The Tour d'Eiffel
the instant-crepes on street corners
the flamboyancy of ridiculously well-dressed men with
Sharp edges to their jaws
-straight, nonetheless.
The tiny legs of French women
the smolder of Parisians lighting the cigarettes
and pressing virgin-white cylinders
to blood-red lips;
Sacrifice at the altar to the temple of seduction,
the utterer of pouting vowels,
the articulator of irresistible romance;
Their Mouth.
Paris whispers to me, in well-rounded, warm-toned
words,
“Chantais pour-moi”
And as my lips form a kiss to reply,
“Oui”...
I am stuck in Zurich, Switzerland at 5:30AM in the morning
Screwed over by the French beauracracy of seat-reservations
No Standing Room here!
My last hurrah jaunt to Paris has been halted,
and I am trapped in Zurich, the prison of
“I-slept-on-a-train-last-night jetlag”
and “I-can't-eat-your-schnitzel” hunger 'cuz I'm a vegetarian.
17 phone-calls later, I'm
on a train to Basel.
In Basel, I ask in three imperfectly-articulated languages,
“Where can I go to eat?”
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sunday April Evening in Vienna -old poem
Summer Sunday Evening in Vienna
It's 8:30 barely...on a Sunday evening in Vienna.
The sky, light blue, fades into night.
The trees have been tousled around by the wind
but a stillness has come over them
and it's gentle-blowing now.
Abrubt as sleep to heavy bodies,
clouds veil the sky in darkness.
You can feel the heaviness in the air.
Little, faraway, rolling claps of thunder
pump the blood through your softly beating heart.
Barely audible for at least an hour, you've wondered
if it was imagination, fear...Until
Now! -Crash!- when a flash of lightning flickers in the corner of your eye,
catching your attention
Given the next few ticks of a clock, on a hot and sunny day that chaperoned a warm weekend,
the clouds have had enough;
They break open with rain.
Rain that comes gentle at first,
pitter patters.
I rise to close the windows, smell the air, rejuvenating,
cleansingthe stone-city below.
I feel the sky 'release' its cloud-knotted tension,
begin its barrage, celestial floodgates thrown open.
It's raining harder and harder...
then SMACK!
thwack! smack! CRACK!
upon dizzy, shuddering rooftops.
The sound of hard, white, crystalline orbs colliding with windows,
exploding in vain attempts to cover the city in white, they melt down the sides of buildings,
of steeples of churches.
“Will it will break?” I wonder. The clatter and crash, the soon-to-be shattered windows,
my thoughts manifest as hand-sized hailballs are
smack smack cracking, throwing their forces into second wave, third,
the army is
hitting the ground
turning to slush
and rinsed away...
Melted by the coming rain.
The trees leaves, softly audible, dance in the howling wind
The lightning becomes only an accepted and expected effect, the strobe-light flashing in the dance-club of this Summer-storm
The thunder is on the level of your heartbeat, of your excitement, of your natural involvement with this miniphenomena of earth
The hail stops
The rain lessens
The sky darkens, a few lightning bolts still flash over the last pink patch of fade-to-blue sky
Into the night-hours, the thunder remains
loudly humming to the electric air,
the only reminder that nature so ceaseless, restless and waiting.
is dangerously calling.
It's 8:30 barely...on a Sunday evening in Vienna.
The sky, light blue, fades into night.
The trees have been tousled around by the wind
but a stillness has come over them
and it's gentle-blowing now.
Abrubt as sleep to heavy bodies,
clouds veil the sky in darkness.
You can feel the heaviness in the air.
Little, faraway, rolling claps of thunder
pump the blood through your softly beating heart.
Barely audible for at least an hour, you've wondered
if it was imagination, fear...Until
Now! -Crash!- when a flash of lightning flickers in the corner of your eye,
catching your attention
Given the next few ticks of a clock, on a hot and sunny day that chaperoned a warm weekend,
the clouds have had enough;
They break open with rain.
Rain that comes gentle at first,
pitter patters.
I rise to close the windows, smell the air, rejuvenating,
cleansingthe stone-city below.
I feel the sky 'release' its cloud-knotted tension,
begin its barrage, celestial floodgates thrown open.
It's raining harder and harder...
then SMACK!
thwack! smack! CRACK!
upon dizzy, shuddering rooftops.
The sound of hard, white, crystalline orbs colliding with windows,
exploding in vain attempts to cover the city in white, they melt down the sides of buildings,
of steeples of churches.
“Will it will break?” I wonder. The clatter and crash, the soon-to-be shattered windows,
my thoughts manifest as hand-sized hailballs are
smack smack cracking, throwing their forces into second wave, third,
the army is
hitting the ground
turning to slush
and rinsed away...
Melted by the coming rain.
The trees leaves, softly audible, dance in the howling wind
The lightning becomes only an accepted and expected effect, the strobe-light flashing in the dance-club of this Summer-storm
The thunder is on the level of your heartbeat, of your excitement, of your natural involvement with this miniphenomena of earth
The hail stops
The rain lessens
The sky darkens, a few lightning bolts still flash over the last pink patch of fade-to-blue sky
Into the night-hours, the thunder remains
loudly humming to the electric air,
the only reminder that nature so ceaseless, restless and waiting.
is dangerously calling.
In The Upper Bedroom of A Vermont Country-House -poem
In the quiet hours of my solitude
the wind whispers upon the orange leaves
of a crisp, clear Fall in Vermont.
beyond this room
mother has woken her children of the night
who scramble upon the algae-covered stones
down the climbing hill
beside the breathing river
veining its glorious crystal life
through the forest
She does not provoke me to sleep.
The open-eyed moon
spotlights my face
beckons the light in my eyes.
The third story
of this house
reminds me no less of home
where I am distant
from the people there
as I am
5,400 miles away.
When eyes are shut
the pulse of the river is heard
It speaks to my blood
I feel still
frozen as glass
and languid
caught breathless in my hope
to hear the sound of silence
of my creator
whom I civilized myself from.
Forgetting the life on an L.A. city-dweller
one can embrace themselves
without consenting time
for its fee.
The air lends me crisp clarity
the boughs of the tree,
forgiveness.
My will is not desiring
to find means
to fill the space
with clutter.
Here
I am closer to the heart of the world
far more connected to the ones I love
than in the condensed mechanical streets of L.A.
and I find myself
for once
standing still.
the wind whispers upon the orange leaves
of a crisp, clear Fall in Vermont.
beyond this room
mother has woken her children of the night
who scramble upon the algae-covered stones
down the climbing hill
beside the breathing river
veining its glorious crystal life
through the forest
She does not provoke me to sleep.
The open-eyed moon
spotlights my face
beckons the light in my eyes.
The third story
of this house
reminds me no less of home
where I am distant
from the people there
as I am
5,400 miles away.
When eyes are shut
the pulse of the river is heard
It speaks to my blood
I feel still
frozen as glass
and languid
caught breathless in my hope
to hear the sound of silence
of my creator
whom I civilized myself from.
Forgetting the life on an L.A. city-dweller
one can embrace themselves
without consenting time
for its fee.
The air lends me crisp clarity
the boughs of the tree,
forgiveness.
My will is not desiring
to find means
to fill the space
with clutter.
Here
I am closer to the heart of the world
far more connected to the ones I love
than in the condensed mechanical streets of L.A.
and I find myself
for once
standing still.
The Ghoul Inside -poem
I see it. Those eyes, that
stare.
I see the features floating in the dark.
Blood and spit
all those things dreamt up
formulated in a groan.
Sk-grwich! It grumbles
low in my belly.
It knows I hear it
can feel my insides making room
for another mouth
to bite at flesh
and cry into the dark.
Thump-ha-thump-th-thump-ha
thamp-th-thump-ha
muscles tighten in my throat
the pillow is kind enough
to gag me.
But I can't reach inside
to rip it out.
Can't starve my body
to create a corpse
to throw out the barbarian
seed
that grows off my roots
and chokes them.
Poison, colored pink and green
tumbles far into the dark
the curves of my body push
in and out and down
tensing to escape
what mistake I made
in looking the beast in the eye.
Density of spirit
Salt-soaked cotton
buries my open mouth.
The ghost is screaming
and grasping
the fragile walls of my world.
Eyes glowing, mouth locking,
the belly has had enough.
With an expulsion of blood
I dispel
and the stains 'cross my cheeks
burn into my skin.
stare.
I see the features floating in the dark.
Blood and spit
all those things dreamt up
formulated in a groan.
Sk-grwich! It grumbles
low in my belly.
It knows I hear it
can feel my insides making room
for another mouth
to bite at flesh
and cry into the dark.
Thump-ha-thump-th-thump-ha
thamp-th-thump-ha
muscles tighten in my throat
the pillow is kind enough
to gag me.
But I can't reach inside
to rip it out.
Can't starve my body
to create a corpse
to throw out the barbarian
seed
that grows off my roots
and chokes them.
Poison, colored pink and green
tumbles far into the dark
the curves of my body push
in and out and down
tensing to escape
what mistake I made
in looking the beast in the eye.
Density of spirit
Salt-soaked cotton
buries my open mouth.
The ghost is screaming
and grasping
the fragile walls of my world.
Eyes glowing, mouth locking,
the belly has had enough.
With an expulsion of blood
I dispel
and the stains 'cross my cheeks
burn into my skin.
The Answers To Your Questions- poem
Because we are leaving.
Because the light doesn't shine
at the same time
on the other side of the continent.
The week went too fast and too deep.
American girls don't know how to use the word love.
He believes our culture is crazy.
Because the salt in the ocean has
stained our skin
and because I can't resist licking it off
He squirms and smiles.
Because this is holiday
and we grow darker each day the sun tints our bodies
the color of lazy, summer love.
Each time I doubt he loves me
he turns to me with those eyes
-centuries old-
or slides his hands around my waist from behind
to nuzzle my neck and kiss my ear.
Because I don't think about his love
when I feel his eyes
and meet destiny in his glance.
Because your media is German
and you sing Californication.
Because Long Beach has a dirty ocean
and Germany has a clean Lake Constance.
And Europeans still believe in romance
and Europeans recognize romance
and he touches me nose-to-nose
kisses me, eyes closed, slow tongue and full lip
under a moonlit sky
while cradling my neck in his palm
and entwining his fingers in the tufts of my
red hair.
Because I'd never seen genuine beauty
in a boy -ever.
Because we meditate together,
he's unashamed of bad habits,
he teaches me dirty Oktoberfest songs,
because he shares,
and he asks me to have conversations.
Because he asks
and because he speaks.
Because 99% in love
is still more than I'd ever experienced before.
Because I let him in.
He likes to shop with me.
He is the best lover I've ever had.
Because he looks me in the eye.
Because dwelling on the future or the past
does no good for the present.
The price of gold is going up
but he wears a bangle
and the hemp bracelet I made him.
Because the music of Yann Tiersen breaks my heart.
Opportunity knocked on my door
and I let it in to dance with for a while
because I made a wish
a thousand times
and each time it grew
until
I wrote it down
cast it to the winds
and he was what returned to me.
Because I needed to learn how to love.
Because I speak german with a french accent.
Because saying 'I love you' after a week
is crazy
naiive
or predestined.
Because I'm included in his thoughts.
His tongue is long
and his kisses taste smoother when he drinks tequila.
Because Red Hot Chili Peppers
made Californians cool.
Because it is hard to say goodbye
so we speak in tongues
and languages
foreign, forgotten and ancient
as our hearts beat out flashing signals
because there's only one day left
and a cafe is friendly
and I can't help but laugh
because
to be sad on our last day
would lose it forever.
Because I would wait to lick the sweat
from his chest a year, 'til he returns.
Because I siezed the days we had together,
peaceful in Encinitas,
we can walk
barefoot in the streets
at night.
There are fish in the sea
and crabs in the sand
and we feel alive
and natural.
Seasalt is coating our bodies.
Because we aren't home
but we belong.
Because we don't always say words
and a part of my consciousness
understands what he says in german.
Because we feed eachother cheesecake
in a hookahbar
with tribal lounge music
good friends, atmosphere,
when we're only seventeen
and very aged.
Because 'kinky' sounds funny to say.
Because we found the winning position.
Because I'm moving to Europe for my own life to continue.
I may find him there
but I won't follow him;
I will only love him as deeply as I can.
Because we don't distance ourselves;
miles will do that for us.
I believe in strong connections.
I'm not overanalyzing,
I'm just letting be.
Because the check-list has been filled with no exception,
and the risk of falling in love is nothing
compared to the love itself.
A year goes by fast.
The future is undetermined.
Right now is 'wunderbar'.
I listen to the wind.
'Coincidence' is an excuse -not
an explanation.
Because I'm not looking a gift-horse in the mouth.
Because the mouth would still be beautiful.
Because we must leave,
though, I'll never lose this place
and tomorrow I'll still smile,
next year is not too soon.
Sensual was explained to me
by use of fingertips.
Because I love you
and I'll never forget.
Because the light doesn't shine
at the same time
on the other side of the continent.
The week went too fast and too deep.
American girls don't know how to use the word love.
He believes our culture is crazy.
Because the salt in the ocean has
stained our skin
and because I can't resist licking it off
He squirms and smiles.
Because this is holiday
and we grow darker each day the sun tints our bodies
the color of lazy, summer love.
Each time I doubt he loves me
he turns to me with those eyes
-centuries old-
or slides his hands around my waist from behind
to nuzzle my neck and kiss my ear.
Because I don't think about his love
when I feel his eyes
and meet destiny in his glance.
Because your media is German
and you sing Californication.
Because Long Beach has a dirty ocean
and Germany has a clean Lake Constance.
And Europeans still believe in romance
and Europeans recognize romance
and he touches me nose-to-nose
kisses me, eyes closed, slow tongue and full lip
under a moonlit sky
while cradling my neck in his palm
and entwining his fingers in the tufts of my
red hair.
Because I'd never seen genuine beauty
in a boy -ever.
Because we meditate together,
he's unashamed of bad habits,
he teaches me dirty Oktoberfest songs,
because he shares,
and he asks me to have conversations.
Because he asks
and because he speaks.
Because 99% in love
is still more than I'd ever experienced before.
Because I let him in.
He likes to shop with me.
He is the best lover I've ever had.
Because he looks me in the eye.
Because dwelling on the future or the past
does no good for the present.
The price of gold is going up
but he wears a bangle
and the hemp bracelet I made him.
Because the music of Yann Tiersen breaks my heart.
Opportunity knocked on my door
and I let it in to dance with for a while
because I made a wish
a thousand times
and each time it grew
until
I wrote it down
cast it to the winds
and he was what returned to me.
Because I needed to learn how to love.
Because I speak german with a french accent.
Because saying 'I love you' after a week
is crazy
naiive
or predestined.
Because I'm included in his thoughts.
His tongue is long
and his kisses taste smoother when he drinks tequila.
Because Red Hot Chili Peppers
made Californians cool.
Because it is hard to say goodbye
so we speak in tongues
and languages
foreign, forgotten and ancient
as our hearts beat out flashing signals
because there's only one day left
and a cafe is friendly
and I can't help but laugh
because
to be sad on our last day
would lose it forever.
Because I would wait to lick the sweat
from his chest a year, 'til he returns.
Because I siezed the days we had together,
peaceful in Encinitas,
we can walk
barefoot in the streets
at night.
There are fish in the sea
and crabs in the sand
and we feel alive
and natural.
Seasalt is coating our bodies.
Because we aren't home
but we belong.
Because we don't always say words
and a part of my consciousness
understands what he says in german.
Because we feed eachother cheesecake
in a hookahbar
with tribal lounge music
good friends, atmosphere,
when we're only seventeen
and very aged.
Because 'kinky' sounds funny to say.
Because we found the winning position.
Because I'm moving to Europe for my own life to continue.
I may find him there
but I won't follow him;
I will only love him as deeply as I can.
Because we don't distance ourselves;
miles will do that for us.
I believe in strong connections.
I'm not overanalyzing,
I'm just letting be.
Because the check-list has been filled with no exception,
and the risk of falling in love is nothing
compared to the love itself.
A year goes by fast.
The future is undetermined.
Right now is 'wunderbar'.
I listen to the wind.
'Coincidence' is an excuse -not
an explanation.
Because I'm not looking a gift-horse in the mouth.
Because the mouth would still be beautiful.
Because we must leave,
though, I'll never lose this place
and tomorrow I'll still smile,
next year is not too soon.
Sensual was explained to me
by use of fingertips.
Because I love you
and I'll never forget.
The American Dream, The American Dreamers -poem
The American Dream, The American Dreamers
words dropped
from radios
and carved into computer drives.
The old speeches, past passion, derisive conditions
subjective and prominent.
echoes of Martin Luther King Jr., Kennedy's Address,
the cries of a country. Peace, Ghandi, freedom, equality.
Pain and hatred.
The great rise, the great fall.
New time passes, jaded and full
with fat under skin
under powder under fashion-design.
A reconstruction of image.
The power of speed, inflection of society,
the stress of parents to raise their children
with abundance material,
and casual ignorance of heart.
Stunning bling. Abundance of of sex, money, drugs.
Drive of desire. The stimulation of constant sound.
Speed, cars and fame; the pace of the country.
The heart-attack smacks
into all-time high
consumer-rates.
The illusion of “living it up”.
Individuality reprocessed and manufactured; Identity
a marketing tool from those with botox-smiles.
Smothered whispers of
a heart
answered with valium,
lipitor, depression medication.
Be careful not to frown, or they'll
pin you down in garments of white.
The TV blairs, shines
a light on our imperfections.
Suddenly we're aware
that we are not the man on the television.
Our identity changed. Our mind rearranged,
forget our born-identity;
buy another.
Our democracy established by E-Hollywood,
debating which icon to mimick or mock.
Our innerworld pulled into anarchy,
but we're distracted from it's governing.
The city-lights are charming and
while the rest of the world is pulling puppet-strings,
we go out each night,
our mind upon the dresser table, our
heart kept in a safe,
our lips stuck in plastic smiles,
forgetting what to say beyond the lines
and stage-cues given,
or that our hearts and minds could speak.
words dropped
from radios
and carved into computer drives.
The old speeches, past passion, derisive conditions
subjective and prominent.
echoes of Martin Luther King Jr., Kennedy's Address,
the cries of a country. Peace, Ghandi, freedom, equality.
Pain and hatred.
The great rise, the great fall.
New time passes, jaded and full
with fat under skin
under powder under fashion-design.
A reconstruction of image.
The power of speed, inflection of society,
the stress of parents to raise their children
with abundance material,
and casual ignorance of heart.
Stunning bling. Abundance of of sex, money, drugs.
Drive of desire. The stimulation of constant sound.
Speed, cars and fame; the pace of the country.
The heart-attack smacks
into all-time high
consumer-rates.
The illusion of “living it up”.
Individuality reprocessed and manufactured; Identity
a marketing tool from those with botox-smiles.
Smothered whispers of
a heart
answered with valium,
lipitor, depression medication.
Be careful not to frown, or they'll
pin you down in garments of white.
The TV blairs, shines
a light on our imperfections.
Suddenly we're aware
that we are not the man on the television.
Our identity changed. Our mind rearranged,
forget our born-identity;
buy another.
Our democracy established by E-Hollywood,
debating which icon to mimick or mock.
Our innerworld pulled into anarchy,
but we're distracted from it's governing.
The city-lights are charming and
while the rest of the world is pulling puppet-strings,
we go out each night,
our mind upon the dresser table, our
heart kept in a safe,
our lips stuck in plastic smiles,
forgetting what to say beyond the lines
and stage-cues given,
or that our hearts and minds could speak.
Taste of Long Beach -poem
Taste of Long Beach
is the rhythm of rap
a steady
harsh drumbeat to break
words in pieces.
bass so loud it deafens reality,
rumbling cars,
loves that beat
their wings against culture.
dances like
fighting, pop-locking,
crypt-walking,
throwin' up signs
of loyalty and hatred.
Justifications
long forgotten.
The feel of a glock
pointed,
pressed against
your
sweating
temple.
The pull of a trigger-
the cry of mistakes
-the expulsion of anger
-embrace of pain.
The streets have tasted blood.
The streets that curve into underground
rebuilt and torn down
like the culture
like each child as
they grow up.
cheek to cheek
between the covers, no heat
or tender hearts.
the taste of hard.
Closed doors.
Faces rubbed against pavement.
Callouses created
in the heart.
Faces, unflinching
and tears tattooed
on skin.
Gangstaz walk in strides,
their legs bent,
hand gripped to the belt,
head tilt, chest out,
fist clench and
lips pushed
out.
Walking to force others
back.
Chest puffed forward
ready to break walls.
Toughness idolized.
Excessive
attributes.
More guns, more booze,
more sluts, more hits,
more money, more kills,
more desensitization than
any other generation
has experienced.
Too hard to melt
tears to liquid jewels
across their face.
Pacific Sea
replacing that need
for release.
The Wind brushes through Her
peoples hair
calling
them back to the waters side.
The Ocean washes them into Her shores.
Couples lost in buzzed amorification.
Alcohol
part of blood
weed
layered into skin.
The salt is grinding in.
CRASH the ocean
waves are sweeping
us into moonlit waters and
out of the unforgiving sun.
the Wind moans
into the night
tying hair into knots
and untying tensions,
kissing cheeks
and beating back the day.
Night comes rolling in
with the sea,
tide breathing
in and out
-and with each breath
it pulls you under.
And they scream into the night
"Grow up!" "Don't cry!"
"Fuck her!" "Put out."
sex and drugs
and violence.
It makes you a man.
It makes her accomplished.
Power
still
unbalanced.
Not between the sexes,
between the bedsheets;
between the cultures;
Between their hearts,
compromising life
for accepted strength,
power,
stereotype.
And someone cries
"The war out there...started with the war in here."
is the rhythm of rap
a steady
harsh drumbeat to break
words in pieces.
bass so loud it deafens reality,
rumbling cars,
loves that beat
their wings against culture.
dances like
fighting, pop-locking,
crypt-walking,
throwin' up signs
of loyalty and hatred.
Justifications
long forgotten.
The feel of a glock
pointed,
pressed against
your
sweating
temple.
The pull of a trigger-
the cry of mistakes
-the expulsion of anger
-embrace of pain.
The streets have tasted blood.
The streets that curve into underground
rebuilt and torn down
like the culture
like each child as
they grow up.
cheek to cheek
between the covers, no heat
or tender hearts.
the taste of hard.
Closed doors.
Faces rubbed against pavement.
Callouses created
in the heart.
Faces, unflinching
and tears tattooed
on skin.
Gangstaz walk in strides,
their legs bent,
hand gripped to the belt,
head tilt, chest out,
fist clench and
lips pushed
out.
Walking to force others
back.
Chest puffed forward
ready to break walls.
Toughness idolized.
Excessive
attributes.
More guns, more booze,
more sluts, more hits,
more money, more kills,
more desensitization than
any other generation
has experienced.
Too hard to melt
tears to liquid jewels
across their face.
Pacific Sea
replacing that need
for release.
The Wind brushes through Her
peoples hair
calling
them back to the waters side.
The Ocean washes them into Her shores.
Couples lost in buzzed amorification.
Alcohol
part of blood
weed
layered into skin.
The salt is grinding in.
CRASH the ocean
waves are sweeping
us into moonlit waters and
out of the unforgiving sun.
the Wind moans
into the night
tying hair into knots
and untying tensions,
kissing cheeks
and beating back the day.
Night comes rolling in
with the sea,
tide breathing
in and out
-and with each breath
it pulls you under.
And they scream into the night
"Grow up!" "Don't cry!"
"Fuck her!" "Put out."
sex and drugs
and violence.
It makes you a man.
It makes her accomplished.
Power
still
unbalanced.
Not between the sexes,
between the bedsheets;
between the cultures;
Between their hearts,
compromising life
for accepted strength,
power,
stereotype.
And someone cries
"The war out there...started with the war in here."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
