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6d · 80
hagibis
Kat 6d
nothing will be sold today. the rain comes and
no one will see the neon signs in the mist.
the cities of steel and glass
are merely sandcastles at high tide.
helplessness, our human nature.

still, no worries,
in the minds of children, soothed by
their mother's sing-song,
or strangers sharing their first meal –
yi is cooking ramen for everybody,
while the finnish girl just finished her story
about her grandfather and his eleven siblings.
it's a beautiful day.
GREETINGS FROM TOKYO!
Kat Jul 15
Dallas days, smoking in your acura legend,
your face veiled, watery eyes.
Tom, I asked you to teach me poetry.
You opened your dictionaries of devotion -
for me to run away, again.
Under a weeping willow, we dug a hole for a time capsule.
Our lives were small enough for this rusty lunchbox.
See, mine was never a kids’ drawing on the refrigerator,
but a western, a shoot-em-up.
Can you understand, just a little,
how it was home I was running towards?
And still, in strange places
I spoke your language of tenderness,
my extinct mother tongue. With words
so ordinary, so simple.

Those memories
                  the warmth of you
make it hard to imagine 
that you are buried somewhere in Iowa.

I revisited that cow pasture with our tree,
my hands clawing at the frozen earth to get time back.
Tom, you promised me poetry, yet all I can write is
please come back to me
in a hundred variations. How I long
to bargain your soul for mine.
Your little toy airplane, the one you gave me
when we were kids, still stands on my nightstand.
This time let me teach you
about the cruelty of freedom.
Rendition of my poem "Kate's Toy Airplane." This corresponds to something I call poetry in motion – poetry that is not fixed but fluid, there is no such thing as a finished poem. Like O'Keefe who painted her patio, again and again and again.
Jun 11 · 190
Pisces Moon pt 2.
Kat Jun 11
I.
A little pakalolo for you and me to light up,
can you hear the tom-tom of the beat,
dissolving into a smooth sax…
That night in the discotheque, my god,
you were so handsome under neon lights,
swaggering with your schoolboy smile.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of
the green-golden-halo around your iris,
inviting me in to adore you.
In the space of bodies, I grasped for the untouchable,
so greedy for this tenderness stretching out
in the dark heat like a fat cat in the sun.
You left east. I smell you on my skin, I smell
freshly mowed grass, wash drying in the wind,
the pure air of the high mountains.
I never really touched you after all.


II.
When you spoke, I only heard your voice, the melody,
its joyous tremolo, its tired flatness,
the deep bass arising from the middle of a storm.
We never called each other by our names. We didn’t need to.

I walk to the open window, below,
the busiest street in the city, silent at 2 am.
The air is buzzing with uncertainty. Just a minute ago,
your tiny room was drowning in light so orange.
I thought that sunset would last forever.
Forever? I’ve wanted you more than anything,
more than sanity, more than life itself.
For ever ever?
The sky melted into ink. It meant goodbye.


III.
It’s your song
that moves within me what can be voiced only in clichés,
as if I couldn’t talk about the deep end of love
without comparing it to a gushing river,
turning gentle into rough then gentle again.

Pisces Moon –
next lifetime maybe,
you'll be free and I'll be brave
and we won't know each as we do.
If it's real, does it matter, what kind of love we're given?
(don't fall in love with pisces moon men. just. don't).
Kat Jun 9
we’re standing in front of the theatre. they’re playing love,
a misunderstanding, a dream
that’s been killed by living it too much.
it is mostly trivial, this story of two people
desperately describing the sun to each other,
while only being able to point at shadows.
seldom they saw the same silhouettes on the ground.
is that ever enough?

it was enough for joy to linger,
as dusk painted your room in shades of red,
your walls zebra-striped. this eternal sunset.
it was enough.

we saw it, briefly,
looked away,
and walked in different directions.

and love remains
a misunderstanding.
Jun 9 · 114
Hooking Up
Kat Jun 9
We are both shyly engaging with the madness on screen,
distorted faces, screams from nowhere –
I don‘t believe in hesitation,
having always indulged in my impulsivity.
Not used to waiting, calculating, anticipating.
I was very careful not to let you sink in,
although your teeth aren‘t very sharp.

I don’t pay attention, I’m too focused now
on how my arm is pressing against your shoulder –
this golden halo
that your touch casts onto the here-and-now;
no moment can ever be insignificant again.
Oh, it feels so nice to be with you,
real nice.
Makes me wanna travel all the distance
from Tokyo right to your doorstep.


Morning arrives with it’s awkward limbs that will be drowned in black coffee. Yesterday there seemed to be no more blue tomorrows, but now your eyes greet me and I don’t know what to say.
(things that happened)
May 14 · 1.0k
we will talk about this
Kat May 14
I.
in this space without shadows,
i was a witness how this world became stranger
until it wasn’t mine. the memory of touch carries the torch,
through a deserted island, an abandoned house,
another girlhood turned ghost-town.
his sour amaretto mouth
closer, closer, closer.
saturday mornings i used to watch cartoons on the tv,
big goofy characters. these pictures come to me from afar
and dissolve into black lava,
at his hands cold metal sting.
with the tenacity,
i cling onto the hope of forgetting,
monuments were built for
gods and prophets.
so it goes.
somewhere in the world
mouths move around the filthy word,
forming the saddest companionship,
like two orphans who recognise each other.

II.
once upon a time,
i believed in a magic stronger than seduction.
why don’t we try to be less entitled?
after all, nothing was promised.
those of us,
attacked, assaulted, agonised,
in the sacredness of home,
in the public eyes wide shut,
fade into TV static noise.
how loud are the sounds of this
realism replica,
in bold letters proclaimed
now available:
FEMINISM!
(sold at every fast fashion retailer)
ALL GIRLS ARE BEAUTIFUL!
(but we still need to profit off your self-hatred)
LOVE IS HURTING
(why don’t you try to see his side?)
it’s nothing personal.
shame just happens to make good money.
that was a hard thing to write and to post. my mind felt very hazy. i still don't know whether i struck the right cord with my words.
Apr 2 · 137
summer in canada
Kat Apr 2
this humdrum summer.
i knew you as someone
who was never anywhere for too long,
sorta bohème so to speak.
so maybe now you are back in montréal.
how naive to believe space & time will grant you mercy.
i envy you for that arrogance.

the here and now sits on my memories like dust.

would it have changed anything –

never mind.

days in parks & forests & meadows. the honey bees were busy then.
we roamed through every supermarket like it was a ******* carnival.
and love,
it was the joy being each others witness.
this fever dream that is the mundane now.

if there was a way to look at you,
beyond a lens of reminiscence,
beyond the script of hurt.

this humdrum summer.

they say TIME HEALS EVERYTHING and i smile.
i don't feel the warmth of the sun anymore
but how could i forget that it touched me.
obviously i remember.
Kat Feb 12
Time travel to Dallas days. We were sitting in your Acura Legend. Your face veiled, my eyes watery from the smoke, I know I hate tobacco now.
"Tom, teach me how to write poems, like yours."
"Okay but tell me first, Katie.
What are you running away from?"

We were close to home,
just sound without meaning,
a kid’s drawing on the refrigerator.
So the answer never differs:
I’m not running away, I’m running towards.

I don't remember, do you,
when poetry turned into dictionaries of devotion.
It was the language of tenderness you taught me,
my extinct mother tongue.
To love the ordinary was suddenly easy.

Those memories
                  the warmth of you
make it hard to imagine
that you are buried
somewhere in Iowa.

Here, read my dictionaries now:
page after page,
in hundred variations:
„Please come back to me“
and
„I will always long to bargain your soul for mine.“

That little toy airplane, the one you gave me
when we were kids,
still stands on my nightstand.
This time it is my turn to teach,
teach you about the cruelty of freedom.
My favorite Lostie.
Feb 12 · 121
caddy smelled like trees
Kat Feb 12
Mother tell me,
who do your eyes meet in the mirror?
wolf woman wife
little girl
and perhaps ghost.
Caddy did you love them
yes
yes but when they touched me I died
yes but when they touched me I died and was resurrected because a woman dies but comes back another just a change of costume so we can walk in our shadows and strut and fret again.
 
mother why is the mirror always blurry,
and why are the rooms all empty in this body
fortress sanctuary
that is made by the magic of transformation
Caddy the rooms may be empty but can’t you hear the music?
bird in a cage,
and its songs about longing to feel human.
Faulkner Forever.
Feb 12 · 499
Moon in Pisces
Kat Feb 12
I said life needs you to revolt,
ceaselessly,
against what will become your fate,
and you said
Okay.

In the book of love is written:
Understanding!
Understanding!
If I had only
loved you less and understood you more.

It‘s all for the best.
Of course.
Of course it is.
Kat Feb 2
Love is not meant to be symbolic.
It is just that
giving and taking,
the triviality of it all,
while we exist at the mercy of the world.
(Your bluest eyes, I miss)
when you played me that bassline honey.
These jazz songs,
they talk about loss,
the sacred place.

In the bluest hour,
I met you at the altar of surrender.
Ah, the poignancy of things.
How we were always looking at each other
but never in the same direction.
Dec 2018 · 283
The Garden
Kat Dec 2018
Each rose I met promised to explain me
the wonder, the joy
of transformation.
The perennial grief,
at the sight of the world becoming,
is the grief of wanting to understand but not being able to.
How much greed there was,
in my longing for a garden.
Dec 2018 · 137
Paris
Kat Dec 2018
You talk to me from across the room, you,
with this face that I want to photograph:
the moment you fall back into yourself, retreat,
your lips still smiling
shy and sweet and all too **** fooling.
Ah, you’re glad it’s over. I know because we’ve been here before in August, lost in this wild-west desert,
Buckle up, cowboy, we’re going to Paris. Texas.

December. It’s getting cold outside.
You need to leave, walk home in the snow,
back to the love that has turned memories into life, the place
you were hurt into being.
My dearest friend and lover.
I see you,
in tenderness and humanity.
I see you.
You will know
how to live with a heart this vulnerable.
You will see where the river flows,
where it is very still and very gentle.
It will be beautiful.
For M. Love you always.
Aug 2018 · 2.0k
A Beautiful Fragile Balance
Kat Aug 2018
There is nothing I can give to you that is not past or future.
When my both selves fight, they throw insults at each other like an unhappy couple.
    “You are already gone!” the one says,
    “You are never here” says the other.

And I sing then. I never let any note slip away into silence. Songs in which I’m a magician,
right before the grand finale,
the last vanishing act.
I close my eyes and slowly slice away layers of skin,
so I can become less and less,
so I can sail away on the river without an end,
it’s flow imposing my soul with the authoritative demand to move forward.

There is no river.
I am pitifully human so there is no alchemy that transforms loss into beauty.
Ihe things I have built, I built myself. Like this house of memories
with it’s sole window. The moon shines through it every night.
What an unperfect image,
what my heart endures everytime I reach out only to feel
solance turning into a hell-flamed sky.
The darkness is gone like I will be gone
like everything has gone forever.

There is also no house.
Only the pale waves of a grey-winter sea,
        dualism of being and not-being
a perfect symmetry,
a beautiful fragile balance.
Aug 2018 · 209
lover‘s discourse
Kat Aug 2018
there are two ways of speaking.



the mother tongue of our nation of two.

we tell each other tales that all end the same,

myths of devotion,

made of words usually indistinct, incomprehensible

big cats purring

the syntax of lovers who love blindly.



the language of breathing.

spoken on my island with the rain forests

and yours with hills of pure white snow

to see you I cross the bridge blindfolded,

beneath the sea of silence

where the echoes of sound and meaning fade,

leaving two strangers

not even able to give each other names.
Aug 2018 · 170
The iconoclast
Kat Aug 2018
How could your heart ever long

for anything but a love beyond the archetype?

love me, and you will forget the opposition

between want and need.

razor cutting flesh

while you go on searching for words to make it less mythical,

a ritualistic dance between aversion and marvel,

with love left to bleed out like a helpless deer.

there is music, songs of

sin and sacrifice

the great city burned to ashes,

by flames of pleasure that wreck deliberately.

We sit in the ruins

of what once used to be a ground of worship,

merely human,

with nowhere to come home.
nothing to write home about
Aug 2018 · 1.3k
I know how you feel, Sylvia.
Kat Aug 2018
I.
The armless maiden was your favorite bed-time story.

He ties my hands behind my back while my heart sings:

Here he comes! My king of the Nile!

For whom I will fight the gods with my womanly magic,

the spells of a women who’s eager to wield away

swollen lips and stained sheets

and her stained soul.

Let me tell you a tale of consumption,

of the flame and the burnt child:

He shoots an arrow into the darkness

and I beg to run after it.



II.

Cinderella is hanging from the ceiling. Her body dancing in crystal light.
Funny,
how it reminds me of the pink tutu still somewhere in my closet.

Never the graceful ballerina or the mother of the falcon,

only the princess in rags, even clumsy in my desperation,

even unable to make you smile a little.

My shakal faced God, my butcher,

you who giveth and taketh.
responding to dead poets
Aug 2018 · 4.9k
Things I didn't know I loved
Kat Aug 2018
It’s 2018 August 12th

Night is falling,
the photographs in my hands radiant with the light of the past
where hills touch the sky,
not my parents‘ earth, only the ground they built on.
Their voices tender with longing for the motherland,
while there is merely my own
heart I see in the vast desert,
homeless, homesick,
waiting for moss to grow over that earth too.
Finally silence
where once was the noise of the nation,
we are children again,
alone in the motion of the Prague-Berlin train.
responding to dead poets

— The End —