i swear, they camouflage their faces– some have crooked teeth–

they hide// behind the earth’s
soft smell of musk &sweat that builds
a cushion between my back and rucksack

as i bike towards my workplace
sun’s not yet up
but the humidity already wraps moist limbs around my chest/hips–

“what ya doing?” i confront them

“giving you a pause–”

they’re all messed up

knees skinned, crashed upper case
“is it the heat?” i ask

last night
my husband stole my blanket in his sleep
&i lay with the night’s hot/humid breath

against bare skin
while packs of dogs barked outside in the dark

behind the veil a bunch of words play
“catch me//if you can”
stretching weirdly into apostrophes, accent aigu’s–

i cross the bridge
just as the sun crayons the sky into a melting sea of paint

“it’s going to be hot again” i say
but they have disappeared

as loudless//as they came



for dVerse… Dog Days of summer…


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



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.


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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

a rose

that just starts climbing


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…


“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”

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


“you refuse to get up?”

*driP dRop

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


Rosa says “you may do that'”


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


at dVerse we’re writing “monsoon” today