All Season Hotel

You tell me how we met. I listen to the words we both know, and that is how we become us. Nevertheless, spring is capricious, untrustworthy. Hand in hand with winter it lingers. Every living bone shattered by the cold spell of spring.
I was gazing at the fire, burning wood shaped like honeycomb. The heat warmed me up like a friend, yet I was dried by the bleak breeze of winter. My skin cape on the shoulders, the canine teeth against my forehead, never would it bite like frost — or your absence.
•
I hear him think aloud as if no one would be listening.
‹ Perhaps we'll have a beach, yes, here the river meets the sea, right here we will, ›
‹ Now gently lay down the shifting sand, onshore, offshore. Just barely blend the sky. See? ›
Droning cicadas
Segmented sound
Ice cubes clinking in a glass.
Alongshore, our walk through the tidal waters leaves no footprints. There is an hour when the sea belongs only to fishermen and the sunkissed cheeks of lovers.
Wind rushing, sun settling at his side. Gods, they believe in him, for he was sketched from life. Silent smile is his mother tongue that speaks volumes.
Far from here two narwhals cross swords. Since you got here we are everywhere.
A child with an ancient smile pulling the strings of universe. Just a stitch in time on earth, life in the hollow of her hand flickering dimly.
‹ Buoyant spirits swim with ease, don’t they? ›
She hesitated, but dipped her toe in the water.
‹ Try as you will. › I ignored.
She scraped her fingernails down the rocks. She laughed with impish pleasure, her donkey ears flapping in the wind.
‹ If the sky falls, hold up your hands! ›
And she knocked on the clouds above.
‹ Quiet! › I demanded.
‹ I did not utter a word. › Whispered the silence.
She was so mean of a child, infinite and terrible, she made me look good. Elated, I sat down and let sorrow catch some breath.
•
The sand beds break fast. The cuttlefish colours have returned. Life running through the fine veins, through the leaves, through the summer’s end.
Third season. In no order add fresh cilantro or dried coriander, red sea salt and black pepper – the colours burn brighter, faster – to taste.
We may well be riding for a fall.
‹ Hurry, whisper your prayer into the horse's ear! ›
We are falling into right hands, through right fingers, onto our knees.
Sands of time running out of past.
A sheet of white paper.
No urgency.
There is very little of final in this world and I leave it like that.
I step out on freshly frozen rain. A snowflake falls in its right place.
‹ Look how small we’ve grown to be! ›
All this world is, dear, an all season hotel.</pre>

Gleis 17

An average German citizen, from every walk of life, is required to carry with an appropriate portion of their national weltschmerz, in correlation with their legacy of moral hangover. Sensitivity is a difficult sport.

She knows, that sleeping with her shoes on causes headache, but it helps her to yearn for less. Like lilies grow toward evening, everyone should want to live, if only out of curiosity. Just don't giggle, chuckle, stifle, or laugh under your breath. Don’t make a sound in your coffin!

The fish die eyes open and fall off the Earth. Gods, they live in pineal gland with answers that may never be questioned. They are submerged while alive.

Other poems say the things how the things feel, as in Braille.
I write inlaid dominoes.

Not all in vain to flounder. The worst of things that can happen to man is the inertia of heart. Maybe I am wrong. The question is how do I even begin.

Grünewald today. They lay white roses on the train track, Gleis 17.

October 18th, 2011 Berlin, Germany