t28m6

Tage sind voller Wörter, die Meisten davon nie aufgeschrieben oder aufgenommen, obwohl es in einer Plastikhülle in meiner Tasche ein kleines Gerät sich findet, was genau zu dem Zweck in der Tasche gesteckt worden ist. Hier sind die Wörter mit roten Punkten unterstrichen, als ob einer mit einer Nadel und Faden die Südseite der Buchstaben zunähen wollte, sodass sie vielleicht umklappen aber nicht abfallen können.

Ich wäre (nicht) okay damit, wenn sie rausfallen wollen. Immer wieder kommt es, dass meine Meinung sich von einem Faden zwischen zwei extremen Höhen sich schwingt. Es ist wirklich ein Wunder, dass es nicht bisher zerrissen ist und ich mich endlich unten zwischen den Beiden gefunden habe—und zwar auf den Füßen. Es ist ja logisch, dass die Welt nicht in Stein und Eisern, sondern in Sand und Wasser gebaut worden ist. Die Sachen, die in Schachten und Kisten schön einsortiert werden, befinden sich immer wieder chaotisch zwischen den Schienen der Schublade und auf dem Fußboden, wo sie sich an die Füße und Socken und Schuhen von den Göttern klammern, sodass sie wie Nüsse und Samen in Vogelkot sich durch die Welt bewegen lassen. In den nebenliegenden Zimmern ziehen sich die Langhaarigen wie die ersten Hälften ihres Namens und weigern sich dem Schlaf, genau wie die Schafsherter und -hunde, die weit von der ersten Herde an einem Tisch mit unsehbaren Zeichnungen draufliegend sitzen und blau-umkreiste Kisten füllen, mit den Steinen deren Gehirns in der Hoffnung, dass sich in dem Klimbim eine Sonne und eine Galaxie formen wird und die Verständnis dazu.


m6d28.5

Days are full of words, the most of which are never written down or recorded, even though in a plastic case in my bag a small device can be found that was put in the bag for exactly that purpose. Here, the words are underlined with red dots, as if someone with a needle and thread wanted to sew off the southside of the letters, so that they could fold over but not fall off.

I would (not) be okay with it, if they wanted to fall out. Always again it comes, that my opinion swings from a thread between two extreme heights. It really is a wonder that it hasn't ripped by now and I haven't finally found myself between the both—and specifically on my feet. It's logical, of course, that the world is not build in stone and iron, but in sand and water. The things, that are wonderfully sorted into chambers and boxes, find themselves always again chaotically between the tracks of the drawers and on the floor, where they cling to feet and socks and shoes of the gods, so that they, like nuts and seeds in the droppings of birds, let themselves be moved through the world. In the neighboring rooms, the longhaired pull themselves like the first halves of their names and decline to sleep, just like the sheepherders and -dogs that sit far from the first herd at a table with unseeable drawings upon it and fill blue-outlined boxes with the stones of their brains in the hopes, that the junk will form a sun and a galaxy and understanding with it.

m6d22

Genus without species. Knowing that it must be because the path towards has been paved, unless the pavers too were told of a future that might or might not have deposited itself at the end of the road. Folks funnel past, it is still four hours to go before the spot needs to be secured. It's not as though the signage was made with false intentions. The wall curves down in lemon and lime above a television nobody watches, yet more background din to the waves of passengers puttering about, half present, half listless. Waiting. Such a silly game, is it not? Kennedy headlines divide half the desk with outlets—a funny thing to call them since we think of what goes in. Upon even a split second more reflection, it makes sense. An outlet for the electricity that is sent through rubber-coated copper out to be redirected yet further through buckteeth and the occasional tongue to shock the life back into a box that should never have been alive in the first place. The shell woman, whose first name matches that of the misspelled spice, would be writhing under the waves, sawtooth and imperceptible from one another unless the world is slowed to that of great distance or proximity. To be tiny would be to see waves as massive. To be worlds away would be to see them as static. Where is time from and how does it hold itself so confidently? A tiger's mask to put eyes on the back of its head so we may never understand that it turned away from us. I should sometimes like to follow the folks who have found their way beyond time. A few hours to them might be nothing at all. It may be forever. The silhouetted figures, plastered flat onto the walls to the restrooms, have been midstep for what might as well be years. The green circle, always filling itself into nothing around the rounded white square, might never finish turning itself back into a sawtooth wave represented cyclically. The supposed end of it makes it less bearable than the fading tick marks that circulate over and over knowing they may never reach a destination. It seems like it worked, though. Suddenly the pacing leads somewhere and the walker stands not exhausted but content, in a field of green flowers that point down with their singular stalk cradled in two leaves. Find the largest pair of shades you can, false preacher man, with the redwashed boots made pink and the oversized sweater hanging only halfway down your torso over the white lapel collar that made you a nun's son. The National plays as we wait for international flights, one living and one remembered, the main names forgotten already. The flight number I'm looking for has not showed up on the large screen televisions I keep glancing toward. It might make sense to ask after all. There is still time to kill.

Such a strange phrase. Same with congratulations so violent in nature. "You killed it!" "You crushed it!" "You fucking shredded that!"

"You really helped that blossom!" "You really nurtured a goodwilled spirit with that one!" "You gave space for this beautiful thing to grow and provided it with the care to help it nurture securities to counteract its self-destructive tendencies!"

Those sound so catchy, don't they? Keep looking for four numbers, the lotto's around the corner. Everything is half-decided. Probability is basic: it either happens or it doesn't, fifty percent fifty percent chance. Off to find some help, my mind is spinning wheels and I ran out of lamb's wool a few skeins ago. Flying geese.

m6d21


It's off soon, on winged seats. Sucked into screenings, first for the sake of safety and soon after in search of some semblance of sweet sanity, something to do. Seven hours or so, maybe some time less or more, sitting and stopping to stand only to sit again, step to restrooms and sidle beside somebodies who sigh or snore as they wait too. Chances are I could fill a whole book only with the sketches of strangers, but drawing people I don't know, even people I do know, but any people unknowingly, feels like a prodding towards intrusion. There is no consent to being perceived, someone said once. It is a simple fact of existence. And here I sit, alone with my chin on a carpet and my eyelids finding hold or comfort in one another as my body lays stretched up and into my crooked arms that rest the base of their palms on space grey metal and provide a pivot point from which the calloused tips of my fingers can speak about themselves via the strange translation that is a screen and keyboard. How I miss typewriters. How much easier it is to make mark show up when you don't have to force the weight of anger into every press. This is calm. This is possible in the half-wake awaiting sleep. Glasses in the way of tilted heads. The pillow that is the ground. The ground that is the pillow? Energy of hunger for sleep. Wie kann es sein, dass ich hier im Netz meine Gedanken aufschreibe, wenn ich doch normalerweise so arg auf meine Privatssphäre achte? The allure of a collection of thoughts, open and masked for the wide world to see. This is how books are made. Wait for scans one day, where my hands can show how they hold pens better than they can communicate how they tap Tastaturen. This could all use some work. This could all be polished and perfected, the gutters cleaned and the alleys swept, but I've said it once before and I'll say it again now to convince myself in front of this too-clean machine that glows what people strive towards into my eyes and gives them stomachaches: I like dirt. And the unevenness of imperfection has its own beauty incomparable to that of the fine-toothed comb. What is a labor of love defined by? The simplicity here is something I wouldn't pay an extra cent for. How I wish a website could just be a journal, held standing by its neighboring thoughts in time. It's okay to take up space sometimes. It's encouraged to let thoughts do so, especially silently where nobody else is trying to speak. That's the key. The domain was open. Soon the gate will be, and the air will have a passenger filled with passengers all on the way to the same place and their own personal variations thereof. How many are headed home? Away from it? Escaping from, in search of? How many know? Which of them all will be holding on desperately upon their return, how many are holding on desperately now, on their way back while I go forth, pleading with the subconscious and the (in/ex)ternal forces to let them bask longer in the magic of what was and how that could inform the everyday? The cynics are calling for a disbandment of memory in favor of story, one-uppance. They are in favor of never breaking their boundaries again, sitting comfortably on the lawn chair that has sat still for so long that the grass underneath has browned from lack of sun and ceased to exist entirely in the two lines where metal meets soil. The can, whether beer or pop, has its own divot in the ground. Escape confined. I'd rather take the vomit-bags and cramped knees in search of new cloud formations and Pflasterstraßen. I'll walk them soon. First I let a condor carry me in her back. Memories of stork-dom.

m6d21

you knew what I was called, then.


I set my name against the sanded stone in bits of myself and asked the vultures to peck where it lay,

formed in pinks and slimes against the grey grit of the surface.

This same rock I had walked upon once, long ago,

climbing with feet first and hands on occasion,

over reminiscences of ocean moss and wake-tide fungi;

up through a dissipated lake bursting toward downward exuberance

and yet lifting its spirits as we lifted our bodies

until it ceased to exist and we looked into its absence

enamored by the clipped sight of curvature out past rails and tourists.

The side we came up and would go back down was marked by cairns

barely visible beyond a handful on the way up,

all stretched and beaming in full glory on the way back down.

Over crests and ridges, past lesser-known faces

that lean their heads back just enough that they don't snore in their slumber,

where vaporous souls kiss their earthen companions that make home closer to gods,

the same companions that washed our hairs as we held our eyes level to their surface

to see the world with a grey-blue ground.

The wind blows all waves of the pool in the same direction.

What we see is only a segment.

Where we step is an outlined fragment,

with wondrous sights nonetheless, rounding out

the red-roofed mansion catching rays,

but a fragment either way.

Up on the eastern zenith:

the downward sky,

a funnel turned on its head because pressure pushes upward;

angered mothers hold the stone over their children,

this one the angriest of all,

furious enough to push her breath to all sides,

blasting faster than falcons and more side-wind-whipping than sandsnakes on speed;

she knows that her own children have their ankles pinned at her feet

and no matter how hard she pushes,

those piles will still stay atop her palms.

Might as well blow the walkers away.

Take them and lay them out in the shape of their names

first on wooden signs and then sliding down to the rock where they'll stick,

where those few daring birds will find their way up

to the next meal, served on a card with pre-paid postage

for the ones who knew a name once to receive.

You knew what I was called, then.

Didn't trust it when my documents had come back changed, where the ink had

straightened itself out of blurred sight and outlined itself to match the leaves.

The same sound hangs differently in speech now,

raises your left cheek and pushes the light-cover caterpillars together,

their nonexistent cousins, living below the stronger sense,

curl up to the intake. Guttural. Followed by quick release,

levers pulled and floors dropped, planes into rock, passes into puddles.

Hammers into keys. Fists into fabric.

All in the shape of a name.

I think we thought it was yours, once.

I had shaved off little bits of the roundings,

hopefully imperceptibly subconsciously,

so that I could recast it all into its own shape again down the line.

Always prepping a Depression-era hoarder's mentality,

Kintsugi entrails, the vulture's beaks are cast in gold that flakes and chips

with each peck and rip

where pink lay splattered once, cleaned excellence remains.

Life is a messy thing, is it not?

Little bits of self are set softly as rocks on tongues,

loosened consonants in favor of lobed exhalations,

attempts at vocabulary that came about only after the publishing.

Murphy, wherever they are, is crossing off tallies, incessantly.

Over and over we say to ourselves,

"they'll run out of space soon!"

and over and over we see that they have once again

discovered another sheaf of walls upon which to mark their count.

It will spell out something, one day. I'm sure.

A censored something, most likely.
The black box of a classified document,

recording the full score of all anticipated moments

that came to fruition only when abandoned.

A stone without sight calls out the sounds of the farm.

Guessing, guessing,

what else does anyone do?

Vultures are surely hard of hearing,

else they'd feel the cries in their eardrums

beating to the tune of rising clouds and falling avalanches,

in tandem and together,

as they hold one foot on the ground, one on the (st/b)one, and their beak

within and around the meat of the matter.

The fact is, it's all that or energy,

pushed by the sun's smile itself into rotation,

except the undetected holding hands and singing a siren song

we never knew we heard until we tried to trace our longing.

Endless steps, the world was made to be viewed from on high

and out of the thick of it all,

that spot where the air itself sprints for a hug that is best accepted

with open arms and tilted form.

Sail in, sail up.

Kiss the ground where it kisses you;

a name is known in touch.

A name is never known at all,

someone decided it and convinced the others to follow their lead;

and the one who didn't learn to identify,

who instead preferred to tumble on rocks and say hello to static trees,

graveyard frost and gasps over words,

sat with wombats in the stains of one of the few trees he knew by taste,

trying to remember what he had been called, then.