the beauty of not breaking when the storm slams rocks into your face

in the grocery aisle i stare into his eyes
all words have fled
except for
“let me hug you”
&i do
“–i’m sorry”

someone with a pallet truck
circles cornflakes boxes round the corner,
we stand in his way, sidDestep//sidE
i let him talk “she wanted to//was ready&–“ the art
of letting go what we can’t hold,
i envy those

that mastered
peace, a weird, wild beauty that in death–

“sorry” a blond-bleached woman
navigates a fully loaded trolley through the narrow we create,
a stumbling block, an obstacle

when i talked to a friend in that restaurant a few months back
“i’m doing good again”
today i heard that cancer hit her for the third time “f–“

&i swim//belly up
dig deeper diving

for the roots of a large tree
which stabilize his lean
into the wind, a home
to bugs, a bird, a spider net

sap on my lips, cheek pressed
against his chest
small dots of hope that spread
a beauty different from

what i have learned yet


over at dVerse Mary has us write beauty other than physical..

as of today you could wrap the earth 7 times in plastic

tree houses

tree houses/by me..


i’m a/game inside a game,
carrying sacks of black ore on my back,
“you want straw or sheep for it?”

i want verbs” i say–

a thief– by nature,
steal ’em from opossums, treehousesteps&roo bags
from the guy on mainstreet who leans heavily forward
&pees against the bus stop sign
i buy curd soap
“60 cents”

to exchange my shower gel, shampoo&

yesterday i learned
they contain microplastic

itsy-bitsy balls that aptly slip
through every filter in the sewage plant
board a motor bike&drift through mile-long pipes
into the sea,

guess what?

mr. fish
mistakes ’em for his main dish

i steal verbs but doN’t
stEaL future from my kids,
have them eat plastic meals,
foil the size of spain
spanned over vegetable fields
swallowing the landscape

“you got wood?
i barter them for four-legged chicken with six wings
barbarian you think?
come one– just profitably smart

a falcon hits
&throws me from the horse


then looks at me with big, brown eyes,

guiltily chirping.


verbs, verbs, verbs… it’s all about verbs at dVerse today… the more, the better -ha – and i saw this report on tv about plastic and that it is not so harmless as they want us make believe…ugh.. frightening… and i really bought curd soap…it is great – ha… &i like the smell.. honestly…smiles

the island’s shape’s constantly shifting

boy with a bird cage.. finally managed to paint him...

boy with a bird cage.. finally managed to paint him…


wind on the islands’s different—
i dunno where to start

a city’s lung
its smoke and grit
the birdcage boy with sad eyes
something in me,

forgotten beach,
my hair in thousand knots
i’ll fly, then board a train– so easy
rent a bike

he’s carried in a storm,
an image of an image in a dream
&i get lost
between x’s
of unsovled equations
in the streets

fata morgana’s are not only born from heat
they’re daughters of the wind,
shift/ed sand
trying to find a/way into the eyes, ears, nose

&pile to castles where rapunzel, dwarves&knights
i ever met live happily as flat mates,
playing chess

on sunday evenings
the wind dictates the game
shaking pawns&queen

“it might be freezing cold” a colleague says
“&it could rain all day”

it could be everything
i think

&let him have his way
biting my ears with ice-cold lips

“i’m unpredictable” he whisp/ers
tender in a way&yet uprooting trees
within me

he’s blind in many ways
sees more

the movement of his lips
whips sand against my skin

with puffed up cheeks
he licks my feet
then throws himself
back out//

into the ocean


for dVerse where Grace’s yet unnamed guesthost ;-) has us write wind…

boy with a bird cage

i don’t see him,

almost in a shade,
a blueprint in a wrinkled corner of–

a woman cycling down the street, with a bag of groceries
her little boy wraps both arms round her hips
she sings for him

sings along the squeeks of trams, horns and the city’s gritty teeth
slalom- ing around pedestrians and parked cars
her thick coat a red flag

whispering of care and dreams and freedom as
berlin wildly slings limbs around my ankles — legs,
tousles my hair with windworn tongue

a tincage swings on his arm

i cannot say
if the bird’s still in it
nothing in his eyes
hints– though

i feel him as he stands

across the street
diffusing lights

throw the strangest shades
upon me


for OLN at dVerse… last poem from my berlin trip last week…smiles

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…