on to Deutzer Freiheit station in a vanilla nation

so I can pass the steps of deeper conversation,

make the snaking underpasses and bridges

over the Rhein as lilac skies and cranes melt

through cardinal blurred nine lines drifting by.

.

I still remember that May, and what I may have

left for dead. But here I drift past the vented pastel

blue Tetris of an architectural Brahmin’s vents,

stunned because I notice the facade for a first time.

then Neumarkt and my past transgressions are old.

.

what am I reciting and what is its worth? the pages

keys to what never worked, now traveling by station

and missing the other nation. this has all happened

before, and here I finally decide it won’t anymore.

there is change coming Colonia, I will abide by it.

Flute Salitos

Sixty boom boom rocks glasses,

title fight oxidations screaming

eight by eight everything-you-like

movements to spasmodic doom

and all day not-your-momma’s

wit in whimsical beat changes.

Crazier live than recommended.

Launders stuffier by chemicals

and the fumes carry through

heavy clouds roiling, and lightning

citations benefit copper-coiled fun.

We are woolly electric receptors.

The buildings have their pressure gradients,

the weight of wood on stones, stones on

steel girders, girders grunting into concrete.

The buildings have their periods of settlement,

there they topple into surrounding walls,

stitched up by giant star washers, cleaned.

The city named for calcium clinging to pipes,

the post-haste was an inevitable retreat

across the river Rhein to stable high-rises.

The work here, brightening nights for money.

Midnight oil burning like my trapezius,

boiling like the deep knots in levator scapulae.

The massages I have given like semipro flips,

the time I invested in myself washed by the

Kalk Post street cleaners, 6am Thursdays.

And then a meaningful quote:

“I dream the dream of living the life

I am actually living today.” I dream

of the stitches in concrete, the glue,

the sinew of sarcastic ineptitude.

I am here today in spirit Spiritus.

Amnesiac words

strung together,

meant meaningful.

But often forgotten,

punting present to past.

Fighting for the beat, pigeons roil among themselves and their vibrations seeking scraps of grain, spoiled fries minimally covered in mayonnaise, and breadcrumbs laid by the caring passersby. A cooing male is in heat and recommends his beatnik beatitude to the dying heat as the pigeons ponder his poverty among the dying heaps of grain sent out by unworried onlookers.

„heaven assumed, shoulders high in the room.“

corner precipices frames for elegant exoduses;

concrete renascence for genesis recklessness.

hearsay, ending’s a pathogenic parthenogenesis;

drunks otherwise ride wee woos to wastelands.

my hands are tied, my feet are bound, but history

fills its pages with dances out of sticky situations.

my fear of heights prevented ever reaching them.

running water and vomit piles out of the gutters.

falling numbers calculated, splat of panic, voices

of reason boiled over and frothing at the mouth.

Stickstoff whirls in sticky situations, boiling over

the hands that feed into her hetero anonymity.

another fish in streams of feigned indifference,

we caught each other in shallows just scraping by.

this is another lyric of liquid, so let the words flow

slow before they gain speed back to the atlantic.

we have a metaphor now, begin bender Bäche

and the tangled messes they weave in my future.

there flows a certainty even if you don’t see

depressions in the canyons of trickling time.

ages of you, linework in the stones we’ve occupied,

sediments piled on each other over the years.

they reached such heights and only now

as they are eaten away do I recognize

that even if not time wasted,

water will not flow higher.

her shoulders high.

figure, thin and veiled under water under power

by an electrodeposition. her figure, her flowers

come to fruition... wonder if those reflections

do describe what is missing -- a shower head

visual like psilocybin residual films over faded

sight? then what, her blooming in the curtained

stage? her hair wrestling waves, locks tangled

in knots and naked as she came? dear, to me.

dare me to oversee your oversight for clothes

at your side, no routine guise tonight.

dare me to undress you, not make do

but take flight past boundaries you face --

kiss you on another side.

poetry books before blank pages

(struggle to write while life

struggles through lifeless lies)

but with these words we sympathize

while begging at her pale feet

for mercy and merchant’s dreams.

„what sale makes away with a whale,

what investment will sift through?”

I will write about you soon. Just know that it takes a surprising amount of time and devotion to write something happy. It takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown, but perhaps it's the opposite with writing.

fear & love & negative energy & character dilemmas & lifelines & cheating on tests & darkness & fear & love are real emotions & spectrums are deniable & zeros & shove it up your ass & die now & where do we go for questions & why aren’t we righteous & happy & why don’t you show me the way? And I saw the way the trees frowned down with the branches wilting in the snow, long leaf pines prideful of what hung low and fell. And I saw the women smiling for philosophy and how their votes casted candidates in favor while ballots flew out windows like needles browned by death or old blood. And the nut job spoke to me last night, signing theories in my dreams about death and cell life and eventual death and loneliness and death and gunshots and death and snakebites and backstabs and death and stranglings and god and death. struggling with fear & love & exhaustion & seven & eight & nine still in diapers & crying about the wage gap & job & the people that seem to forget & the callousness & the tyranny & water leaking from the tub & blood leaking out of cuts & not sleeping enough & something better. And I’m reminded of better times sometimes. How we walked around lakes looking for strays and somehow I wasn’t troubled or confused. But those were simple times (they were then) and then we look to the start for advice in newspaper articles written by old cronies sipping gin at 8am before word counts. And I went to bars and hated myself while counting drinks for self hate as if the more I drink will satiate. I remember hours of counsel, sitting silent for the hour.

Feel like a 24/7 fuck up. Fucking tired of it.

support littering the floor, bed boards worn but wanting more as they’re pieced together. smells of sanity, wet hair and Incredible Things every time they snuck upstairs for reckonings: cheers to beginnings. it took time to recognize emerald hours blurred past forest ways while sliding north by northwest, his stale cologne lilting with train car’s cyclically opening doors and he never wanted this more, nevermore. incredible things in Cologne, Köln, alone and always wanting more — this fear in store for the goddess of the windy streets, that woman he met once, lost once, then met again! this was his best friend! hurt her, wanted her, but guilty of hidden black and white life and irrationality for his own inadequacy. and here I find myself at her very door! Lenore, nevermore an afterthought, never thought I’d stand at this spot, never thought she’d be there laughing by my side, in café crawlings (her hidden face or awkward waves) as I consider my previous genocide. mistakes mismanaged but ethics for the modern day! she sleeps with both eyes open, dreaming of a better way and better day. cold hands but warmth coursing through her laugh, amazing this can be a cold war aftermath. paean the no longer lost cause, beyond bold to hold her. we’re blessed with waterproof lipstick and heartbeat mystics as records skip. s-bahn u. u-bahn. her head on my shoulder, this is the woman I’d live with, grow older for. and welded lips soldered images to memory. we spent the day together, her body pressed to mine, light as a feather and mind a mine — heavy with overhanging earth and gold inside, something worth my tunnels and collapses that rocked her ground down to its torn core. on the sofa and held, rocking back and forth as returning trains slide south by southeast outside windows fringed by emerald planters. but is there reason here if she doesn’t trust and never will again? (her rerouted ballistics, heat seekers that return when warmth rises) and this can’t be underlying, as with cold war cronies keeping tabs on mistakes (past actions.) something here though, better than before, and even if there’s war it’s worth her.

hints of green, rims of blue, a mirror seldom spoken to and posters on the walls call notice to circled cities as veins burst and blood bustles in and out as traffic. (city slips to bedroom maps) (city switchback aftermath) glimpses like blinking rims in stolen mirror flashes, her varnish steals smudged color and the trucks pass her hands while cold winds draw red to ghost-faced sarcasm. (city of this resettlement) (city or Augusta Ubiorum) this fiendish foul play for hunkering in old bunkers and sliding fingers through patterns of twisted stems. rough patch Alleluia, blooms below grimy overhead handles.

will rewrite (will) well written rewrite. still trying to get to my say, mayday for heyday and "hey" for another day. close calls and loner walls, social falls for those indecisive and fleeting (whose words have no meaning.) summer flavor for beatings, no, sign language leanings and empty handed explanations overseen.

I can't sleep any more, so I guess it's back to the downswing. Fucking tired of my own bullshit.

so cold, so bold, silver stinging sinuses and razor blades sinking deeper into baths of reminders so gin jiggers can gibe at gold.

'used too much'

used to match tactics

with singsong whip-poor-wills,

their offensive antics rupturing eardrums

and quieting interest for those dearest to them.

now this is no lie! nor false alibi or excuse,

for in all exile and denial (more to lose)

we find bruises in finest truths.

omens in souls departed,

"look into my eyes, be bold"

for kisses then had no truer hold.

come out of hiding in writing

and identify poor timing.

frenzied fanatic, lost images

now music for nervous tics.

insomniac bird.

I've been lying to myself. I know I've screwed up.

white noise and binary, light poised but primary failsafes fail when codes crash photo libraries. corrupted portraits as codes scramble, contacts cost countless questions and no right to be jealous now that images can't look back. "I held them in my hands; her breathing in series and serious smiles for blue eyes." tickets and tickets and tickets, lost mine and cost ratios lying as their worth rises with low availability and time to fly.

Rodrigues solitaire, or a thrush, thrusted into Hydra's Solitarius and mapped across our stars. flightless eyes ever downward, territorial but an island coward -- their bezoars ground blades of war. dodo bones loaned to stalagmites, endemic and left to die without flight. marrow breached and eaten, forearms cracked and wracked by beatings then hunted to fleeting extinction so stars could gain and lose names. they fought amongst themselves and their world was against them, even the stars forgot their station.

halfy holy, wholly halfy and a nap sack, church brochures glazed in plastic wrap tossed in summons to acrobat past naps. choirs roar for eighties morning suns, criers tear for notes sung from guns. leaden eyes of the left alone aesthetic, recognize the "poor girl alone" isn't synthetic and how hectic is this mess? "leave this be" so they can regain harmony, these lyrics singed and stingy but she bleeds poetic.