got caught in my hair.
But how did he get into my room.
I was sleeping and no window was open.

He was so exhausted,
almost dies from futile effort.

Yes Yes Birdeen, I will get you to the open
sky, indigo, yes yes

Be still a little,

I have to stretch my head wide
out over the window sill
The drop is deep

and now he flies,
his red shiny feathers
and his long beak
free in the indigo morning sky.

Yes I will follow, Birdeen, yes I not hesitate.

I woke up one morning
and my heart was punctured
by your sarcasm too
hard and my love agreed to fail.
The tree chucked off its leaves.

I looked at your profile on
your face-book
and saw one woman,
unfulfilled in her marriage,
waiting for another man.

I know why I have an earache
there hasn’t been enough mourning,
it’s colossal like when mother went
and I’m trying to find fault
with me like a little girl
when the parents die.

I never mourned a love-ship
already I was gone in the next arms
before the present embrace was done.
Now I am those whom I had left behind
not looking back or holding a hand.

My hand is not held and
someone is not looking back.

Please give me the humility and consistency
to receive the good absolute in order
to bring my work into the world.

To you, My Lord, I pray,
for surrender to creativity alone.

So what then your Furyness
that mass of creamy color
with lively buttons right
around there, where
I can make out some pointed
angles,
catishness, lots of it,
You Harry Boy!

So your Mom and Dad
reported that you’re running up some bills
and the vet has no idea what’s up with you.

Sitting pretty on the stoop
and sleeping
of course
another favorite pastime of yours!

I heard you died? You?
Just so? Was it time then,
Harry Boy?

Well good bye then, Harry
and Hello to Mom and Dad

was it all in vain?

Is there an eddy in my heart
that tells me false where I see truth?

Now I’m not from stone
anymore
a sheath uncertain of its spirit.

Don’t you love my poems,
Not dare your feeble reviews.
Black spots are my eyes,
And yellow specs jump out at you.

An fierce intend is my stare,
No compassion I subscribe to.

Why should I!
This is the swamp of well-thought Selves,
Dark is my soul and no love in it.

My heart is soft.
You meant that hope?

Jetzt kann ich ihn sagen, den Tod,
da ich weiss, dass ich ein Hitler und ein Heydrich war,
da ich mich kenn und weiss wer ich zu sein vermag.

Oh so gluecklich bin ich, dass meine Quelle fliesst
und meine Herren mich vom Tod gerettet haben,
Gurus sie, ich koennt’ kein Woertlein sagen ohne SIE,
und keine Szene haett’ ich im Herze,
dem ich die Osterglocken zu weihen ich geboren bin.

Hallelujah zu diesem gruenen Donnerstag,
die Hoffnung kommt bald nach einer Schwarzen Nacht,
doch Mein Sang ist die Hoffnung nicht,
Nein, Gott allein sing ich mein Lob,
Gott allein, der ich und alles Werden bin.

Self