Archive for April, 2018


no time

is a good time.


it’s relative,

often it’s absolute.




The TV preacher sounds hollow

to my ears,

around the wall,

in the kitchen.

“Make it happen!”


he’s saying,

squeezing out the mystery,

the Glory

of the Holy Trinity.




Dizzy already,

some kind of sickness in me,

weak, feeling vile.

I wish he’d just go away,

but no,

he presses,

asks again,

what has he done.

… Everything, and nothing.




Picasso’s mournful feeling,

his despair,

was deepest in the mornings –

he found it hard to get up before Noon.

What reason for living,

if he,

perceptive artist,

sees thus?

Salvation in the afternoon?

One can hope.




1, 2, 3 …

Does it ever end?

Who knows the truth, when mistakes blend?

Caught on the wrong side of history,

we speculate,

left to rue the way our “overlords” defecate.

1, 2, 3 …




I was ready to offer an olive branch,


but you decided to be honest,

speaking your views of me,


Ipso facto

and fokus-pokus…

… Hopes of rapprochement,


Cold war freezes.




Façade and farce,

the line between the two,

as if drawn in sand,


as the waves roll in,

high tide coming,

happy Fathers’ Day.




It feels worse this time,

worse than I remember then,

I’m feeling it *now*

after all.

(No hope in me, drained of life,

replacement: sad fear and despair…)




If you want the question answered,

*that* is not the question to ask.




I prefer pen to pencil,

the expectation of permanence,

even if it entails the occasional smudge.