strawberry joyous

hustling hurrying harrowing hurling – hush.
John, if I knew one, would be right.
Take the marmalade
and spread
it over the bread.
Taste it as

the eyes taste light.
Yes. Simple emptiness,
delicious shine. Buddha sits

in the TV room. The rain clouds.
It is good jam.


abandon poetry

Former Poet Eye

I have to get away
from poetry

need to stop
focusing on the
details and the needlework
of perception

need to live the gross
collision course life
of the

need to rediscover
as meaningless

need to make routine
again an instinctive

need to somehow
buy a house
and stock it up
with liquor

need to begin
about that silly
little race
that goes by
the name



nihilism poems

the right bar

bukowski beer

The poem
was about my impressions
on a night walk at a snowy city
I thought about the name of the poem
and considered this title:
“ the disjointed impressions of a night
walk in the city”
not only alluring
but also clarifying
so that the disjointed pieces
of impressions
would be recognized
as such.

After a few lines like:
The city full
of virgin space
walking mechanisms

I stopped writing impressions
in a highly poetic manner
and had one quick
0.5 L
beer at one ‘happening’ bar
the beer was slurped
five minutes later
I was out and walking
looking for the next bar

I referred to the quick beer
as “having a ‘Bukowski’ beer”
when my wife rang and asked about
my whereabouts, she was
surprised when I called
her back less than 2 minutes
later and told her I was
out looking for the next bar
and we should meet up
in the new one
which I efficiently found
moments later after I hung
up Oranienstrasse
covered in pink fur;
I unhesitatingly asked for
a beer – which the bartender
quickly brought –
in contrast to the other place
where the bartender
shrugged her shoulders
and pointed to the menu
with a long list of local and imported beer

Just a beer – if they
bring it right away
you know
you’re in the
right bar.

nihilistic poetry


I was reading a poem by Bukowski

       It is called “jam”

I read a few lines, pondered

        watched outside the window

then resumed reading, while I was still


suddenly, a tiny speck on the page


it was green, it was alive

as my vision came to normal

I could see the insect

– wasn’t sure which kind –

the little one walked on the page

stepping over an “s” first

then a “w” but turned back

then came down to the word


and headed to the edge of the page. 

I finished the poem, and thought to myself:


“This Bukowski is really good” 

 It was the first “Buck” poem

I ever read.