Hey stranger...

If you want to know what I am doing -
you'll have an answer before I will.

If you want to know where I am going -
we are dreaming of the same place.

If you found the answer -
I would like to say hi.

To the illusive stranger in Koln Museum

You look at the works
that tend to be art,
twisting the lines of fragile thighs,
Happy in ignorance of bittersweet tart,
of own artsy appearance.

(entered 12/27/05)

(I recall this beautiful girl appearing and disappearing in the halls of this museum. I think she was there with someone, probably her mother, because she kept looking terribly bored and terribly beautiful at the same time.)

Meditation

It's nice to have the time
to be, oh, self-distractive
and wrestle with the brooding thought
Like puny Goliaf, resist the temptation of being active

and writing in black ink
instead of seeping broth
of dreams at night.

and on this note,
as always, loose the battle,
get up and scribble more
of ever toxic thought.

(posted 12/27/05)

Fools (or few words on explaining poetry)

What poems are but things that sound pretty?
They let in few, escaping prying eyes.

For some they are descriptions,
what a pity!
For others -- nonsense;
as for me it's dice.

A handful of the day,
with dash of midnight movie
A touch of morning brownie and spice,
I throw in the cup with blinding fury
and hope of a win or knowledge of demise.

What follows is the play of other nature,
The audience presented with this blend,
Free to decide if lines contain adventure,
Love, boredom, the irony or "trend"

Reactions, quite remote in conception,
In turn come from the reader´s own game;
A handful of the day with dash of last reception
A touch of morning brownie and fame...

And this, what fools! we call communication!

Sitting at the Barns and Nobel

I would like to have these words published
As a little satisfaction of own vanity,
as a cry of my own to many idle
as a whisper to many who still listen.

I would like to see myself open that little, thin book
with no more pages than I have thoughts
and realize that I haven't read this one yet.
I mean, I've seen it plenty of times but now, I think, I understand.

I don't blame myself for having petty desires
for, I like to read my scribbles out loud.
What sin would it be to put them all on paper
on one of the shelves of an endless bookstore,
quietly, very quietly
so my friends would finally get some peace
of not being forced to read scraps of paper
or neat print-outs
when they have other things on their mind!

For this reason alone this will never happen.

Poetry, Prose and Things Decidedly In-Between

How many times
have you invited your friends
to try the food in your favorite little place
that you tend to frequent for some senseless,
or rather sense-full reason;

because you like it?

When we happen to like a tiny Chinese restaurant
on the out-skirts of a loud city
we seem to forgive many inconsistencies
in the story of our devotion:

dirty napkins and the deadly potion (in the third jar from the left).

And suddenly, you realize
that you´ve turned into a busy-body salesperson
of your own dream to others.

And with some luck someone will stop you,
and make everyone dream out their own lives.

...

Some ideas are worth forgetting...