this is not a poem about poetry, nor about my mom’s death, nor about pörfegtshän (or how so. german would pronounce it)

“not all words are dead” she says
in a small voice
legs stretched



the castle in a shiny yellow dress with
golden balconies
for lips

we wait hours
while the sun massages our cheeks with spring

“the way someone can go without a single syllable is—”
things have changed

“you lost quite a bit of weight”
“i lost—”
but then

my limbs are packed with pollen from the day’s first tulips

students on the castle lawn
worship the sun
with wide-spread arms
my skin peels,
–cracking through a layer of make-up

“not all words are dead” she says

&then drops silent

for a felt eternity





time’s a maze
i lean
against its pulse/ing body, ant-like
like the razor’s buzZ as i shaved my head
the other day

we sit on the hosital rooftop
pale/ing fall-sun to the face

the city at our feet
a tower, distant
watchmen with giant wings

my son reads Nesbø

&his skin’s warmth seeps into my pores
as i hold him tightly, pray
“you’re wonderfully made”

and a mighty army’s battle cries eRUPT//lavaHot,
splitting life’s molecules,
for one long moment

time spa—ns
and His arm moves

there’s another level in this maze
a million light years from our wildest dreams//&fears
that none of us
has fully understood yet, rain piles
rears uP like a cobra//hiZzing
alMost palpable,

the tower on the hill
(that broadcasts swiss tv since 1980)
on the flip side of our galaxy/of what we see
(&where we stood two weeks ago)

flashes a red light


my son was at the hospital last week with a pancreas inflammation – they didn’t really find out where it came from – he’s back home now and doing much better – prayers appreciated..


“bangkok drowns herself” she says

&there’s two ways
to paint her —out of millions
by bit

like my steelbrush
whose feathers split
until there’s just one layer left
that cannot hold


“take some pics” she says
“of houses where you can
detect it”

there’s no period nor upper case
some vacant symbols
in the wind

and missing space where you would

at least


ha- my little one is in bangkok at the moment – and my future teacher daughter says that bangkok is drowning itself cause they pump up too much ground water – says her geo prof


i need to learn. to talk. about things

the sky has rolled its slender figure, curled along the spine
to watch the city smile, feet stuck
in deep blue socks

asWe talK about making love
a rooster’s featherdress

glistening madly in the headlights
of all things
that pass or stay
within a certain frame

the thrill–

like drawing
with my newest steelbrush, niGht-
thicK sheets, black impermeability
unmasterable, yet
you think, it is
until the world eXpLodes into a thousand hailstorms, heading t’wards– i

the unmasked// chaos// rough
plain canvas of–

intimacy’s the sum of ink drops, staying,
leaning wet heads on the parchment’s bright,
uneven chest

could be we understand
even without hearing every syllable,  i

(draw a map, throw it away&)
blindFold mine
to make them use their sense of taste.

as they advance


we’re doing this marriage course at the moment – and we learn a lot – at times it’s tough &challenging – at times a revelation – sometimes i wanna give up & run
what i realize is that i really have to learn to talk about things – about everything in fact – and not assume or guess – or think the other knows -or can decode – ha – it’s an adventurous path – smiles

i’m in zürich all day today – so will be making my rounds in the evening…

Manchester, Oxford Station junction, on a sunday afternoon


“why ya drawing these?”
broad smile, neon-yellow worker’s coat

he piles road blocks
to a tower/clock, big ben_ an orange sea,
taller than

the terrorist attacks in germany
that a 12 year old schoolboy asks me about
before entering the bus on Oxford Road
“are you afraid?”

am an island, standing on a diving block
‘bout to jump into a chewing gum&stubble coated galaxy
is something holy
deeply intimate, the homeless’ breath
gets swallowed by the crazy traffic,
face a ragged map i have no right to read

“this city is not pushing you away” i say
but neither woes you

she puts on her stockings, worn, ladder fixed with deep black va(r)nish/ing,
her bricks that (if you dare to draw on)
tell you about history with pink&swollen lips

“so why you’re sketching these?”

“i— causeSheletsyou—”
& that seems honest

“can i have a look?”

he bows low, iN   h a Le  s

with a crumpled five pound note,
rolled into a tube, resoNating
with the hum of trains&stagecoachs, mad pedestrians,
the metal clANk of  cranes
whose wings are cliPped though stand–tall


clinging to his nose
He sigHs, gruNts
as if losing&winning all game of darts at once

i stuff my lines, wiggling, win_
Ding, black& back into my sketchbook,
about the big-enough-to–kind of love she needs
to sMile deliriously satisfied_singing her songs_the smiths
_over the eXhausts,
goThics, redBriCkConcRete



just back from the Urban Sketchers Symposium in Manchester & kinda fell in love with this city

sevenling– to the choirmaster. for the flutes

six countries north of the equator
coffee black as owl wings
arTificial light

“i cannot see his face” is dressed in rags
wrapped in bridge shades, unaware
of how i cRasH,

all–traffic lights are ghosts as i bike by


…a musical sevenling for day 2 of dVerse poets pub’s 5th anniversary celebration – see you there at 3pm EST?

the world is moving– into a 50 miles per hour flat

the room’s an elephant,
scratching its grey&leathery skin along my chest,
sQuishiNg me
into a corner

my mom places words against the walls,
in smalltalk& the slit-eyed tigercat
snores old sophisticated melodies
as if she was a diva on an opera stage


–and sileNce

“i still bake my own cake”

“oh, i–“

a small bed against the wall
“she cannot take her wardrobe” i think
every quarter minute

some weird lines cross
and they both talk, wrapped
in different worlds

“i’m moving in this january” my mom says,
she couldn’t sleep last nite
too excited/sad/unnerved

all the steep stairs
in the old house
into a madman’s dance,
a catch-me-if-you-can,
a french cancan
stripping their shaved and sun-tanned legs
gath’ring uP blueredwhite skirts
a flag,
a detoNation

i start breathing
after 7 hours
after worlds did fall apart
after i held the car door open
for my mom
“you’ll be fine” i smile
and count the headlights

of a million stars


i’m guest-hosting at dVerse tomorrow and we’re writing about emotions – just your emotions – not anyone else’s – using specific images and metaphors, avoiding generalization – and so on… smiles
3pm EST tomorrow…