Dusk of the century

At the dusk of the century,

Waiting in line at my local shrine,

Others look back at what was won,

What was lost.

I choose to look forward.

The dawn.

With hope,

With humility.

There is still more to come,

Before the clock strikes 12 again.

I look in all directions,

But my eyes are glued to the present, the next step, into the future, into the light.

Where do we go next?


Don’t expect. Respect.

Don’t expect.

Don’t expect.

Don’t expect.

Don’t expect.

Don’t expect.

Don’t expect.








You won’t be long.
Looking at the barking fox.
Fox eyes, looking at you.
Smiling into the wall.

I was told, foxes are demons; seductive.
I was told I have a foxes eyes.

Sitting in nature doing nothing.
Just listening to my kind barking.
Looking into a foxes eyes.
Looking back at you.


There is your hand I want to hold.

To give you some warmth.

To give you some energy, to get though the day.

There is a smile on my face for you to see when you need.

Through meditation I can release negativity.

Trust me.

When in pain we try to fuck it away.

With thoughts,

With drugs,

With a lover.

Fuck it right out of our mind.

And what when this is not an option.

Holding it out.

Growing it like a bacteria culture.

Peace with pain.

Life through suffering.

Happiness through insecurity.

Touch the sky.

Punch your god in the face.


To reflects on yesterday’s observation Today:

The first lesson I learned in my 6th live:
Words have meaning.
The first I learned in my 7th:
They don’t have to make sense.

When I first learned writing,
In socialism,
I was thought to write proper.This was a state priding itself in being a state of farmers and workers.
Where the intelligencia does not thwart the simple people.But in school I was taught in best Prussian style to be quite, to listen, to use words properly.
My father comes from a working class family.
I know their language, their words, their curses.
But that language was ripped out of my blood. Drained.

Later in life, when the workers had fortified their state to be workless,
I taught those western working class kids from immigrant families German words.
Not to drain their language, but to enrich them or so I believed.

In reality they taught me the value of working class language.
The truth of simply speaking what you know.
But when I wrote poetry I went for romantics.
Used words of higher intellect.
Constructed higher meaning.
Hid feelings behind formalities.
That was my 3rd and 4th and 5th live.

Now I write in a language learned later in life.
And only now do I have the freedom to write as I please.
Name feelings as such.And enjoy poetry speaking of dirt.
Writing of fucking around.
Name things as they are.

My words don’t have to make sense anymore.
My writing does not have to achieve a goal anymore.
I don’t seek to impress you anymore.
But if I get you today,
I’m happy.
I got you.


Looking into the mirror in a restroom.
Cats eyes looking out of my face, back at me.
Grey mostly.
A little green a little blue.
Blues in my ears singing at me.
Worldpeace through beer technology.
Said the poet in the 90s.
Not me, though.
Just drunk enough to see the miracles.
Just sleepy enough to think back and wonder.
Where are you now?
At home.
What do you do?
Taking care of your kid.
What do you think.
That I don’t know.

The first lesson I learned in my 6th live:
Words have meaning.
The first I learned in my 7th:
They don’t have to make sense.

Hey little girl in the corner at night waiting to be picked up to go home and study.
I am finally relaxed.

I was checked out today.
We crossed paths across the street. One look up and down.
I looked in the reflection of a window there after.
Yeah, I looked good today.