I found some grammer of the universe:
Not easy to catch, but easy to find,
as it is simply everywhere.
In the navel and in the fridge.
In a teacup and in a dream.
In a memory and in a grain of dust
as much as in a withering biography.
Sometimes I mix up prepositions,
so that I my beloved feels demagnified.
But I will take the effort to spell lovable meaning in that language.
And it happens that I use wrong keys
- and I don't get the meaning of sentences
that couchsurf my mind - but it's all furnished
with such a beautiful mess. Oh dear,
let me play on you(r) combinations.
And embed the failure in the long run of light.
I know, everything is meant to glow.
Furthermore there is the challenge of silence,
t h e   a b s o l u t e l y   s u p e r c o n n e c t i v e
muting the noisy pain of opposition.
Let us meditate on that.

In me begins a new story. Not that I have just finished something old. That's already been done long ago, without me noticing. A new story begins, because I am that which was always there, new to understand and able to reinterpret.
This relief is so complete that I dare not forecast. I'm beginning to believe in the absence of gravity and the delicate beat of wings. In the vastness of my soul frolick hordes of butterflies. I embody spring which has sprinkled me with magnolias, waterfalls and illuminated letters.
Each mental vision would be a surgical procedure into something whole and perfect. I must be true. Gingerly I deal with the echo chambers of change. They are able to turn the smallest tears into raging rivers. And a flower is enough to carry beauty into the world. The void has taken new space - is that intellectually possible? The new story will not be the final version of myself. But it is no less important. My identity must breathe. This is the only prayer that I will speak. For now I dance alone even in the most beautiful nooks and crannies of all the seas, skies and feelings. But I'm glad if you find me.

But wait, I am a net –sending waves, breathing photons
causing beautiful thunderstorms, that light up various paths.
I flower the dark. I emerge, I subside, I take wing.
I am always close to an unwritten poem
that gathers more than just the sum of single pieces.
The “I“ appears to be the skin of mind
that wants to be caressed by grammer and explanations.
I think, “I“ thinks in heavy dictionaries
translating itself into questions. Who am I. Who I am.
Just one guarantee: Beyond, all tracks go together.
I mean the source of thunderstorms.
From this point – light up now.

September 2013

As the story continues,
two kindred spirits merge into one;
chapter after chapter,
like a rose is a rose is a rose.
For a relationship – what do we prefer?
Prose or poetry? Long-term or short-distance?
At some point enjambements, I guess.
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly
into the well-known unknown.
It never fails, it always hits.
But why cutting long stories short?
The attention-span has become so thin,
almost as thin as truth and justice.
I mean, sometimes I would like to find
needles in hay-stacks
and blow everything up here.
Wouldn‘t that be fun and childlike.
But hey, I found someone to love,
I mean to really love, and not just to love.
Someone to cuddle and bodyheat with,
someone to spend an entire week with
in a rainy windy city behind thick-skinned walls.
Well done! Bravo! Lucky you!
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly.
I admit, that’s the most difficult part.
What I love about this?
He might be the one.

On my way from the camel
to the child
I would like to be
an impressive peacock!
Some dandy! An Oscar.
But what really happens is this:
A Zen-master shows up
and rips this aphorism apart:
„Better to stick your nose into
the galaxy,“ he utters grumpily,
„don’t miss that beauty!“
And what a nice philosophy –
I will take that opportunity.

Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.

I believe at some point in time
the point in time itself will disappear,
which means be prepared to flow (google therefore Panta Rhei),
or the point remains and time stops (forget what you just have googled then) –
therefore, I hope you do something you really love,
because no one knows what happens
if that happens. Being frozen? Waking up?
Plucking flowers would be nice though
or hugging your grandpa before he dies.
Oh – does he still die then?
Hey, what do death and decay do without past and future?
I always wanted to trick celestial authorities!
Imagine Grim Reaper being doomed to the power of Now –
I’m quite sure he would get a nice suntan.
As I am the philosopher in this poem, I use magic power,
which means I simply keep flowing when time stops.
Too absurd? Have a look at Salvador Dali and his paintings!
He inspired me to write this stuff.
Let‘s have a look then: It would be very likely
to catch my neighbors from downstairs being frozen in the position of 69.
Nothing unusual, only he is 86 and his boyfriend 28;
probably they love *** better than mathematics.
(To find some philosophical content here, google Pythagoras).
Martha, my neighbour from upstairs, could be snapshot
finding typing-errors in modern poetry. She lacks humour.
I am glad she’s frozen, because she would find tons of errors in mine.
A Canadian, who recently moved in, will be found in raptures. Must be in love.
End of lesson #1.