let a kiss
travel
9000 kilometers
within
the speed
of light

is it urban?
is it cosmic?
, to walk upon
a silk rope in the sky?

there is no time-difference
between autumn and japan

let this kiss
burn wowing quickly
like a shooting-star
within poetry:
healingly handwritten
and strongly heartfelt.

I’m looking for some zen
behind the scene
(or on the spot),
some raw footage
without cuts and credits:
narrative à dieu.

I want to share some tao
in this ***** routine:
shall we simply trust
in a language
called equilibrium?

I still eat toasted white bread
with thinsliced strawberries
and small sugar hills:
Could be noisy Rotterdam.

I still mix up urban blues
and chagrin d’amour
and call it open relationship:
Could be the ugly part of Paris.

Sometimes I juggle with lemons
next to a Czech red fridge
having a flower square in mind:
Could be a ******-up poetry-slam
in Berlin.

And I still wear t-shirts with
vintage anthrazit windmills:
Could be either Don Quichote
or Don Juan trying to rewrite
their script.

thank you for signing in
in between the signs

thank you for leaving space
luminously empty

thank you for listening
to the masterpiece
of silence

thank you for quoting quantum leaps
while twirling the hairs on my chest

thank you for choosing
azure and the network of spring
so emphatically

thank you for collecting
the echoes of a single dewdrop
with the presence of a child

thank you for creating
miracles and bubbles:
360°
thank you for breathing
flashy ******* passionately

thank you for your interstellar
plexus and your solar torus

dewdrop glass, thy name

thank you for wordplaying
magnifying fiery patterns


(dewdrop glass, 2017
christian sonnenklar)

again, I have to learn, if a table is still meant
for crumbling croissants and obstacles,
or if it's simply a place where caffein gets cold.
the fortune tellers were wrong -
there is no trace on the edge of the cup:
and that heats me up.

I have to see, if a window is still meant for watching
robins and blue ****, or if it's simply
the most torturous part of being on my own.

once more, I will throw up stubborn dreams
and keep selling them as ridiculous antiques:
another flea market with curiosities down by the river,
that keeps flowing and shimmering in the early sun.

"where will you put them up?"

So now I am truly alone as all plots
and unhappy endings are about
to subside, wither and die –
Literally they epitaph themselves:
For me the most delicate art in this world.
Seemingly duality has stopped playing on my strings,
so please recognize: I am not talking to myself –
I am still lip-synching, so this is absolutely an approach to something.
Besides it appears to me, an actor’s true home
is the changing-room between the scenes:
Simply furnished, no applause. Silence.
Enjambement. N’est-ce pas?

Before delusion becomes infallible
miracles happen. Especially to non-believers.
Just doubt enough – it’s the currency
of breakthrough. Promise.

And look at the generosity of the modern world.
We constantly keep dancing on thin ice:
Quite generous, isn’t it? –
A phone call, an error, a rainbow
merge into: Let’s go for a walk
gathering raindrops and conjuring up rivers.

I do suggest alchemy as lingua franca.
It will create so much joy and tongue-twisters.

And now I start being busy doubting –
it is only a little window onto god.