Snitch-catcher.
Cauldron-stirrer.
Wand-waver.
Quidditch-player.
S­tone-retriever.
Riddle-killer.
Buckbeak-rider.
Triwizard-enterer.­
Phoenix-member.
Snape-hater.
Voldemort-fighter.

jeg sidder og stirrer
ud i mørket
en kold september
nat
karl william synger
om at "vi ku' ha' gjort så meget"
og jeg ved ikke om det er vinden
eller tanken om de sørgerlige
rester af
dig og mig
der får tårer til at falde
som glas på mine elfenbenskinder
kaffen er blevet bitter og kold
ligesom det jeg føler indeni
men mine hænder klamrer
sig til koppen som om
den indeholder det
sidste af dig
jeg har aldrig fundet ud af hvorfor
jeg sidder der
nat efter nat
og stirrer ud i mørket
måske håber jeg bare at se dig
få bare et eneste glimt af dig
som et stjerneskud på himlen
i et milisekund
men der kommer aldrig nogen
eller noget
og endnu en lille del af mig dør
så jeg tænder en cigaret og lader
den brænde mellem mine læber
for godt nok vil du altid
være en del af mig
men du får ikke lov til at være
den der tager livet af mig

LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur.
“The Leopard,” the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

**** it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come!  Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests **** the earth’s foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might ‘gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such ***** I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ‘gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May ******* for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace!”

I'm a bald man now. Ever read the Book of Job? I like how he copes. The change is not purely aesthetic. That bothers me. When people cut their hair, tan their bodies, or lose weight for the sole purpose of hearing blinking friends and distant cousins say you've changed.

I'm sorry to hear about Tim's dad. I'm sure he'll get better. I'd say, I'm glad you two are getting back to normal, but I don't feel optimistic enough to lie. Tonight, I'm tending to a toothache. Covering one end of a cocktail stirrer, dipping it in scotch, and using it as a medicinal dropper. After typing that sentence, I realized the absurdity of this situation. Trading surgical for savage pulls from the bottle.

Heather came over on Halloween. I ran a bath for her. She nursed a fading cigarette while sitting on the edge of the sink and with a wet paper towel wiped off her stage makeup. She told me she had twelve piercings. Then she said people usually ask her where they're at. Some information reveals itself.

I could hear hummed melodies through the wall as she bathed, as I made my bed. Lit three candles. Sprayed some Febreze to cover the stench of my existence. She came in wearing my robe. Without makeup, she looked boyish. Lost, angry.

Her breathing didn't comfort me. She drifted to sleep quickly. As bizarre as it sounds, I could feel Karen in the room. She was the moving shadows. She was the branches scraping against the house. She was the light I left on in the closet. To spite her, I woke Heather up.

I traced her piercings like a holy diary pressed in brail. I sank teeth into hipbone. Sharpened. The *** was short. To be expected, I suppose. Three years of celibacy. She told me it surprised her that it took me this long to sleep with her.

Why did you let me? I asked.

Heather smiled a waving tightrope. Confident. Off-balance. She said I was warm. I was predictable. Like a country music song. I gave her my back. Turned on the television.

I haven't talked to her since. The thing about being born again is, sometimes when you've think you've died, you've only had a bad dream. A more final death lurks. Let's hope she killed me. Now, bald like an idiot babe, I'll try to start. No vanity. You were right. The adventure kicks off when I learn to love myself. Looking at the uneven bumps on my shaved head, I've already developed a crush. I'll apologize in my next letter.

Tænk dig
at stå der og se det smukkeste i verden, når du stirrer tomt i kolde vandpytter.
Fordi du ikke kender til andet.
Tænk dig
at efteråret sidder i dine krageben. Dit betonsind.
Dit vinylhjerte føles palperet af kulde,
at du har skadedyr i maven.
Tænk dig
at være anopsi-(tist) og alt du ønsker er at være en aerobe
der lever af kaffekunst; men dit sind søber i inkurabel mercury
Du inficeres af revolutionære misbrugere af forandring.
Tænk at du ikke kan andet
end at lade fremmedlegemerne borer i dit sind
Tænk at være et segment af dig selv
at dit deoxyribonucleic er forkert.
At gå staccato rundt.
Tænk dig at forsvinde.

I guess I saw her at the third and final bar I went last night. You would have liked watching her. Her face cut like stone -- a reincarnation of an Easter Island statue -- and like those statues, if you kept digging I'm sure she had a body underneath.

From my end of the bar, it looked like she ordered a gin and tonic. She barely drank it, but that's not to say she didn't touch it. She stabbed the ice repeatedly with a cocktail stirrer as if to say give me something to look forward to.

You were right about riding into bars lone wolf. It only works during the afternoon. That's all there is then. Thirsty wolves. But at night, everyone is paired off neatly and wrapped into each other like pretty little presents with shiny red bows.

I agree about the crippling lack of ***. But unlike you, I wouldn't call myself frustrated. Just crippled. And I know if you'd been at the bar, you would have told me to approach Easter Island, but I've been lonely so long that I've grown addicted to the feeling. It's a blanket of sorts. And it's been cold lately.

A man sat next to me at the bar. Corduroy jacket, red sweater over white collared shirt. His hair messily spiked, his face messily shaved, and he kept chatting up a sad-eyed woman in a sadder black dress. I don't remember much of the conversation because I was trying not to eavesdrop. He did say something about time though. He said it was all a straight line. That's the reason we forget things. Progress. Progress makes the people we used to be peel off. The molted skin gets carried off by the wind. I thought you'd like that. Though I don't agree with it.

If time is a straight line, why is what I had for breakfast right next to a three-year-old memory of sleeping beside Karen two weeks after our divorce. It all seems disjointed to me. Not random. But at least partially broken.

Easter Island wore purple pants. I forgot to mention that. She also had a bronze crucifix around her neck. And long brown curls. The cross would have been off-putting if I'd seen her a few months ago, but as you know I'm trying to fix myself. A little dose of religion might be good for me. If nothing else at least a dose of wild kindness.

I apologize for talking so much about myself. So, return the favor. This morning, I read from that Callahan book you got me. The chill in the air made me wish you were in the bed beside me. Reading over my shoulder. Though that was in another window of time. One next to my memory of you putting cinnamon in the coffee grounds before you started a brew.

For what it's worth, I miss you.

******* in the life surrounding me through a coffee stirrer
Gulp
Gulp
Gulping up what I can whilst I drift away
i am drowning in my own lungs
Pay attention to my heart beat
Cadum
Cadum
Conundrum- no sleep
I panic
i must be having a heart attack
Close eyes open eyes close eyes
Blink
Blink
Blink I can't sleep
Heavy bags
Heavy mind
****** nose
Headache
Get out of bed
All awake

Lights on
Bzzzz
Bzzz flicker flicker
Lights off

Dog scratch
No time to relax
Awake open gate
Wait
Wait
Wait
Curl up in corner doze off
Dog bark
Sister coughed
Wide eyed
Anxious cries
Door opened
Worry for my life
Grab my mace
Dog runs inside
Lock the door
Crawl on the floor
Lights on
Remain awake
Skim finger tips
Ponder life
Freak out
Pass out

I knivskarpe stiletter galoperer jeg tværs gennem København. Broerne rejser sig som bjerge, og jeg bestiger dem med glasskår under mine gribende negle. Med isklumpede propiller stirrer jeg mig blind i mørket. Jeg skråler af ubehag og mine øjenlåg sitrer i takt med bumpene i min halshvirvel. Vanviddet er larmende, og rødvinen forstærker den skrattende bas. Min mund er tør som en ørken, men den har heller ikke noget fornuftigt at sige. I knivskarpe stiletter galoperer jeg tværs gennem København.

we were never introduced.
but i watched you.
beautifully.
adoringly.
in my dreams vividly.

ah.
i observed you.
like the way you drink your
coffee.
the way you sipped.
i noticed every bit of it.
how you enjoyed it.
how you stirred clockwise
with a spoon.
and like crazy, going zigzag,
with a stirrer.
its like an addiction.
my addiction?
still you.

you see i am no stalker.
im an observer.
maybe an admirer.
a lover? im not sure.
but this distance,
this rather short gap of
affection you own
but is unnoticed.
if only i can spit it out
and let it crawl towards you.
but i find it gross.
hahaha.
plain stupid.

you own me.
with every stare,
unintentional i know,
with luscious smiles,
i melt.
i get unmolded.
i morphed into something
really unknown.
oh you my trickster.
how you do that i do not know.

i hope i get the chance to
let you know.
to hold your hand,
even if it's just from a
friendly shake.
oh the joy it would bring.
days of uninterrupted daydreams and
nights of being wishful.

how you make me write
from poetry, to stories.
how you wanna make me
carve your name on
a tree.
cliche.
but still i wish you know.
how i dreamed of flying kites together.
my way of trying to reach heaven
with you. :)

but you are just a dream.
and i am still a dreamer.
i am still dreaming.
of you.
and me.
but not of you and me.
oh mournful reality.

-end-

you ****** me up through a bendy straw
while i sipped on you through a coffee stirrer
granulates of sugar i was
granulates of salt you were
granulates of sugar you was
granulates of salt i were
stirred into a tub mug
bathed within–a girl
pruned and shriveled by creamed cold whips
lashed from a devil’s tail
pale and stale her fingers became
fingers curled and coiled around a bendy straw
face clenched at hinges  
dental spikes meet at coffee stirrer, chewed soft
one sip sufficient

as  I walked in white
in the gilded summer night

foot steps following
one heel, one heel
down the street
downtrodden
floating
detached
lost

a call came from
a wind maker on the street
a stirrer of emotions
a sorcerer whose only game
was that of creation

I watched the draw and pull
of the strangers into his
gravitational field

tendrils of invisible allure
wrapping around shoulders
ankles of passersby
as they froze
captivated by his moth-and-spider web
of alien, archaic sound.

in the aftermath
of my escape
from his forcefield

I sat on a bench
carefully attempting
to tuck the edges of my
being back
inside my body

so to join
the rest of the anonymous
collective fleeing
from  the ancient
difficult feelings
he had stirred
from the greater
universal melting ***

no longer recognized
in this
Cold Age of Chrome and LCD screens.

Adding honey to my tea and grabbing a stirrer, I see you out of the corner of my eye, baseball cap on, nose buried deep in a book.

Walking on these downtown streets today I thought to myself “I’m happy, and I’m happy without him”


See, the pain of our love crashing and burning doesn’t matter until I see you.


My stomach drops, my veins seize up, I’m stopped dead in my tracks.


I wish I could’ve said hello, I wish I could’ve asked “reading something interesting?”

But this is our reality, pretending we’re strangers and forcing the nights we spent under the moon out, out, out of our heads.


I don’t think I could look you in the eyes, I think it would immediately tug my heart down to my feet


The idea of us being friends is bittersweet like lemon drops, but no one talks about the bitter aftertaste.


I wish you well, I wish you happiness, and I hope you enjoy your cup of coffee with your read.

4/23/2016

"Speaking of batteries,
what's the positive in this? Negative?"
she threw out there, lithe little

extensions of her hand palely wrapped about a martini glass stem. It held seltzer and ginger.

Long Island City, Queens
twinkled cobaltly, covertly, in the
harbour

incognito, morphing into the sky
in the gloaming.
"All those people," I said, ignoring

the question. I always ignore the question. "So many. But this city
so cruel and brutalist and impersonal."

She shook her head,
stirred her cocktail stirrer
the mint sprig moved to the bottom

of the glass.
"As opposed
to what?"

jeg stirrer på uret
mens tonerne hvirvler rundt i mit hovede
tempoet er hurtigt
stemmen er forførende og hvisker til mig
at jeg spilder mit liv
på at side og kigge fortabt ind i en rød væg
for intet er godt her
jeg er ikke glad for alle de bøger og regler
jeg ville hellere male og tegne
til lyden af glasdråber der spiller på trommer
som når regn rammer husets blanke tag
vandrer fortabt rundt
på sorte gader oplyst af stjerner der står oprejst
langs breden af de kolde sten
lukker mine øjne og åbner mit sind
tænder en cigaret
flammen fra lighteren giver den liv
og røgen danser i mund
mine blå konger
med tomme hjerter
hvor er min hvide prins?
jeg er alene
min blå konge forlader mig
ligesom de mange før ham skoder jeg ham
han dør tavst på den kolde sorte vej
hvor jeg før dansede rundt til høj musik
men jeg nåede at blive afhængig
så jeg finder min magiske flamme frem
og giver en ny blå konge liv
lader ham kysse mig
gøre mig glad og tilfreds
indtil han ikke er der mere
og jeg må starte helt forfra

My broken heart is in pieces
Got a missing piece too
It’s beyond repair,
It turned black
Had so much love which felt green
Now the glass is shattering
Everything turning blue and black

Reminiscing the good times that felt fatal
Remembering the memories of him
Oh so unstable
Had a niggling feeling
Couldn’t catch the onset becoming
Possessed with demon blood
I hate that I’m ugly beyond repair
My heart sings the songs of the fallen
I hate that it’s breaking up
Whatever was befallen

I can’t run or hide away from this feeling,
It’s the last of humanity dealing
I can’t finish the crossed line
I’m becoming the demon that which I am dealing.
Rescue me no man coming
I’m unbecoming the version that cried to god
But no one came nor they stayed
It was a one man job.

Help me there is no resolution
I have been and un-been
Feeling gratuitous from the moment the flesh erased to the glass skin.
I will go down and under
Lost in the sea of monster
If this is the end, let me be
An uncaring **** stirrer.

I’m the glue that binds us;
when I fall silent, you fall off.
I’m a conversation stirrer.
I’m the conversation ender.

A boxer with an undercut goes for an uppercut against his opponent
Who doesn't know the correct pronunciation of the word "sterile"  
Don't you get it?
Cut the cable
And stay inviolate
Perform the synthesis
Wait for the nuisance to abate

Ride on the magic carpet
Be nimble
Pass on
Against the grain
The shrill laughs
Just make your way in the world
Through the Savannah
Going job hunting

Downplay it
A well deserved day off
Coke bottle glasses
Sleepless
Countering verbal assaults
Chopping wood and ******* blood
Oh brother, oh bother
Upstairs, down stairs

Pushed away by bad music
The barista sneezed in my coffee
I wonder what she does after hours
Mercy mild
Made from concentrate
You don't want any part of this
You poor anemic *******
You *** stirrer

I saw this young lady
She stepped into Starbucks
Holding a thick novel by Murakami
And a wrapped sandwich from Subway
In front of the counter
She smiled to the Barista
Ordered her coffee
Grande hot caramel latte, i guess
She chose to seat at the corner
Tasted her coffee using the stirrer
Unwrapped her sandwish, began to eat
I kept my eyes on this young lady
While she was eating, she was scrolling
Wasnt sure what was she looking at
But I saw she smiled, and giggled to herself
She was all alone
Accompanied by her handbag, handphone, coffee, and subway
But her face didn't show that she was lonely
She ate halfway, i knew she enjoyed her sandwich a little while ago,
She seemed to made a phone call out
Her pleasant face changed expression
While she was talking on the phone
She took the Starbucks serviette
Started tearing, began to cry
What a long conversation she had.
I watched her for a moment
What made this young lady cried?
I wonder.
She didn't finish her sandwich,
I wasnt sure bout her coffee, but she threw it away as she stepped out from Starbucks.
I whispered to my self,
"What drama I just watched?"

*** græder og græder, og jeg tror *** tænker på en, jeg kan se det, at det gør ondt, jeg kigger på hende, ja stirrer næsten når saltvandet klamrer sig til hendes kindben og holder fast med alt, hvad de kan, men falder længere ned og holder fast for livet om hendes kæbe, inden de skubbes ned af hinanden, en efter en, og ligger sig sammen som en bunke af lig på den kirkegård der nu er ved siden af hendes ødelagte gummisko, ja *** dræber de fine dråber, og jeg tror, at det er fordi, at *** selv er blevet dræbt i hjertet.

I sit, I wish
    for the glistening moon pools
          to sprinkle down my way.
                 Dreamy starry sky,
                    and the soft combing breeze
                      sings sweet lullabies
                    to the indigo trees.
              Sing the same to me,
           and I'll go where you go;
            river so wide,
          wider's my window!

           Now dance as you've done
        so many times before;
      embrace the morning sun's
       broad rays on your shore.
                                                         Far banks shall appear
                                                 with the coming of April,
                                               and strike out I will
                                            through the dusty rock passes
                                       through mountains of yellow
                                      and bridges of gold -- until
                                          I gain the city of friends,
                                             lamplights and streetlights
                                                    ­   and buslights and doors
                                                           ­       will be closed.

                                                        ­Gone, then, are the wishes
                                                 and wonders and wants,
                                      the things that I hoped for
                              a long time ago.

                     The trill of the strings
                           (my only respite
                                from keen madness
                                      or a tantō
                                      to wish me goodnight)
                                 rises on palm-tops,
                            floats in cool grasses,
                       gives purpose my soul.
                                  So much peace I find
                                     in warm charming moonlight....

                             Tomorrow, concern may put your course
                                       on a laxed and lumberous way,
                                  great river of the dying day,
                          but as long as my will goes on,
           and the wonderful will of the Maker,
     those fleet-footed brigands
won't catch me, for I am
      faster than they are.

...Calming storm,
     you stirrer and squeezer,
       present most of the time that I need you:
                Set my mind,
                   for all its vain attempts;
               make me relent,
                 and I won't deceive you.
                        Till then, I'll be leaving you soon,
                            but know my April blush
                               is the same color as in June,
                              and the fabric of all that I hope for
                            is the cloth of the comforting moon.

another day
another active shooter
our hatred has loosed the hell hounds
foreign and domestic terrorism abounds
when will we learn that it’s us

there’s a madman behind the curtain
who doesn’t understand theatre
with the whole world watching
he normalizes hatred and apathy
unable to see beyond the foot lights
unwilling to look beyond his own nose
or his wallet’s bottom line
wearing narcissisms blinders
this **** stirrer has emboldened the **** stirrers
with everyone eager and willing
to jump into the cesspool
but I don’t blame him
it’s on us

social media has bloomed
an anarchy of tongues wagging
through clacking keyboards
it’s safer to speak up
when you can’t get hit in the mouth
judgement day is now
the threads are teeming with
name calling
immaturity
arguments for arguments’ sake
hatred
vehemence
the traits we hold back in real life
are somehow acceptable online
but I don’t blame social media
it’s on us

tomorrow's skies will be blue or gray
regardless of what weathermen have to say
the futility of a random universe
with each advancement both a blessing and a curse
license plates used to ask
“will we **** the last whale?”
the bigger question today:
will we **** the last human?
ecology’s breakdown
GMOs and pesticides
social injustices
racial divides
domestic violence and teen suicides
new ‘worst ever’ shootings
WMD in little boys’ hands
will we do it?
will we **** the last human?
it’s on us