maybe the superpower’s in the hair &no one knows //about the secrets of —

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i grow my armpit hair now, planA
dye ‘em pink —
or green? planB still in the making, see//
the thing

with frames is
that they ship them detached
in  a cardboard box across a thousand bridges, canyons, hills,

i’ve made their bed
in our living room
a hammer next to them, two towels 2quench the blow
‘til someone finds–

a piece of canvas
“this huge10 meter roll is in the way of EveryThing”
&he is right

i take the staple gun
feathers stRETch &sNaP bacK
within seconds TacKtACKtaCk
&sweat runs down my legs

what’s so wrong with growing armpit hair i think, even in pink
“it’s not aesthetic”
&the canvas goes soft as i rub his forehead (very gently)

i’ve lost all fear of handling fragile surfaces
cause that is what it is
a giant frame
a giant something stretched across it

&i take and carry it into the garden, bump it at the doorframe/twice
put it up against a fence
&paint the backside

the idea is,
i’ve read once
that the canvas spans/ tigHTens
as the paint dries
&will stay there
all their life

if no one comes to rescue.

CNL40478

i hear the train in clear nights in my bed

“i’m loaded with thick clouds of rain” says its
metal scented lips, high voltage

&the wind whisks
over half-closed blinds

in the distance barks a dog

&bats fly
round the streetlamp
right in front my window

it’s still hot

“tell me” i plead

“the stories of each passenger that rides you
half-asleep to Amsterdam–
heads sunk on the chest as
landscape fragments cLakClacKcLakClak by”

“i am almost noiseless” says the train
“oh, it’s the wind–
if it heads in my direction i can hear you”

&he nods// bows// just enough to fit
under the bridge
my newest painting,
leaning against the wall yawns
silently in the next room,
stretches limbs
against the wooden frame

“pssshhh” i say “it’s almost midnite”

&a balmy breeze blows
travel songs across a thirsty landscape

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we’re writing trains at dVerse

my philosophy of cutting elephants into tiny slices

they come
across the thames, nile, spree, mekong, the rhine
giant elephants, ears huge like towers, scraping noses on the sky

&grey like raindays

building forts inside the mind “you caNNot”
voices like a dove, a fox, an 8V car, the tocKing of a keyboard
&with thumbs like that of fat mafia dons
press the aorta that runs along neck&stomach

“so—“
they talk a lot
smart like Phileas Fogg
smooth like a McDonald’s shake
believe it // not,
they even paint their toenails red (just so that you would underestimate-)&

often there’s an honest core
a page scribbled in smallprint in a wise man’s script
to get to it

you have to sliCe them (sorry but–)
any kitchen knife will do
fresh peppermint (cause they don’t like the taste)
honey, hidden in a bear’s cave (hey — be brave!)
pomegranate seeds(and even if you have to pay 3,99 for one piece)
black/pink pepper corns, crushed in a granite mortar
in the full moon
naked (nah//i’m kidding)

once they realize you’re not (or just a little bit) afraid
they will cooperate
purr like a cat (ok, almost)
and lick the pomegranate from your hands
cause in the end
it all depends
on how you feed them

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for dVerse

had a surgery on my left hand yesterday and cannot type well… luckily the poem was written already. my comments though will be a bit/much shorter than usually…smiles

 

there’s few things that you cannot paint on actually

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i’d paint music onto trashbins (pentatonic&chromatic licks//riffs)
and on all the fences, hashtags, toilet seats

if people let me, free–

in the presence of good friends (eating eggplants
with a yogurt pomegranate topping from my newest cook book)
in speech, penciling pink nailpolish

onto the tiniest canvas // “doN’t get stuck within a frame” said someone once//
early morning& i ride to work
*lock the bike*pull out the earplugs*undress in the checkroom*

(&even after showering)find cerulean paint splashed across knees &wrists
when putting on my office dress —in the weirdest way it matches the day

&makes me smile//as i badge in

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for dVerse and my words are…  paint, music, bike(rides to work) and free(dom), good friends, pink nailpolish
all packed into 12 lines.. oy

yep i think i’m dizzy// from the use of spraypaint in a closed room

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time’s a set of firetruck-red switches,
tucked in rows of four against the wall
“DHL express to China”
———————–i wave
“good”
————-nods the lady with giraffe-long legs
smiling gently from the ceiling

“fraNtic”
————i would say
if someone asks how i work// or paint
&even cook or–

catch me         //     (with) both hands
grab the hen

——————-&feathers
spill like neuschnee in my uncle’s yard
she freezes in his arms //at last
her eyes dart//black
lunatic flashlights

“slow down”
—————–says the stream
&i’m a heap of fishscales,
drifting on the waves
cramming coins
into the parking meters metal cleft
my earplugs
and james blunt
pliNgpLinG// guitar
put my thumbs
along the song’s vibrating spine, massaging

“can you send the tracking code?” i ask the giraffe
&she waves her black&yellow head
legs pinned firmly to the center of a countrymap
i don’t know the outlines of/ yet–

“mom, i’m eating something”
“want my company?”
“what ya doing?”

i spraypaint one last silhouette on the wooden board,
leaned against a cappuccino colored wall,
against a boy with downy hair
breathing yellow tinted cotton candy balls
into the night
that leans
into the moon /a tree/against a leaf
against

a rose

that just starts climbing

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todays theme at dVerse is “flashbacks”

i so wanted to touch the canvas

"Rosa Parks" think that is my masterpiece so far... paint not yet dry...

“Rosa Parks” think that is my masterpiece so far… paint not yet dry…

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“i’ve never been in one” i say
like i’ve never been
inside a flower/ dandelion seed/a piece of artwork

but basquiat’s sneakerprints are strewn all over it
a monsoon?
maybe —
—————-if you compare the density

i talk to the gallery guy
“they say there was no other artist
who abused his own work as much as he did”
he nods
after rescuing me
from tripping over a thousand swiss francs heavy sculpture
“goodness” i gasp “haven’t seen this–
&just curious” i ask

“how much is that basquiat painting?”
“it’s not for sale” he says
“to give you an idea though – that one over here by him’s three million”
“wow”

in more than one way he was in the eye
of a monsoon,
thickdRoPs//dReads, cuR
ling //hisSing snakes

“i’ve never been in one” i say
“so i can’t judge”

&yet i trust
they reveal more than they cover

“Rosa Parks” the gallery owner says
“so is it about her? 1955?”
&we don’t know for sure but

this is how a monsoon starts

*driP
——-dRoP*

“you refuse to get up?”

*driP dRop
———-driP*

“if yes, i’m going to have to call the cops //have you arrested”

——*dRoP*

Rosa says “you may do that'”

ttttssssssssssssHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhssSSSSSSSSShhhHHHH

&you can’t understand
your own word any more
as rain buRsts
hiTs
the streets&

it poured cats&dogs
on the first day of the bus boycott

“i didn’t take a pic of the one by basquiat” i say to my husband
miles&hours later at the basel ART
“dunno if we find the way back to that booth”

“i think i would” i bite my lips

though the character of a monsoon
is never bi-directional
“let’s consider this” i say

&walk towards the exit

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at dVerse we’re writing “monsoon” today

did you know that gasflames are not red// but blue?

the taste of dates, embraced in deep intimacy
by a slice of hot-flamed bacon
just one piece//
—————–but god//
a deTonAtion on the tastebuds

“i could eat just that” i say to my colleague, seriously–

i look desperate,
like a mermaid robbed of /waves&sea,
in laborpain
//my lips move tuneless as the coaster bends
into another screw//loops–

trails of sweat run down my neck, mingle with the sticky orange lake
where a friend put her capri ice to cool me
“i loved capri as a kid” i say
for just one heartbeat of a summerday
we hang onto all the flavors of our childhood

terrified
that my eyes plunge off their holes i peer
for a slashbreath through my lashes right on top& right
be4

the car droPs doWnwards

like a madman caNkerWorm rotaTing full speed
twisted horseshoe//heartline roll&corkscrew
on the coasters steelshine_
glistening spiNe

&Drags me—-witH him
124 feet high

“this song’s about sex” my table neighbor says
“oha” i smile “i would’ve never guessed that”
“ha”
i  slough shashlik from a metal spear &—
“gosh i’m sorry”
“ah no worries”
working fork&knife in uttermost finetuned precision i ask
“what’s that song about?– still sex?”
“it’s about a big bird// falcon”
“oohhh”

i minimize the mess by shuffling gravy to the center of the plate
so that it doesn’t get in conflict with the universe &–

“i know that one” i say
“we learned it in school in german”
“nice”

the coaster stoPs// soundless//smooth like jelly on an icelake
“not even a minute i guess” says my colleague

&my lips close ‘round the last small bit of bacon, wrapped around a date,
around–
a weird sort of marriage

my pulse
almost back to normal

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we’re writing food poetry at dVerse tomorrow… i’m just early… smiles… was riding the “bluefire” megacoaster at the europapark yesterday… made my bones freeze -ha