Tuesday

Icicled torments
Red in anger
Burning with rage
Trickling down the caverns
Of my mind unseen

Quivering embers
Of a dying desperation
To capture the raw
To tear the red blood of life
To claw the skin of life
To ravish the soul of life

To torture life’s creation
To crush the marrow of the mind
To wield the pickaxe of death
To stab the ice pick of indifference

Till all that lies gasping
Breathing its last
Is just pure unadulterated life
Embraced by love.

Tuesday morning. 9AM. At work.

Fridays in Marrakesh

friday afternoon in Marrakesh. friday afternoon in the Mauric Spa. i fall asleep on a tilted lounger, to the memories of words spoken in this room, weeks ago. "Relax. Let go. And find yourself, walking through sand, along a path that leads to a pyramid."

so i do. i follow the path in my imagination until i reach the pyramid, this pyramid that was so huge back then. and that now is - tiny. not even reaching my knees. i stand there, in the sand of thoughts, unsure what went wrong. then i remember. "The entrance is open. You walk into the pyramid." and so i do. i take off my shoes and walk towards the entrance. and am surprised, as the pyramid looks so tiny, but it isn’t. i can simply walk into it, and from the inside, it is huge. amazed, i follow the walkway that is shining in golden light. it leads to a hall. “And there is someone waiting for you," is the next turn i remember.

yet, right in this moment, someone gets up next to me and i wake from this half dream before i can see who waited there. still, the picture of the pyramid remains, tiny, but huge.

later, after the last round of sauna, mint tea from Marocco. then finally, i have to leave, have to step into the winter, into the outside reality again. only that i can't leave: my shoes are missing. nowhere to be find out, not in the lockers, not on the floor.
"But where did you leave them?", the Hamam guy asks.
"Outside the pyramid", i answer, and almost can see them, standing there in the sands of Marrakesh, waiting for my return.

Tastes like chicken, right?

It's time

It's time to make the most of each minute. It's time to not let the *** spin it back; it's time to stand stolid under any given attack.

lemonpeel kisses

gigolos bleat, chimes
embrace, canes slumber gladly
planets rattle, bronze

(automatic haiku poetry, first click. not sure how the bleating gigolos fit in, but the rattling planets were just too neat. a second try produced pure sillyness, and a third unfolded in lemonpeel kisses, just a day after Valentine. so there, gigolo.)
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from the archives

Absence makes the heart grow crazy

beating inside a hollow chest—pounding

like wolves on a plain of solitude.

Time dies, starts again and dies—

dragging its broken springs behind.

The twinkling of glass breaks all around.

The night passes in games of Gin Rummy

with long stretching hours. Winning,

of course. There shall be pain for sure

as light lingers and goes on like mad

ticking. Sands add to the pile and

the Sun labors across the sky, drying

the heart that is almost empty.

Ripping it out each night,

it is full again in the morning.

slow liquid

Glass is a slow liquid.
Its flow can be detected in old window panes,
wrinkled and dimpled like aged skin.

The wavy glass becomes a part of the view outside,
its imperfections adding to the sight
instead of delivering seamless invisibility.

But it is not always so transparent.
An old windowpane can be as impenetrable as a mirror,
deflecting all attempts to look inside.

If you pause, though, considering all the visions
that must have passed through that pane,
you might see through to a light within.

A waterfall would not be damaged by
a stone hurled through it. But a slow liquid
in a fast world is brittle and vulnerable.



with thanks to Do, from whose message I took the line about considering how many visions have passed through an old window

Peaking In

Finally...

More to come from this corner.

Check this out for now. Yes yes.

Concrete Fish of Busted Rubber

Und so es geht--die Kugel sprengt.
Jetzt kaputt, but (the memory remains)



And so it happens - the balloon bursts
now gone, but the dream remains

treenity

rainsnow day. sorting me. sorting my desk. as if my self would be sorted when only all those papers were sorted. so i try to find the structure. the system to sort. until i finally move the papers to the side. and instead, try to start the other way round. not with the papers that float around, but with the ideas behind them, the impulses they hold.

those impulses. i try to sketch their connection. and draw little squares. all those little overlapping squares, one for each paper on my desk. that's the paper cloud that surrounds me right now. but then i add 2 lines to it, and see that it really could be – a tree, full of leaves.

and there it is, this thought, that it is winter, the time of leaves connecting back to the ground. so maybe what i need to do in the next days is to let go of those leaves, and get back to my roots.
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