the corner shop near the railway station
opens now unlike when we came here first
when everything would shut on Sunday
the flea market in Mauerpark
is over-ridden with people selling kitsch
but we always go and we love it
everyone is so cool here that I think being cool
isn't hip anymore,
the street is a sea of hipsters in black
it's early Spring and there is still
no ferries on the Spree
but if you walk down the right street
you'll catch a couple of musicians
maybe a juggling act
that blend in with graffiti and art
in the evening we'll go to the TV Tower
pretend we can afford dinner in the revolving restaurant
two hundred and three metres high
and look over the cars on the road to Berlin-Mitte
that look like graceful glowing bugs below
we'll get have a cocktail with dinner in Caramba
in the square (just one)
and listen to light German jazz
with no need to worry
if the transport still runs at night
On the sky's hummock
she is like a ziggurat;
a gardener of
stars who takes care of
their shining watching over
their sparkling glimpses.
My only hope that
maybe she intend to look
after our little
star too. The dim one under
whom our love was born to beam.
And in that wild berlin winter
I twirled ghosts through the frozen, concrete streets
Out of bohemian jungles in the midnight afternoon
I returned to the States with terrible ennui
Slumped on cold buses
I flew through Hamburg in an opium haze
Smoking joints in the lantern lit glow of Amsterdam
I didn’t eat for 3 days
I rode the train to Zoo Station
And flitted about East Berlin
Where there was no excitement to be had
Walking the night alone in the bitter, biting wind
I took the ferry over to England
Safe in the Mersey’s mystical, dreary mist
I hid my tired eyes under my fisherman’s cap
And found an expanse of quiet, precious bliss
Ailing from nights spent on streets and stranger’s floors
I was a child, traveling alone
Disenchanted by my youthful escapades,
Cured of the plaguing desire to ramble and roam.
She’s just not my kind of person.
She spends her days on her bed.
I need to be with
Poets, artists, free-thinkers,
Those who are mad and young and crazy and magic
Who will sprinkle glitter under their eyes
And run about the night city streets
and flit about in a dazzling, burning light
who are enchanted by the very world in front of their
long criss-crossed lashes.
I tried to explain.
But very few wear those round rose-coloured glasses
In which I view the world through
Who, Like some dreaming Tom Thumb
Will happily sew patches
Embroidered in free-footed ecstasy
Under the sour light
of the summer moon, when the
asphalt maze exhales
heatness we come and
ensemble at Teufelsberg
just to pile up the
broken and rusty
pieces of our outcasted
heart, hoping that if
we exchange them like
puzzles of the autumn we
will able to build new ones.
Snow's melted, and all she's got left is the cone,
the skeletal bone streets, where she was
yesterday once so Snowwhite pretty.
Mountainous mounds of shit from canine and human kind
allude to beasts that roamed these streets in nights gone by.
They thought their tracks and cigarettes butts were covered
in a cloak of snow, but sun can't wash away sin.
All she's got left is the grit, beneath fingernails, iron rails,
bitumen - Pech! - from clinging on too long to yesterday.
so I passed by this gentleman today at the park & through his broken English came to find out he is from Germany, East Berlin to be exact...his name is Hans. I asked him how he came to Michigan & he began telling me his story, you could see him travel back in time right before your very eyes. He and his wife, Hannah, kept watch over the guards near a section of the wall that was near some summer cottages. At night the 'women' from town would 'entertain' the officers in the foliage, so they put whatever they could fit in their baby stroller, draped as much clothing on themselves as they could manage, & by the grace of God one night the baby did not cry & they were able to run to freedom to West Berlin. He went on to describe how he came first to Canada & then upon hearing of the higher wages in Detroit, came to live in Sterling Heights. It's funny when I asked him & a lady from Poland the day before where they were from, they both said "well from here" despite their obvious accents...home is indeed Michigan for them both now...& for Hans, he's never returned to East Berlin.
*when you see an older person, take the time...I assure you, you will never leave disappointed.
How long is now
Will last a lifetime
How long is now
My body endures the hours
But my mind took a halt
As soon as I entered the hall
I stopped minding the clock.
I shut my eyes
The goosebumps never lie
I awake in paradise
The soul dancing to the bass.
I lose myself
As much as find
Exactly who I am.
The music becomes
My second skin
I look around and
You too, have the same discipline
How long is now
We are infinite in this crowd
Then, I will remember your smile
Your heart sounds just like mine in Berghain.
Mint tea springs oases
on dusty streets where your camera
staples doors, faces, dogs,
windows, water cans together
as I reach for your hand across the table
do you remember how
in a Cellar Theatre
not too far from here
& guarded only by
the fattened moon
we forgot who the audience &
who the actors were
as we strained our eyes
to see the play?
Duke Ellington's not happy
his Satin doll's not shown up
' Hey have you seen my Satin doll?'
' Look Mister, I'm not ' Lost property'
& why don't you go & sleep it off'
' You've got Whiskey
written all over your face, Ellington'
' Gee, ok, but could you spare a few
I need money to get home'
' I'll think about it, in the meantime,
sing me a song
'' Ok. WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU'