put a thing in the hands of a mob and the result
will pretty much always be the same.
a middle-aged iranian-englishman of hungarian
origin who chainsmoked lucky strikes. somehow he
won. it was a blues brothers look-a-like contest
at a bar on rosa-luxemburg. he entered as either
jake or elwood. not sure which. he looked nothing
like either. and besides, his hat was the wrong
shape, his tie was a long strip of black duct tape.
it went straight down his shirt but to the left.
it had to go to the left, otherwise he wouldn’t be
able to unbutton his shirt without pulling all the
buttons off. also, his sunglasses were completely
off. the kiwi rugby-player at our table kept giving
him shit for wearing them, “they’re tortoise-shell wraparounds…” he said. “jezus christ man, you
can’t win this thing wearing tortoise-shell
wraparounds…” it didn’t matter. winner was
determined via audience applause & when you put a
thing into the hands of a mob, the result will
pretty much always be the same: an iranian-englishman
of hungarian origin, duct tape for a tie, tortoise-
shell wraparounds. asshole takes the pot.
I turned this FB status update into a poem.
I am alone with the proprietor at a Turkish
internet cafe/boilerroom in Kreuzberg. It cost me
.60 cents to be online here for an hour.
The keyboard is multi-lingual. There are umlauts
and other strange intricacies I don’t recognize.
I already failed once. In trying
to hit the underscore, I hit some other underscore,
the false one, and the screen shrunk. I hit it again
and it got smaller. Finally it turned into a tiny dash
and did a mad scurry up
into the far left hand corner of the screen.
I asked the proprietor
about it. He shook his head, withdrew
a paisley kerchief from his pocket, swabbed
his forehead. Then he booted
up another hot box. Now he’s running a vacuum
cleaner around my feet.
There is no use denying it or trying to prove otherwise.
I am worth .60 cents to him.
And someone moved the Y
to the bottom left hand corner of the keyboard.
As the vacuum
cleaner bangs against my feet.
i am now living in kreuzberg (trans. crosshill), which is the most bohemian/multi-kulti part of berlin. i am renting 4th floor flat a from a girl who left town for 2 months. she left me to it and all her things. books by kant, sophokles, anias nin, etc., in german. paintings, old shoes, postcards, perfumes, wine bottles, an old brown leather purse. there is a strange odor that comes out of the kitchen. i used to have to stand up at the cutting board table to get internet reception there, but the neighbor apparently found out i was sponging, so he put an end to it. for the time being i will be emailing, submitting, etc. from turkish internet cafes. they are everywhere around here. they are usually about .60 cents per hour & have all the ambiance of a boilerroom.
(the pic of the moon above was taken from my flat. the other one i took when i was walking around at dusk. it’s of an old church and the fernsehturm in the backdrop… old/new)
“It IS really a silly notion
that artists must suffer for their work
via drugs and alcohol,
or even suffer
at all,” says the facebook poet who
is also busy trying
to promote himself as a softball
“Suffering is the fleetest animal that bears you to perfection” ~ Meister Eckhart
self-preservation is the fleetest animal that bears you to mediocrity.
I am fairly sure ALL the great poets have suffered greatly in general & for their work.
It IS a silly notion that artists must promote themselves as heroes of the softball field and downplay suffering.