into how my poem “Same, same but Different” developed.. and also to give you a bit of a backstage glimpse into how i tend to write usually…


strolling through Basle Art Museum,
we observed the Masters,
Beuys, Chagall, van Gogh,

but i found
what i was searching
on the half floor,

in the space between–

walking the aisle alone,
it looked easy– charcoal,
watercolor, random dots &
nothing art–ificial,

in the evening on the kitchen table,
fragments of my life,
torn and softened with a bit of oil,
rough on the edges, i–

won’t polish, risking that
you’ll scratch your hands,
take the brush // ArtWork cut
with a potato knife that flows
from Aorta to heart–

humanity, insanity, and all
that’s in between, penciled graphically,
uncontrolled across my skin &
still enough uncovered that you see
but maybe not review so easily–
i throw

letters in the air,
mix and rub ’em on the floor with dust,
collected in a hundred ditches–
see if i can find a place

to hang ’em, dripping
wet with paint, pulsing,
abstract partly, this is i–
encoded & exposed–
(no contradiction necessarily)

but it takes time
to stand with me a bit
in case
you really–

wanna know


brian miller rocks the OpenLinkNight mic at dVerse today…so write a poem and join us when the gates open at 3pm EST..