It feels good
not being an artist
no language to impress
philosophical thoughts on cheese
a bit guilty of the next beer
depleting bank account
it feels good
to walk on snow
so crisp and pure
drinking the next beer
getting drunk
and all the rest
it feels good
to see the snow
fall
my cold breath
dunking beers
and all the rest
if feels good
to have left Berlin
now just a town drunk
not even a
punk
Today
why is not important
too listless to find a solution
thoughts my insomniacs
found today a sheltering slumber,
mystery persists –
but only as an unobtrusive undertone to the ordinary;
a tree was all I needed
to feel that something exists in its own right,
a puddle of trapped water enough
to convince me
that the world is not as deep as I imagined.
because the wind grows my nails
I sit this evening
on the ledge of an ancient
mystery
the rain is the dream of the present
the noise of rock
of my bones –
penumbra is the rejoining of fragments
in this quiet atmosphere
speech is green grass returning
to the distant seed
because the wind has fed from
these thoughts of dimension
I am bottom
of the
pendulum life
Modern Poetry
Beyond Language 
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