tiredness washes over me
and music fills the voids
a long lonesome road this lady travels
with so many questions on her mind
and secrets tucked away neatly
in the darker corners of her mind
learning to count her blessings
and love laughter like dreams fading into the fall
it might just be that you keep walking
and walking
all alone
children lift the moments higher
touching clouds
monsters and rabbits
pirate ships and
trying so hard to please
neatly opening the pink mini bag
the pink labello
smeared around her mouth
because she hasn't found her own lips yet
the mother gently caressing her daughters hairdo
you can see how she carefully cleans the little dress with her fingers
so no crums remain
and she looks at me with these big, asking eyes.
a dishwasher in the tea room
as if he knew that i looked at him through the little window
he raises his head
and smiles at me
like the little indian boy on the train
he keeps playing the game
coming back and glancing and smiling
and it s for free
there is a lot of things that can kill a man
there are many ways to die
ray lamontagne sings empty
will i always feel this way?
so empty
so
estranged
Showing posts with label the streets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the streets. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Thursday, October 01, 2009
child of snow
the streets whisper in secrets to me, finally. i felt like dropping down and begging. drinking clear water from a creek in dalmatia. or waking up as a child of snow in some soldier's arms in the times between.
rocking softly back and forth i hear the streets rustling, like leaves in fall. there is a moon over manhattan and my eyelids drop heavily over the cobblestones and histories past. churches are ducking away under big towering buildings that speak of loudness and consume and death to the indians.
it is hardly silent in this church and i hear my tears drop inbetween the rumbles and bumbles of the subway in the subterranean. listening to the inside thoughts stumble over each other and rush one another like the people outside the streets. slowly dwindeling down to some humming and finally a sigh. i get to see everything from a distance. the coat i fell in love with and the dresses, the ridiculous electronics and boots and pumps and everything. it all doesn't matter.
the next day i meet an old man on the street. he is buying something to eat and we smile and start a conversation that ends in his loft on broadway avenue with him playing the piano in ways that make my heart stop and us improvising music that resides inside.
he tells me stories about the origins of the blues and the stories of the many faces in the streets.
you are distant and faint now and we shared a good laugh when he asked me about you. he said, this reminds me of that joke of two jewish ladies meeting in a park. the one asks the other, how are you, and she answers with a heavy sigh. when she is asked in return, she also sighs and the other lady says, hey, i thought we agreed on not speaking of our sons again!
he said i had just such an expression when he asked me about you. i do love the roma though. and everything that reminds me of you. the visions of johanna and greenwich village, indeed.
now there is another man in another country who is not aware of anything or maybe too much. it s good to sleep.
i was a child of snow in his arms and we fell into the skies, upside down, into the skies.
rocking softly back and forth i hear the streets rustling, like leaves in fall. there is a moon over manhattan and my eyelids drop heavily over the cobblestones and histories past. churches are ducking away under big towering buildings that speak of loudness and consume and death to the indians.
it is hardly silent in this church and i hear my tears drop inbetween the rumbles and bumbles of the subway in the subterranean. listening to the inside thoughts stumble over each other and rush one another like the people outside the streets. slowly dwindeling down to some humming and finally a sigh. i get to see everything from a distance. the coat i fell in love with and the dresses, the ridiculous electronics and boots and pumps and everything. it all doesn't matter.
the next day i meet an old man on the street. he is buying something to eat and we smile and start a conversation that ends in his loft on broadway avenue with him playing the piano in ways that make my heart stop and us improvising music that resides inside.
he tells me stories about the origins of the blues and the stories of the many faces in the streets.
you are distant and faint now and we shared a good laugh when he asked me about you. he said, this reminds me of that joke of two jewish ladies meeting in a park. the one asks the other, how are you, and she answers with a heavy sigh. when she is asked in return, she also sighs and the other lady says, hey, i thought we agreed on not speaking of our sons again!
he said i had just such an expression when he asked me about you. i do love the roma though. and everything that reminds me of you. the visions of johanna and greenwich village, indeed.
now there is another man in another country who is not aware of anything or maybe too much. it s good to sleep.
i was a child of snow in his arms and we fell into the skies, upside down, into the skies.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
alone
his dishes were dirty, piling up in the kitchen. foot prints all over the floor and the trashcans stinking. the mattress of his bed halfway slouching on the floor, the frame broken. he had run out of filters and papers again, talking to some Musician in Kansas City on skype.
I made pasta out of the few ingredients I could find in his fridge that weren´t rotten yet. The coffee machine was broken too and the cupboards unbelievably sticky and dirty. Official letters spilled over the kitchen table right next to his socks hanging on a laundry rack. Job center. Unpaid bills. Rent two months behind.
You need a label like us he says in the other room to the guy in Kansas City and then a couple of words in my language talking to me, maybe to impress him.
Can´t get to see his kid in a way that would make a normal relationship possible. And the laws are so fucked man.
He´s a hustler, baby and you know it.
later I sink into oblivion on his insanely comfortable black couch. talking about this and that. his kid. the laws. about America. about Europe. the differences. about, when it is time to leave.
and suddenly, like clouds being torn by a ray of light pushing through his attention focuses on this one question. never have i heard him listen as attentively before as I try to explain what it is like to perform music and feel this certain kind of energy flow and exchange.
i can´t explain.
this man is a wreck.
he is a mystery.
I made pasta out of the few ingredients I could find in his fridge that weren´t rotten yet. The coffee machine was broken too and the cupboards unbelievably sticky and dirty. Official letters spilled over the kitchen table right next to his socks hanging on a laundry rack. Job center. Unpaid bills. Rent two months behind.
You need a label like us he says in the other room to the guy in Kansas City and then a couple of words in my language talking to me, maybe to impress him.
Can´t get to see his kid in a way that would make a normal relationship possible. And the laws are so fucked man.
He´s a hustler, baby and you know it.
later I sink into oblivion on his insanely comfortable black couch. talking about this and that. his kid. the laws. about America. about Europe. the differences. about, when it is time to leave.
and suddenly, like clouds being torn by a ray of light pushing through his attention focuses on this one question. never have i heard him listen as attentively before as I try to explain what it is like to perform music and feel this certain kind of energy flow and exchange.
i can´t explain.
this man is a wreck.
he is a mystery.
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