Saturday, December 5, 2009

ich klage
du rauschst
wir senken weinend
stumm in das Ereignis
der Vergangenheit.
Sie vergisst dass wir dabei sind.
so leise flüstern wir

die Namen der Wasservögel
die schreien

habe ihn verneint
gab er mir,
Welt und Himmel.
Verrat ist denen nichts,
sie haben seit ewig gewusst
meine Zukunft

Friday, September 25, 2009


The bird calls with long voice
along the valley's deepening rift,
darkness pours in
Carrying the sound beyond its echoes.

Away, away
until the source is no more

Decay touches the wing,
strokes gently the feathers.
They are going into the ground

There is no refrain,
no repetition without destruction

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Die Warheit

Werdet nach und nach
Neben mir,
sizt sie im Zimmer,
hält mir die Hände.

Ich schaudere zurück,
schaue aus dem Fenster.
Dort spielt der Nebel -
die Zukunft erstickt.

Sie wächst,
das Zimmer wird voll,
ich kann nicht weg.
Nehme die ausgestreckte Hände,
schön, hart, reich mit Blut

der Jubel fängt an
die Einsamkeit wacht auf

Thursday, September 3, 2009

It begins.

Standing at the edge of a deserted gas station, der Wind ist stark. The plane of the world narrows and curls up towards me. Thickening dust mutes the colors into brown, gray and gold, and the horizon grows black. The sun is blinding white for a moment, turning the dusky grass bright, but the encroaching storm is spinning, gaining speed. Its orb becomes a slit, then a dull yellow smear like the one course of light in the corner of a dark painting.

I feel how the storm is rising, about to break. I run stumbling toward the gas pumps; I need something to hold onto.

There is a woman there. She is tall with gray hair. Two men drive up in a jeep, park and get out, joining us at the pumps. They begin to speak to the woman, but I cannot hear what they are saying, only that they are speaking Spanish. They are tourists from Spain, and wear matching white shirts, jeans and white cowboy hats.

"Was wollen Sie wissen? Ich kann euch nicht verstehen!" she says. Then they turn to me.
"Deutsch?" I ask. "English? Italiano?"
"No. Espagnol."
"Que quieres?"
They want to know when the rain will come. No, when the storm will come. When will it start?

The question is absurd; it is already here. The wind is deafening and I can see nothing beyond their faces. The woman has faded from view, perhaps she has even been swept away.

Still, I struggle to answer them.
"Yo creo...Yo pienso que pluir pronto. Muy pronto. Si, Si. Es commence ahora. Si! Es viene!"

It begins. The world is cracking and falling apart. Something like rain, but thick and black and painful, is rushing and swirling on all sides. The sun is but a speck. One man grabs me, carrying me around my waist. They put me in the car with them, and it is silent.

Monday, August 24, 2009


For some reason, I had never obtained or listened to Opeth's debut album, Orchid.

It is so beautiful.

More later, perhaps.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

A Plateau

Sometimes, I dig up the past. And with it comes up tangled the pasts of others. Some were not in my past, but in my present, but still their memories mingle with mine and muddy the water so that we cannot see through to the next moment. Some were in my past, but are not in my present, and their rotting teeth threaten the now, desiring so desperately to cling onto my now uprooted memories. And unseen, the monsters of the future lie in wait, ready to entwine themselves with the rest of use, and choke what potentiality remains there. To those who were there all along:

This is desolation. All that could have been. I have killed so many possibilities, I have shown no mercy to a multitude of presents and futures. And the past shows me no mercy.

These eyes are so big and hollow. Gaping in desperation - they wish to be fed.

Monday, July 27, 2009


Hovering on the edge of madness, it feels like being sick. Every sound is close, hammering on the inside of your skull and every smell is a headache that tries to escape in vomit. Faces and lightbulbs shimmer, vibrating with fever and you wish you hadn't waited until the end to make your reconciliation. All your memories are on fire, threatening to explode if spoken, so why not just let them be your ash pit...

This is the lethargy of summer, and the premonition of painful reawakening. What demons of guilt await the mind that has been lulled to sleep? That the demons should never come is the greater fear, for their absence would signify the fundamental rupture with oneself. We keep the past alive, secretly longing for that night of vast sufferings, when the wolves will rend limb from heart the justifications that soothed the uneasy rest of sloth. Howling as they consume the poisonous flesh, our attempts and endurance and eternity reveal their mocking mortality, delighting in their status as victims of time. What will remain when they have stripped us of all we thought was our creation? Human thought is but a mass grave.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Click Clock

There it goes, the time.

I am a wasteland of hours, years and months.
All their accumulated garbage in a great stinking pile
that refuses to decompose,
to become something else, better
A bowl of rice the future can eat.

But it just grows, the past.
Bigger, taller, dirtier, fouler
Sinks deeper into its own slime
Bits and pieces and memories get more indistinguishable
but never recede.

Up here, the air is bright
and the future shimmers like heat.
I would never make it that far though -
this landfill is endless
and I have too many treasures here.

Monday, March 9, 2009

I don't understand

One day I hope
I will be able to show you
I am alive.

The difficulty is thick,
clods of dirty ice
I long to smash from our hearts.

I do not understand it myself.
And then it bursts upon me like April!
in a single moment which cloisters itself
in my breast.
- a deep and timid secret, it fearfully hates
the callous human intercourse -

It is like being stabbed,
as the hot blood rushes to my face
and pools in my chest.

The small upturned face asks,
"Why are you beautiful?"
And I want to cry:
I am too weak to say,
"Because I love you."

(Cupping your cold heart,
I gently part my lips
and breathe softly,
until I weep with exhaustion.)

Tuesday, January 13, 2009


Standing outside the club, I handed the security guard my driver's license. She handed it back to me, saying, "Den kann ich nicht akzeptieren." I asked "Warum nicht? Mein Geburtstagsdatum steht schon d'rauf. Ich bin 21! Lassen Sie mich rein!"

She responded only more cooly, "Ich kann nur deutsche Ausweise akzeptieren."

Suddenly I had everyone's attention. People stopped dancing to crowd around the entrance of the club, trying to look at me, wanting desperately to hear what I had to say. People on the street stook awestruck as I began to shout -

"I know - Ich weiss dass ich keine Deutsche bin! Ich bin nur diese einsame, alleine Amerikanerin, und du - " I began to sob and scream - "DU! Du hast mich nicht angenommen, nicht hereingelassen!"

I took a deep breath. Now I would tell them. And they were all listening. I would make them understand, in a grand soliloquy, the depth of my loneliness. Then, they would fall into madness and exalt me as a goddess.

Opening my mouth to begin, rejection became something from which I did not want to repent. So my soliloquy became a choked cry, as I ran outside and disappeared into the black shadow of the Cathedral in front of me.