Word for
word

you realize
that

you will
never

write anything
good.

Soliloquy

Hold back the tears,
drop vs. drop.

Quench your thirst,
with memories
of silent woods
and solemn beaches
of first sips
and lingering laughs.

Let your chronicle
beat the chemistry.

Home.

Talking down a road,
I trip over vowls,
stumble over consonants,
step on words,
get stuck in phrases
- weak and volatile,
short and strong,
long and languid,
until I finally find a

poem.

Telecommunication.

Caught in the last shadow of the year
between tea cups and coffee pots,
empty wrappers and broken bottles,
that one melody in your ear,
you redial.

August.

Standing on sweating blacktop
quenching your thirst with memories
of running along shorelines,
of building castles
and drinking sandy 7 Up,
like you never tasted
anything so sweet.

Drop.

Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
Between a drop
and a coffee pot
- lies good luck.

On a Balcony

When our feet rested on concrete balconies,
beer in hand, music in back,
sunset in front,
it wasn't easier.
It only felt that way.

Flatter!

I recently joined Flattr, the new social micropayment service. I think it's a great idea - it is more or less like buying someone you like a (very small) beer. I also added flattr buttons to this blog - not because I'm in it for the money, but because I want to spread the flattr, even in this teeny tiny blog of mine. So if you like what I'm doing and you dig the flattr idea - Cheers!
Oh, here is a little video on what flattr is:

Kids

Kids' chatter,
Kids' laughter,
Kids' life filling
every pore of the car,
then,
          they leave behind,
a vacuum of silence
for our thoughts.

"Anything that's funny indicates an emotion that's died"

Richard Hell: Basically I have one feeling ... the desire to get out of here. And any other feelings I have come from trying to analyze, you know, why I want to go away ... See, I always feel uncomfortable and I just want to .. walk out of the room. It's not going to any other place or any other sensation, or anything like that, it's just to get out of 'here.'  (read more)

Rush Hour Apparition

In a sea of gray
your effortless skirt
is only topped 
by the Divine Comedy
on your knees.

AURORA

She came dressed

as a lonely girl. 

Not easy; at ease

with herself

by herself

for herself, 

on her own feet, firmly

planted in the clouds.

She stripped, lonely

layer after lonely layer.

Bit by bit, piece by piece,

shell by shell.

Standing there, 

beaming, glowing,

radiating, silent, 

naked.

She moved, 

breathed, touched.

Starch sheets, cotton shirts,

warm wood;

shoulders, legs, hair

moist skin.

She stepped away, took

away her skin, 

gathered up her layers

and returned.

Jamie.

Another spoon of sugar,

another spoon of rice.

One more cup of this, 

one more glass of that.

Ounce for ounce 

and pound for 

pound -

Eat.  It helps.

Spring cleaning.

So this blog of mine, Clarity & Chaos, is my baby. Only few people read it, even fewer comment on it, but still - I like it. The only think I don't like at all by now is the randomness of it.  The combination of 'original material' - my  poetry, Coy Copyboy, the few (but soon to be more) reading journals  besides the cool stuff I like to share and the bits on (American) politics is starting to bother me. So, after cleaning out my closet this morning I decided to give Aunt Clarity & Chaos a little niece: clarityandchaos.tumblr.com That's the new place for all the quick links, music videos and politic rants from now on, this blog will be the site for all that original material: Poetry, Coy Copyboy, reading journals. Plus you can still follow me on twitter for the shortest sweet stuff. 

Simone.

Red lips, matching shoes;

A gust of blonde hair,

a cigarette.

She pulls her jacket 

tight,

exhaling,

waiting.

Mondays are the

worst - school.

Tuesdays she gets

off work early.

Wednesdays, Thursdays, 

fill in the blanks. 

Falls in love with Fridays.

Saturdays are an affair, 

Sundays are the breakup.

A light drizzle, 

rainy fog, 

her bus pulls up.

Today she'd be 

punctual.

A City Has Many Skins

"It was in that room that I started to read again. A leaflet says a little, a whole book is full of thoughts, ideas and makes you fall prey to complicated feelings; there is no anaesthesia in the pages of a novel. Often you find discomfort, as if you were sleeping like the princess on the mattresses on top of the pea." (Grant 226)

It's been weeks, months, possibly even a year since I last read a book 'just for fun'. Yesterday I sat down with The Clothes On Their Backs by Linda Grant. I sat down on my comfy bed, in my old room at my parent's place, the bed on which I used to spend hours and hours just reading. Without a pen in hand. Without any music on, once the album I put on stopped. Without anything to drink, once the tea I made myself got cold and I finished it in one big gulp between pages. I did nothing but read. And it felt amazing. (read more)

5 O'Clock

Cars, cars, cars,
an endless line of postwork pearls. 


Buzz, buzz, buzz, 
rows of gleaming headlights. 


Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, 
smooth downhill streams. 


Home, home, home, 
and then back up again. 

Just a Quick Thought Regarding Texts, Books, and Textbooks.

Does anyone have the funds to freely distribute A People's History of the United States around Texas high schools? I do believe that history writing - and textbook writing - is a 'selective editing' process, yet what is going on in Texas these days is just ridiculous. Or it would be ridiculous if it wasn't so sad. 

Little Things.

You wake up as a little thing.
You go to school as a little thing. 
You go to work as a little thing. 
You go to sleep as a little thing.


You work on little things.
You keep little things. 
You hold on to little things. 
'Cause it's the little things that count. 

A Moment.

A shared cigarette
    on the balcony.
Words falling between
    them like ashes
whisked away with 
   a sigh and a simple gesture.