Do not forget that a poem, although it is composed in the language of information, is not used in the language-game of giving information. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951)

A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state of mind by means of words. Paul Valéry (1871–1945)

body of water

it happened again, this time
in front of a tank
filled with sea nettles and fish
as they sleepwalked all over
my screen, lavish creatures
spilling their watercolors
here and there
dancing their eurythmic names
i too became a body of water
for intercorpo real
webbed in the in between
crowned with seaweed
two blowholes for nothing
a spine dissolving
into a fabulous dream
people, this land mass
won’t hold, it is loosing
to sea 15 feet coastline per year
the time in the tub
my breath moving continents
and kingdoms of fluvial foam
rising and sinking and
rising and shrinking
when through pipes
i could hear the whole
universe sing
until the pling of an email
forced me up for air, too fast
when is ever a thought
announcing itself
not the rudest intrusion?

the vulnerable observer

two minutes in february

for two minutes in total
the sun laid herself
in my room today
a mouth speaking light
are you there still, little one
tired beams, through curtains
of granite, needles and trunk
towards our house in the shade
and across the floor
dust lent her the substance
to be still and again.

struck and unprepared
low levels of d vitamin
no pen at hand
but a half eaten orange
my notebook buried
in a far away coat,
I laid my hands open
palms up
they said
we have nothing to give
and much to wish for.

it seemed as though
she just wanted
a body to dazzle
and on my palms
scrawly like a spider child
in her language of
a hundred silhouettes
she wrote
what a joy to shine, little one.

the vulnerable observer

a couple of loaves of bread

a violin came to my family
as a crime
the crime being
an instrument crafted by
one of the finest á Paris
Sébastian Auguste Deroux anno 1885
was worth a couple of loaves of bread
my grandmother said “a couple“
how many exactly she didn’t know
i think of the roma family
knocking on my great-grandfather’s door who was the baker of his town
his magic more potent
than the sweetest tune and
able to send a herd of howling beasts to rest
for what – two days
how hungry must have been this family to give away their music?
sometimes, when i touch the strings
i hear them resonate
reverberate in me
a violin came to my family
as a crime
for a couple of loaves of bread

the vulnerable observer

exposure therapy

only when heaving this winter stiffened body into another stiffer one
with skins of floating sheet atop
is it that one of the two bodies of water (guess who)

came to feel like a sinking turtle
treading ice buckets
evacuating from banquets
followed by another plunge into panic
in the throat the breath tastes blood meanwhile two swans walk jesusly on water meanwhile seagulls sit first row

where is the floating door for once since hanging on to Rose’s lips
for life support of sorts
won’t do the trick

drowning and thirsting
but both at once because
we are fish
Bowie said
but this fish ain’t swimming
she wakes from a gargling dream
afraid to dive deep
into past into future
haunted by impossible ogres
until the mirror is calm again understanding that you are water
& that water cannot drown
who would I be if I hadn’t been frightened?

No Bird Sits No Where

Left and right the gravel road tower the corpses piled up higher than they stood on their own This is a burial ground
In this country of wood

Why comb it if you can shave it
Clear cut is allowed to the nine millimeter marked number 0240330 and given to all I swallow
The toxins
And there is a terrible silence
No bird sits nowhere
Because there is no where to sit
A little further down
The killing field evaporates with
Freshly cut parts, once whole
Imagine pine, imagine birch, imagine Pussy willow softer than the inside
of your ear, then lie down between
And cover all the wounds face down Light a fire back home and
Puncture the cool with the
Isn’t it good, Norwegian wood


i’ve always liked your name, how you let us stumble loose our bearings
the delicacy of a name so hard to chew at the same time describing weak heel of achilles conditio humana in six syllables
stuttering over getting stuck in the llnnnnnnrrrr of your middle the tongue caught in a loop clinging to the mouth’s roof
in the first third already

be reasonable be sane
you can’t afford to be vulnrrr – VUL-NER-AB-LE!

i like the tender darkness
the humility announced through you oozing and percolating through vul in my ears is
the mouth of a cave
a deep well
a wound reopening

i am the vulnerable observer
reporting live from the field wal in old german is
a battlefield and slaughter ground
wounded journalist
embedded scholar
how does it look over there
(fumbling sound, feedback noise) what can i say
this cave is dark, my headlamp is weak and above all i regret to report that, really, i’m quite scared now back to you in the studio!

the vulnerable observer