the thing with reading books aloud is–

there’s a corner in the night
just a hint of white from the apple of her eyes
behind mascara lashes

i sit on the couch
my husband’s breath the constant rhythm of a sea
within him/ onyx barges /gondolas,
the book, sunk deep into my lap
(as if it lives there) starts with Sartre,

he fell asleep on page 8
maybe earlier, my voice drifting like feathers in the breeze
locked already
in the city’s spell, her scents
and shades
“white” he writes about the walls
“with black tears”

when my daughter was a child
she used to chase me, book in hand
“mom, can you read to me–”
&happily i opened all those secret doors
black bright enamel
our fingerprints marshmallow-sticky
on the page’s white// like snowslush

quivering, i’m washed ashore
with every movement of her waterways
find pieces of me, half-forgotten
&she gives them back
by eating me, with eager blackness

my husband’s breath goes steady
stretching wide into tiny alleys

“find a bar” the author writes
“and still under the doorframe place your order– cross the room
&–” she’s awake with you
in every silent corner

black like insects,
just a hint of white
behind mascara-heavy eyes
i marvel

at her colors



for Grace’s black/white prompt at dVerse

nope// don’t buy a travel guide but ask someone who slept a thousand times with her& is still crazy for her taste

it’s like a city closes lips// around you.
full. red
not yet there
&lost already
in the firm touch on your thighs
her tongue against the gates of
millise/Conds//now until

a world erRupts
&you bite moaning in your pillow
“doN’t sToP–”

rivulets of sweat gather to lakes

across your chest “i—“
on the shore

a sailboat, gondola
in ebony, a flock of doves above san marco square
the sea’s kiss on–

“you sure?” i ask
a million planetseeds / in wild commotion in my mouth
form new&sunspilled constellations

“born/&into what?” they ask
“i dunnoyet”
a moment’s pause like cat paws



then a bent old woman drags a bag of groceries
towards rialto bridge
and maybe i mistake plain sex
for the moon’s wide sea of rains//tranquility//ocean of storm, the bay of dew–

the sun (lush&whole&pink) sinks in the water’s waiting flesh
“she’s gonna drown” i say
with worried wrinkles on my forehead
it is but another region on her jagged chest
that we’ve not discovered yet

&in the losing
she may find

her language


hubs surprised me with a trip to venice later this year…so excited…
linking up with oln at dVerse...

don’t think that i talked really to the wind// he’s a barbarian




the wind brushes cold fingers through my hair
“i’m not interested in poetry” he says
“nor art,
nor anything that feeds– your mind
&i don’t care about
what you would call humanity”
he whispers with thick lips

i wrap a plastic bag into my shawl,
re-arrange it round my neck

“i’m a lover to the sea though” he says
with a winning smile
“the kind of lover that knows nothing about when to stop?” i ask

he wears on me,
hammering his fists into my face//chest
lets the sea roar/dance and spill across my shoes & pants

&salad leaves fly like green/yellow insects from my plate
high in the sky
he laughs//a gurgling vortex in my ear

“oh i can’t even eat in peace” i pout

&he bows low

“play with me?” he asks with a wet seaweed tongue
“oh come on”
my napkin tumbles in the sand
&he points at the little girl with a red kite
“see? she’s having fun– ”

&smiles that boyish smile
i can’t resist
until i run into his open arms,
eyes shut
his salty lips
raw and blistered from the sun
on my bare feet,
up the wet jeans/seams to my knees
“dang” i–”
but he has stopped to talk
&just the sea

is murmuring.


today at dVerse we’re writing form – any form you like to choose –  but tell us why and how – my choice is freeform with internal rhymes – seems like that is what comes most naturally to me

never worry about paintings painted over for the third time

“a painting’s universe reveals
mostly in the margins” i say to my daughter

on the canvas’ flanks
little rivulets of paints, smeared fingerprints

“here was a collage– ” i point out
“it’s no longer visible
if you just focus on the front face

the exhibit is in an ancient building,
wood floor, steep sloped ceiling,
insect-bitten beams, 15th century i guess

“if you observe a painting closely
you will get a 3 centimeter history on every side of it,
written in the hours of deep intimacy
bringing paint to canvas,

here’s a thick black layer underneath– &not a trace left
in the painting–”

life read, untouched from the image
that a person displays//smiling
on the front screen

earlier i baked bread,
grinding spelt & rye between the grey stones
of my wayworn wooden mill,
2 spoons of salt, dash of sugar, yeast,
400 ml water

layer after layer on the sideline peels back
til i’m feeling strangely naked, bathed
in just the scent of fresh baked bread,
blurred fingerprints,
blue&yellow runnels from an earlier decade

“that’s why i never paint them over” i say
some will not take notice, some think goodness,
they should clean that up–

for some though
it’s an only marginal encoded map
to get
the process in the making of
what we call art

or life// or such


over at dVerse we’re writing about the everyday…

if i was Mussorgski, i would write a symphony



they discuss Putin & Obama
heated up a bit, circling round a piece of art,
set up on a table

creativity beats war

we eat trash&electricity
as tiny soldiers make their way
across a paper tablecloth
over a filigree invented script

the gnarly mill shares secrets–

“if you switch off the tv and have nothing more to say
to your spouse, your kid–“ the artist says
“or to yourself?” i suggest

art can be a series of awkward moments

the lady with an eastern accent asks question after question
while i bathe
my barefoot-in-blue-converse feet
in speechlessness,
the kind that holds you above water
in a siege&

later in the old town we sit by the stream,
“we could share a meal” i say to my husband

take his mobile//snapshot
pic by pic of him in front the stream,
how he leans into him

“i’m not much into politics//nor art” the river says
with watery tongue, a wanderer
between a world of frontiers stretching weightlessly,
he taps his gurgling hat// nods

&then simply disappears
just so
in thousand vortexes

around a bend of crossroads


i’m guest-hosting at dVerse tomorrow and the theme is “layers” in the sense of poetry that doesn’t reveal everything on the first glimpse but consists of some layers that give it enough depth to hold more than one thought and make several interpretations possible – mine’s a little snapshot of an exhibition i went to this weekend…

words &ash will find their way– even without map, scribbled by a chinese waiter on a napkin


city on a hill


the birds in front the window chat//casually
leaned against a pillar, smoking cigarettes

& flap their wings against the rain

there are multilayered facettes to the everyday
touch ‘em
tender with your thumb, breathe in&
take a pen—

there’s a scent to every scene
like the painting that i finished last week
which smells heavily of coffee

“will it fade?”

“i cannot promise” i write
“if you buy it, it’s a risk–“
it always is

— the raw and unplugged
that i fall for– genuine

like a woman in the evening
her face cleaned of all make up
red spots, little veins,
uneven– beauty
in the small bumps on her skin
zooming in

i stand in the garden in my jammies, sieving ash
from last night’s barbecue
which will go into a tupperware, from there
into a painting
or a poem

or just fall
onto the raven’s nose
&make him sneeze
or smile

or both


today at dVerse we’re writing about or in the style of the poets that inspire us i love the poetry of charles bukowski and bob hicok – my fav poet though and the one who taught me a lot about seeing the specialness & magic of the everyday is my good friend and fellow poet brian miller… so i just wrote about the everyday… or so… smiles

cops &robbers& –all in between

i’m from thin walls in a worker’s suburb,
a lawn between appartment blocks that morphs
quick as lightning into seas, a lake,
spaceship or deserted moonscape,
campingground & university for cloudshapes

i’m of branches like a cradle
arms and legs, scratched
heavy storms passed,
of a nearby highway where we climb
illuminated signs at night,

i am from stolen fruits,
potatoes we roast in open fires on construction grounds
smell of fresh cement and steeldust in our nose

i’m from a white dress
messed up on the first day

i am endless bikerides to the river
where we play robinson&friday
between chemical drainage and shards,
rescue helper
to a million earthworms

counter of the dots on ladybugs// y’ar highness? please,
is it age you carry sprinkled on your back?
(picture this ina sophisticated english dialect)
most of us survived them

some years at least


where you’re from? is mary’s question for us at dVerse today…