poems of sorts

Written May 15th, 2011:

She Danced.

Maybe this will be the day that I choose.
Today I danced.
Waiting at the bus station.
I was plugged into my music streaming from Africa to my ears.
Cars were parked at red lights watching a blonde girl in a 70's skirt and tennis shoes move to the beat that inspired her.
She was I.
I am her.
That girl.
She inspires you.
You can't help but to smile when she spins, arms out-stretched soaking in the sun in the midst of a concrete jungle. You think- 'she is brave for being free- free to be herself'. I am She.
And I say maybe today is the day that you choose.
Next time we pass and our eyes meet will you hold my gaze knowingly?
Could we share our secret with such rapture, that I could walk away glowing, only knowing that now you are that much more free.... to blow away with the wind if she sings to you.
Like she sings to me.




The way I spit words from this pen is like unleashing racing horses from their pens, all lined up and ready to run though masses of brainwashed citizens- to leave the words empty of meaning. Not knowing where this source of inspiration is coming from other then the raw squeezing of my heart valve, circulating the minutes through my veins. Counting down to existence of 'no-time' a moment englufed within its matrix, a web of dew woven into a drop.  Empty out the mind, heart, soul- fragmented onto paper, the days become like an old record player skipping about in the head replaying, yearning, erasing. (Eating out the forgotten tradgedies- the strawberries and cream of cremation ceremonies.) When I can't seem to love, some more food goes down the valve- filling up the pieces of my forgotten selves- Struggling like the record player without batteries: pieces of my browken dewed-web-matrix get caught in the blood getting pumped through my heart getting recirculated through each new minute untill I slam down a poem with a pen.
Written May 11th, 2011 Bad Godesberg, Germany


Im tired.

I'm so tired. Tired of spitting out useless words reminding myself of what I don't know and the truths' that I've forgotten.
 I am tired of relooping into the same patterns and habits only screaming blindly- to be chopped and cremated into compost.
Why doesn't enlightenment knock upon my door like a recognizable stranger handing me a silver key to unlock the chains I carry?
Maybe tired isn't the right word, but I feel old and young, innocent and raped of some stardust I used to soley be made of.
Where are the triumphing horns of an angel band to wake me up in the morning?
At least can't I remain creatively inspired by the raw motion of life all the time?
I am tired of the reminders I see plastered around this town: that my art is young, and can't grow old unless it lives.
So when I do walk and fall into natures silent conversations- I am finally tired enough
to start dancing with my new friend: Mr. Thorn Shrub.
He feeds me the right attention for the right minute,
and is probably laughing creduoulsly- hopefully rather grateful a gypsy gone civilized has made sense at last!
Did I say I am tired?
It is fucking tiring to hide behind smoke veils, creaing a real hologram of intent to boil behind.
The day is approaching when my water will slither over and disipate this 'smoke' me and
the illusionary, or so it seems- rather pointless way of interacting in the video game called life.
Don't get me wrong.
I am full on who I am...
Life can just be so hallarious to imprision our galactically gree soul-selves into this MEGA-tastic machine called the body.
Yeah. So I am tired...
Of indentifiying with all of this shizzzzzzz
Why can't I wake up one morning next to Enlightenment stroking my hairline, whispering 'I love you' into my heart?
Who says I can't?
I am tired of these words and ideas that tie me into a complicated puzzle of fractured selves- each living out spontaneous simultaneous hazzardous lives.
I am tired of feeling seperated....
My mind from my heart from my gut from my ISNESS.
Lets talk buisness. I am here and alive for reasons spectaculour and I am tired cause my ego shot my angel wings into puzzle pieces.
These are the pieces I use to build my fairy-tale house with, yet when the big bad wolf blows it will tumble and my security along with it. So I'm tired of reconstructing fragile houses and letting them shatter.
I'm tired that I don't have reminders of who I am if I take away the name.
Now...
I realized long ago this is all a cycle matrix game- but I'm telling BIG MAMA I'm tired and I wanna go home!