It is shortly before nine: outside
is filling up with darkness
night is standing in front of my door and
I cannot manage to get out to her
stars are hanging in front of my window
a moon is climbing upwards
with the help of tightly folded lace curtains
while I, on the inside, am trying to
disperse the blackness with light
this life is taking place
outside of my window
and in the distance
a flash of lightning
is tearing it apart
this curtain of my soul.




Lorca's memories

visit the streets of this city every night
when the lights of the poorhouses drown
the noise of fortune dealers in shiny toys
collecting a future from soap-filled lungs
of little children barely born into the light

that blinds the night and challenges the day
to return to the other side of the bandaged river
that flows below the streets in silent anger
carrying with it the forgotten remembrances
of playful suicides hanging from my window sill

its mantle shines through fragments of night
torn from some lover in lustful moments of grief
the railroad tracks suddenly cry out the names
of all the victims buried underneath without faces
filling space like our garbage is filling neighborhoods

the people here all call their home civilization
built upon glass concrete wire granite and steel
they wash their hands in the blood of the newborn
drying their pale and white bodies in their sleep
while the last cry of human solitude echoes on

one cannot walk the streets of this city of light
without being torn apart by apathy and wealth
enriching the lives of those drowning in boredom
to be remembered they leave their names behind
on buildings for others to see who cannot read.




In winter
                - to the City at the Point

When the color of innocence
is carpeting parks and downtown alleys
the parkways where the people drive
and the driveways where they park
in this city of rivers bridges and tunnels

when the white of an early winter
begins to cover the streets and houses
surrounded by security fences
of a dying and decaying permanence
leaving any observer with eternal questions
of who it may be they want to keep out
and who it is they may intend to keep in

when the white color of this season
matches the red in the eyes of those
rambling along the riverside drive
sheltering their bodies in abandoned houses
finding a home in an otherwise homeless state

then the people with real lives in this city
who own realities and own themselves
they roast their elegantly clothed bodies
in fine furniture in front of glowing fireplaces
discussing tax breaks and latest gossips

they all carry papers called insurance policies
written against the crime and the greed
they took great pains in growing here
they find themselves staring out of windows
onto the large and slowly falling snowflakes
that are on their way to whitening the sins
of those falling down in mainstream gutters
of life and abandoned by a society which is
overfed with giving and caring for those
who have turned into burdens of conscience
threatening their balance and right to ownership.



City of steel

This is no place for strangers
their presence violates the concubines
this is no place for visitors
their stays merely extend the waiting
this is no place for me to be while growing younger.

Growing like the old and empty steel mills
their metal frames abandoned for riches
their rusting coats seeping into the ground
where they mingle with worms
and blood-red sewer
wasted in spills from human growth
and floating down the barge-traveled rivers.

These rivers that carry the names
of long-forgotten tribes and places
washed away by pioneering advances
to steal from those indigenous
who were not able to avenge the loss of self.

A self that now sings and dances
the rituals of old and past
while the boroughs and townships
gather and creep closer together
tunnel after tunnel
bridge over bridge.

There are bridges here for passing
bridges that have long passed
hands and feet and moveable objects
of transport, of markets and of fairs
goods changing hands while changing sides.

This changing has seen a cleansing
too of houses and of buildings
blasting away layers of its darkened past
exploiting the city’s air with its riches
that have long since stopped enriching
the lives of those residing here
occupying a place they refer to as home
while the sand of the hourglass
continues to run away with the future
continues to steal away with the hopes
who have long since been abandoned
and silenced so they won’t raise their voices.





attempted to repair my dreams
see me through her own eyes
changing the border to fit her frame
changing the colors to caress her mood
a luxury for her never-ending sense
of reality and self-inflicted boredom

saw her run havoc with my illusions
piling them on the salvage yard of her desires
wanting more than she could afford
affording more than I could have wanted
a luxury that didn't pay for the feelings
running over, spilling, and flowing away
with the rainwater in the gutters of life.




Requiem for a silenced dream
                - to the clown

There's a slow wind blowing constantly
in the rust-filled city of steel and crime
carrying with it the noises of nightfall

If it blows gently up the slope of a park
I can sense the shape of naked angels with faces
greeting the reflection of a red street-light
in a puddle of blood waiting in the gutter
if it blows across in storm-filled clouds
my soul cloaks itself in gushing waves
hanging from the sea of tranquillity
in shrouded rags of dreams and visions

I denounce this slow and constant wind
that is rustling the shiny flight feathers
of a quivering arrow protruding
from the heart that could not escape
the battlefield of dehumanized passion
reminding me of this aged and dying world

Of the senses roaming through the spills created
by those wearing fortunes made out of perfume
while the pounding of flesh in secret bedrooms
continues to chip away at my pierced heart
my eyes being picked by the woodpecker
whom you hand-fed my poems like morsels
worthy of devotion and fermentation

My left eye entertains the thoughts
that are filtered through the tatters
dressing my renewed artistic suicide
while my left hand is reaching out
for the right breaking its fingers and the pen

There is a pair of petrified eyes lurking at me
from behind a camera lens crowned on a tripod
made of the legs of lost little puppies
attempting to capture the fervently beating heart
that is held by the paw of a kitten
just recently crushed to pieces by a car

Its driver was entertaining thoughts
of stealing moments from a woman
clad in briefs made of rosebuds and photographs
held together by barbed wire and purple strings
carrying my memories on a scalpel's blade
ready to cut the throat whose words remind her
of the past in her future that she dismissed
shortly before midnight while the gentle wind
shredded the final pieces of an elusive dream
on the altar of dust and unwilling patience.





I came here in order to live
and left
my death

already cold back then
still icy today

like coffins
dressed up so nicely
framed in wood and
eager to take in

waiting, patiently waiting
for your graveyards
and my final home

waiting, eagerly waiting
for a time long gone
which is escaping the future
dressed in lies
again and again
and which, dressed as today,
is disappearing in the present.




Running away from shadows

It was yesterday or
perhaps already the day after tomorrow
when I was running away from myself
like a rose attempting to run from its thorns
barely managed to tell myself "Be careful"
so that I would not get caught
in thoughts of too much freedom
and while doing so must have
once again one more time gotten lost
I felt like the louse
that had let itself in for something unknown
that had moved in on soft silent steps
attempting to recapture its life
only to find out at some later point in time how
so sponging, so completely overfed, so drained
I was stared down by my own reflected image
grinning at me from the mirror of my soul
showing me an enemy I had not known
and then, frivolously laughing out loud
it gulped down my freedom, belching abruptly
while seeking cover under your fingernails
like the dirt seeks cover under the fingernails
of those digging graves at midnight
on graveyards where every tombstone
cries out the epitaph of broken futures
lying buried in masterpieces of cloth and wood.




I am outside
so totally far away and outside
is, of course, not inside
I must remain outside
remain in order to
learn from afar
this inside

must experience
what decides here and there
just that and so far
so deep inside of it

am experienced
through this and that and past and
so deep inside of this outside
and then again
so totally without sight.




Dream moments
                - for you, and Greg Brown who provided much more than a mere idea

Part I: The Dream

You were the artist in the life-size picture
                sitting there beside your broken dreams
all the things we had always wanted from you
                were lying there beneath broken schemes
I thought I saw a lustful want in your eyes
                blinking from lonely fields of longings
but that was just an illusion that is now
                drifting away in stolen moments

This time I did not say anything foolish
                simply kept on staring at your eyes
looking straight through you and into my own soul
                where past had signed its roaming vengeance
When you turned away from the sterile sofa
                and crawled over to my open arms
I could notice my dream in your waiting pose
                drowning alive in stolen moments

Part II: The Reality

Your flower garden is no longer blooming
                the petals have fallen and decayed
while the old moon is shining from high above
                onto hearts whose beating is dismayed
one more time we long to travel back in time
                to pictures of childhood memories
repair them and dismiss their old broken frames
                readjusting their stolen moments

Yet they have torn down all street lights and houses
                and the beds of your lust are empty
your lovers have long abandoned your passion
                and even your perfume stays lonely
but if just one more time I could hug your fears
                then certainly we could be the us
would lastly face the lightning in the mirror
                and fly away in stolen moments.




Waltzing with the flow of the sea
            - for my muse (inspired by F. García Lorca & L. Cohen)

Up there in the north somewhere at my coast,
washed ashore, there lies my broken shoulder,
where Death, its pain and sorrow come to cry.
The night's a lobby with millions of stars,
a place where seagulls and doves rest to die;
there's a heart that was ripped from its body,
now it gushes its lifeblood to the sea;
a soul remains, restless, waiting to fly,
it's longing for one lasting dream to fill.

Yearning lets it cry out in utter lust,
oh I want you, I want you, I want you,
on a rug heaped with rosebuds of desires,
in the forests among rocks, trees and dirt,
in a creek filled with stones up to its banks,
in a cave of lust that love's never seen,
on a mattress where stars have been dancing,
under a moon that has broken its wane,
in a scream filled with ripples and hunger,
in a sigh that is bridging life and death.

Then taking your hand from my broken pulse
and guiding its beat straight into my heart,
dancing with you to the tunes of the sea,
wearing the moonlight's disguise on your breasts.
I shall fill once more the depth of your eyes,
then marry your dreams and bond them to mine,
and you'll sweep me away with your beauty,
so that I'll yield to the storm of your thighs.
The scents of roses are wild with your thirst,
you've chained their petals in stolen moments,
and now you're dragging their stems to the sea
to bury the wounds of age-old memories
and give birth to a never-ending light.




                - for the poet whose heart continues to listen

Passion like this
will die eventually
crumble into the pounding
of the perfect heart

that you hide between
sheets and pillows
while making love
to another beating heart
in some anonymous body

chasing away the pain of losing
a dream that you had never
meant to dream to live
while screaming through the ecstasy
without remembering any one particular scream

The heart between your linens
lying there next to the photographs
of moments you needed so badly to hold
remembers the beatings
of an abandoned infant

the rape of a childhood
and the decomposing leftovers
of someone eating dinner alone
while anxieties of old grow
smaller and smaller every day

leaving nothing behind but
an openness
an emptiness
a vacuum

into which your lover
is pounding and silencing
the heart whose name escapes
your lips in one more primal scream.




Silent movies

The faces of those in anguish
carry their rage in the open sky
where no one ever sleeps
where no one ever dreams
no one

The lust of lovers in sweat
greets the lofty strangers they meet
before they sink into ecstasy
before they start fondling their egos
in vain

The pain of children in concrete
with their heads banging against life
reflects the desolation of their present
through the mirrors of rape victims
so dead

The hearts of those who are broken
unmask their want for warmth
on a pile of earth called home
in a city of night without dreams
so lost

The souls of strangled suicides
gushing their blood into our eyes
drowned reality in a dying illusion
of hope too naked and too frail
no light.



13 pieces of silk

Your soul insists on living
inside your underwear of pure silk
guarding the gate to oblivion
guarding its pretentious secrecy

Your warm and loving soul
does not exist without you
who is occupied with rearranging
the lives and hearts of her lovers

Your cold and caring soul
exists not in spite of you
it lives outside and next to you
watching you dress in its mask

Your soul consists of stealing
frozen moments from tabloids
hung outside the house of broken vows
where you refuse to know your soul.




                - to the poet and his muse

You took your presence
and transplanted it
left my presence here
with your absence to deal

The odor of your skin
is still vibrating nonchalantly
through the windings of my mind
sailing through the corners of my sea

your words keep on ringing
an old-familiar tune
whose lines I had long ago
abandoned and relinquished

The many smiles of your eyes
continue to sparkle and fill
the absence of your presence
that you chose to trade for a bed

they shine through the darkness
of this space here next to me
like a million stars through
the night's fishnet stockings

The room is charged with your demands
their consequences left for me to bear
like a woman who bears
the child of a lifelong dream

where the child is but an image
of my long-forgotten past
and the woman is but a desire
of a long-forgotten truth

Since all my life is resting
on principles too pure to abandon
I shall die once more a death
destined to release myself

from this burden of alienation
and rise again from my ashes
to dust the empty rooms within your soul
and occupy their emptiness with us.




Pictures of an execution

In the galleries of life and terror
hangs a heart whose soul was torn
from its mantle by victimized trust
the anguish from its bleeding pulse
retreats into the silence of footsteps
too broken with lies and insults

Light dances in the soft dewdrops
burning their past in traces of dust
from dormant desires too strong to live
the heart whose soul no longer lingers
for the tomorrows of you and I and us
withers like a rose without its thorns

The distance of moments in solitude
cannot paint a warming sun anymore
even the moon advances his farewell
inscribing pictures of past and now
while his blood spills into the galleries
where life executes another silent son.




Only promises

You tell your children
to watch the writing on the wall
but you cannot remember
that you never taught them to read

You tell your struggling lovers
to seek help in matters of the heart
expecting advice from a counselor
who’s out filing her fourth divorce

You tell all the world
that this is the country of dreams
but when the refugees enter
you throw them back into the open seas

You tell other ideologies
only your democracy must prevail
you shout your sanctimonious words
and then proliferate all objections away.





Are the roads less traveled
safer in darkness
when shining stars
of an empty moonlit night
graze upon footsteps
of troubling strangers
of lost times

Are the roads less traveled
safer at night
in the shallow vacuum of souls
that fill the void of clouds
where dust and haste find no rest
somewhere up there in an air
suspended between loss and death

Are the roads less traveled
like the chartered routes for ships
without sails and without harbors
like the ring on your finger
satisfying the need to hold
and the craving sense of loss
without a pulse
without a beating.




Enter the Furies
                - for you while you are absent

There is a place in my dreams
where the nightingales no longer sing
where the eagles rest their broken wings
while the swan trumpets its final farewell

There is a place in my heart
where my dreams go to rest and die
burying their illusions under an empty sky
that will never again feel the warmth of the moon

There is a place in my soul
where my future burns love-letters of old
where trees wave good-bye with broken arms
and where the clown sings his solemn lullaby

There is a place inside of me
where my dreams my heart and my soul reside
where your absence visits and anchors night after night
making love to the darkness that has shed its veil of stars.





Those forgotten memories lie buried
in moments of illusions and despair
our insatiable minds stopped chasing
their shadows leaving them cropped up and dark
waiting for color, paper, and for light
waiting for our past to pass them by

All those hours we spend together while
living on, so completely out of rhyme
attempting to pick up traces of some past
which we took from each other and sold while
running from the emptiness within us.



When stars are falling
                - to the night, and Stefan

The sun turns in the light
to give itself to the moon
who captures the sky above
like a lazy bear at night

the dust of a million souls
too dormant for a play in the park
sprinkles murmurs of silence
into my heart lying awake

listening to the deafening sounds
of water floating under bridges of ice
in their rushing river of solitude
reverberating the noises of nightfall

the ice moves the thorns of roses
dried and forgotten on the pillows
of arbitrary sexual encounters
bleeding from the petals their final breath

in moments filled with unduly passion
two lovers ignite in a dying flame
exuberant like stones drifting onward
in the river of night and sleep

the waterfall echoes the whispering cries
of babies left to smile at betrayals of trust
their eyes reflect the sounds of cracking whips
rushing down to meet their fragmented skin

while the moon hides behind naked clouds
their stolen futures rebel against the wind
the wind that carries the children's past
down the alley where the piper no longer plays

his fingers shattered by quiet concerts
of broken violins and forgotten keys
his lips tormented by their vanities
too short to last too mortified to dance





as there are no rumors among the dead
who have crouched their guilt in our conscience
there are no voices left to sanction
the fate of children crippled by the present

it doesn't matter if nobody sleeps anymore
for there are no dreams left to be lived
in a future that is hiding its eternal fears tonight
for fear of losing its tomorrow to the pain

of exhausted souls crumbled on the gangway
amidst the excrements of a thousand footsteps
echoing intrusively through the eyes of infants
left in the cold and deathly silence of a hug

it's in vain to be scared by broken promises
while dumping today in the landfill of tomorrow
out there in the desert where moon and clouds collide
and the sun hangs crooked in a sky of black

it's useless ... so useless ... trying to drink the spice
of dried tears from open thighs and swollen breasts
just as hopeless as crossing the last floating bridge
of murmuring silence on the road to final breakdown

for there are no living hearts among the rumors
of victimized kisses too innocent to die on their own
just as there are no borders and no crossings
in this grand assemblage of betrayed trust.




Private spaces

I want my sleep to return again
to find me dressed in my nakedness
ready to depart into another dream
somewhere between tossing and waking

For I need to breathe your memories
if I ever want to touch an unborn child
like the rose struggling for a landscape
in a sea of thistles and overgrown cacti

I want this sleep to stay awhile
until I can no longer avenge
the hidden longing and this pain
crying out your name all night

For the soul of my abandoned heart
has no purer purpose than your womb
touching the ignorance of burnt candles
only to disappear in their last flicker

Sleep is all I am asking for
not the smile of a faceless lover
nor the skull of a forgotten body
just sleep, elusive sleep.




Brief encounters

I saw time
fly away
it took off
last night
I waved it
and saw it
with rejuvenating youth
upon waking this morning.