i wish i knew what the guide told the old man in a wheelchair in arabic

a confession’s in the way you break//
from things
or in the search
for new//born //shades//
——————-a scent or language
just how far you dare to—

at the Paul Gauguin exhibit yesterday
thousands of visitors
echoing from white state of the art walls,
so stylish “see–
is that the one they sold for 300 Million US Dollar to Qatar?”

&he sits in his hut
a nip of arsenic– a quick gulp– survives
useless though how hard he tries

no one buys
his paintings

art’s NoT steRiLe
packed in bite-sized morsels,
tasteful, chic for our tongue
to lustful lick its—

you can’t hang it
on a wall inside a palace
&forget his bent shape
when he heard his child is dead
how good he got
with lying to himself//the drinking

i know none of this
as i bow over a canvas too big
for this room, tough to handle,
&around me sand, paint, brushes, mason’s trowel in my hand
there’s hardly space to move
sticky, sweat

builds on my forehead
as i switch on the hot-air gun//pszzhhhhzz
almost vomit as the scent spreads
blistering the paint

because i’ve heard//or seen&feeL

a milligrain–

————–of something


over at dVerse Anthony has us write confession

despite a measle epidemic//who could kiss him//not

the pattern of today,
sewn half-way in my face
blisters like old wallpaint

thick threads,
cut loose the garment
as i walk

along the spree
deciding to get lost

on purpose
velvet patches understitched
all pins and chalkmarks
on my chest,
a thin worn fabric

as he serves
radicchio with grapes and walnuts
weather beaten face
a brown hat
“thank you”

“some fresh mint tea?”
“oh that would be great”

on the neighbor’s table,
jesus in blue jeans leaves,
bearded, long hair,

steps onto a sea of traffic&graffiti//held
by flat fell seams&fibres, mass-produced
in weird zigzag in a sweatshop down the road
of yet

another strand of sweat
repair-glued//madly kissing
i– a desperate traveler,

the very core of kreuzberg& the wind’s



hey… just back from berlin…
&over at dVerse Anna challenges us to break out of our routine a bit – for example by using vocabulary or phrases related to one subject or idea to write about another… doors open at 3pm EST…

if you put your good shoes underneath a painting table— right

painting workshop in munich

painting workshop in munich



the walls in the hotel are paperthin
if someone would have sex next door–
you see// there’s just the murmuring
of a tv though
&i should concentrate on other things

the nite before i left
i crumbled

as i always do before a journey
his hand on my hip/holding me together
“you don’t have to go”
“i know, but–”

there are hens outside my window,
&i eat their eggs for breakfast
patches of leftover snow

i text “can i get a hot-air gun for christmas?”


&here’s the proof
that bitumen can sink a freight ship

what is left
is sand and blue—some waves

that don’t know anything about me
tar chunks
glued heavy to my hands

“what ya need it for?”

but that’s a secret
like the shrill containers on the front deck

what they carried?

“you’ve no idea” i say to the beach
which rolls sandy, like a pouting cat
against my toes
&there is paint
—————-even there

you just//
———–can’t see it


for OLN at dVerse... i’ll be a bit delayed with my commenting as i’m driving back home from the painting workshop in munich today…. see you then…

the subtle strength of flowers (–or the duet we never sang)

one day the paint becomes too heavy
for the wall
&i test scripts

tucked safely in the gaps expanding
with each earthquake
& the cracks in our mask move with us
keeping illusions complete

“so you grew up in the ghetto–” says my daughter,
dinner plates still on the table&

matter of fact,
you have to be quick
to catch it

but in many ways i did
the sense of not belonging
neither here//nor there
i need no reminder
the cost” i say, coal&dirt under my fingernails

we were worker kids,
our fathers dying with a bottle on their lips,
the doctor’s/lawyer’s/banker’s offspring
neatly brushed&bathed,
next to me
in school//lacoste-stamped shirt

smelling of cigarette smoke,
crashed hopes, my parents fights last night

the skin etches one molecule
at a time
i learned like mad so one day i might manage
to escape

“i didn’t know this” she says, arms
nestled around my chest

&maybe i’ve grown out of it
like snowdrops pushing with a tender stem through frozen soil

i clear the plates away&scratch
a fork across my skin,

we’ve lost our capacity
to count /but

maybe there’s still some camouflage
that needs



lines in italics by my fav poet & friend Brian Miller…
&we’re inviting everyone for a little knightly joust today… smiles

over at dVerse (the prompt is already up when you read this) we’ve posted two poems & we ask you to grab one line, either of Bri’s or my poem & write your own poem, based on the line you chose…
have fun – and – see you later…

of jakes, dragons&the magic//of a kiss

“in these houses” i say
“lived knights– close to the city wall &–”
we walk
towards basel

cathedral, stories//
stories connect fragments of the things
i’ve heard&read

tsshhhk //tkssshk/sLLshh
a set of axes//knives — in front
of him a pendulum
across the parcours,

he stops
to their rhythm, stePs through
his eyes//betray him
as he bows to kiss//
———————her hand–

my daughter says
“and they were emptying onto the road”

“that’s true”
—————-“the pest”

“they had to sign a code of honor”

“deep wounds but–
—————–they were resistant”

“so, how do you know?” i smile,
“a fear of dragons?”

all of him,
————spread open
——————-on his face,

&i don’t dare//     move

in my hiding place,
————-up on the tree

the flickering of a lance,
spectators shout with pumped lungs

“LaN-ce-Lot //LaN-ce-lot”

they chant
———when they’re gone,

i sit in silence
this odd sense of electricity
as moonlight pours itself over rooftops,
on a basilisk’s sharp claws carrying the coat of armor,
cobble stones,
my toes

they both knew
from that first day in the rain–

“they peed in bowls” my daughter says
“and someone had to empty them”

“you never knew if they’d come back”

my fingers run across the branches,
gargoyles with stoneblind eyes
—————-keep watch above the sundial
&i close//my lips,
the magic of the kiss

still on me


we’re celebrating our change over week at dVerse with a medieval tourney – so the prompt is to write about knights, costumes, games, art, courage – all that fits the frame of the time back then… doors open at 3pm EST…

i buy my white in 2(point)something liter buckets now

twelve lines in// brush thick with paint
filling up the corners, a window frame, soft wings
of the nose&giant trees grow
on her bare back// fragile like

a turtle-wrinkled sky& black-rimmed glasses, breathing
in a land, chockfull with spices of the orient,
she smiles away, the day
has wrapped himself in silky ribbons
grinning from a spire, one foot slipping to the edge
the other—finding hold in a gargoyle’s grim face/spitting

on my palette is a map of undiscovered spots,
a gurgling tune
as the infusion dripDriPdRips into her vein &someone says
“she’s still alive” //i don’t believe them

over at dVerse Björn has us write 14 line poems with a volta… doors open at 3pm EST…

it looks pretty ragged//aluminium foil, the time stamp says 2184 //&i think really// deutsche post has messed things up

the painting i was working on last nite - half-finished - will change quite some things still but thought i'd show you some work in progress.. smiles

the painting i was working on last nite – half-finished – will change the one or other thing – but thought i’d show you some work in progress.. smiles


the soil has given up
on nurturing
&they’re producing scents in big tubes
spanned like cobwebs across cities with no ends,
the air is nice & fresh though,

snow resorts
a beach, huge seas with artificial fish
tickling your legs as you dive in,
i’m sure at least you’d like this

no more traffic jams,
a union of a sort of octopus, choking their inhabitants
despite the deep cracks way beyond the surface
dad says (in a whisper)
as his hands are wound from work
he doesn’t need to do (they think/but let him)
we’re not too far
from crashing anyway,

i travel frequently/though strictly prohibited/
back to 2015, the old house, you never see me, lost,
bent deep over a piece of art,
paint&palette// set of messy brushes
in the half-dark, desperate
to find coordinates of where you are

&i remember gramma telling me about your dream,
trying to get a ticket for a train,
knowing just the destination,
not the station where you were, but

there are no more trains, the crowds, the noise
&shift of citynames on clicking tables,
dad says the poet Schiller states that
art’s a child of freedom
takes the chisel
in his old hands, beaten up with life

&tries to find time’s face, yet buried in a chunk of wood
we used to fly he says before the wars,
the shifting of the things you knew,
we flew//we could// probably still//but honestly

we never do.


at dVerse Grace has us write poems that read like letters from the future – from a future self or a future grandkid… doors open tuesday at 3pm EST… i’m way early…ha… smiles