It’s onehundredthirty hours to Beijing

a lonely wanderer in the vineyards above basel - maybe on the way to beijing - who knows - ha

a lonely wanderer in the vineyards above basel – maybe on the way to beijing – who knows – ha

.
“so You don’t have such tied-tight-to-the-base&(i draw circles in the air) dreams?”
“nope” my colleagues shake their heads
“i thought everyone — i mean“

it’s re-occuring

there always is some kind of date,
i need to go/to be somewhere//on time
but cannot find my scattered, sorted, stored away or
just bored in the wardrobe hanging clothes or keys or–

like this morning as i want to leave for work,
rucksack strapped already to my back
“ugh, my headphones”
then the little “will allow to navigate my phone while biking” bag to bind around my waist
heck where did i–?
just-in-case gloves?
the slow-motion blinking cateye for my bike

before 6 i ran the stairs a thousand times already,
slightly out of breath
and late
&L aaaAaaT  E!!

“we can psychologically generate a proof-tight profile of your mind now–”
says my colleague
with a twinkle in his eyes

this morning someone told me the sky above Beijing is yellow
from coalfires breathing giddy through a million chimneys

&the picture hangs tight in my mind
like an autumn-storm-torn leaf caught lazy in–
it’s resting
in itself or
in the licorice soft swaying wind

&who am i to tell

“so what about Your dreams?” i ask
all the thousands spreading crawling miles into the northern capital,
3000 years of history tied to her back

the leaf blusHes slightly
context-loose– vermillion-shy
puts his head into the wind’s caressing amber breath

&exits at
Yonghegong station

.

 

for dVerse

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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

.

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

 

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

IMG_4485
.
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

.

todays theme at dVerse is “flashbacks”

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
“heck”

“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
“i–“
“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

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?”
“oh,

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
ssshhhzzhhh
i buy curd soap
“60 cents”
“thanks”

to exchange my shower gel, shampoo&
scrub-me-clean-cream

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

“excusez-moi–”

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

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,

wordless
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
embroidered
cross-stiched
longing
lips

.

 

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…

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
&i

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

//removing

.

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…