Songs of Swoon

Sex's beautiful,
sex's a sport,
sport's a sex,
come on, let's flex.

Sex's extraordinary,
sex's mean poetry,
poetry's a mean sex,
words are triple x.

Sex's together,
sex's a body,
body's a sex,
together in sex.
Sex's the sun,
flower and moon;
sex's the wind,
songs of swoon.

Sex's for all,
before & after,
all the sex,
love's no laughter.

©D W 2005July 29

Tildes and Accents

I may speak with an accent,
but think without one.

I may speak with an accent,
not think with one.

I may speak with an accent,
but my thoughts not.

I may speak with an accent,
and speak with one voice.

Speak may I with an accent,
think not with one.

I still write in two idioms,
anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

Patriotism is a foreign concept to me,
to love the land, the earth, life is not.

Speak to me, and I will listen;
listen while I speak,
and we'll understand each other.

DW2005
July28

Even sharks stop by

Even sharks stop by
to look at themselves
in the mirror
and comb their fins

There is subtle beauty
in the rugged features
of an ugly and ordinary face

Consumed by an ageless disdain,
the day is stabbed in the chest,
and
it slowly bleeds into the night
as angels remorsefully
repent their faults

To be one with anger,
to hold captive an audience
of empty eyed faces steering,
endlessly as time fades away.

Watching fingernails grow and
a hairline recede to the back
of the neck to crack open
a cookie jar smile
- All for a better tomorrow

Don't burn bridges
before crossing the i's
and
dotting the t's

Jokes and hoaxes,
hyenas and ballerinas,
the end of the day
is
catapulted into smithereens
by endless meetings

Copyright DW

La noche entre los muslos

La noche entre los muslos
calzó una sonrisa de ceja tuerta.
Encontré el corazón desubicado
bajo la tiniebla del busto.
Los labios comprados recibieron
el calor de la saliva y
devolvió las costillas
por castillos de arena.
Enjuagué el sudor
de los cuerpos y
guardé la evidencia
en su boca.
Tuve las manos del reloj
suscritas en la piel y
borré el nombre mío
tatuado sobre su cóccix.

Derechos Del Autor DW

Undeserving Promiscuity

Who comes from the dark to the light,
approaches an entrance to my veins
and asks for an extended hospitality?

Are there birds, words, and bullets
capable of fitting inside my alligator mouth?
Where's the harmonica player,
the shoeshine box and the newspaper boy,
who took time to freeze Manhattan of old?

Take the back of my tree into your garden,
open the orifice and settle your heart.
Justify the kiss of the dogged moon
and the flower embedded on my chest.

I am ready to dance when the music starts,
bring in the muses on a yellow checkered taxi.
I have the horse's breath delivered to your door,
permit this servant to pour a jug of blood.

©DW2005
July 21

Counting fallen stars on the shore -Montauk

Montauk on my mind

Montauk seaside looking west

Montauk shoreline by the lighthouse

Montauk's Lighthouse

Montauk shoreline by the lighthouse

Montauk seaside looking east

Montauk seaside looking west

Shelter Island - Crescent Beach

Montauk by Gosman's

Un poeta

no debe tener

vergüenza al

desnudar

su alma

con sus

versos

al público.

Derechos Del Autor

Einstein

De tanto mirar atrás

la bicicleta de Einstein

devoró el borrador

del lápiz que no pudo cambiar

(el contenido)

la formula relativa

al peso de las frutas

sobre tu pecho

y la perdición del péndulo carnal.

Derechos Del Autor

No daughter should ever live this

No daughter should ever live this


To Jalil Shaalan's daughter


Could I tell her
that there's a difference
between a bullet and hate,
that there's a difference
between a Sunni and a Shiite,
that there's a difference
between life and death in Baghdad?

Could I comfort her
by saying that nearly
twenty five thousand
have lost their lives as her father's?

Could I tell her father's blood
staining the brick wall outside
a Baghdad school compound
will not be there when she stops crying?

Could I tell her it makes sense
to kill to make peace?

No, I can't.


©D W 2005
July 22

Ventanas al cuello

Como la naturaleza, la inteligencia tiene sus espectáculos, M. Proust

Si no fuera por la jaula del cerebro, el cráneo, el ave del pensamiento volátil huiría por el horizonte, sin haber conocido el sur. Dentro la cavidad del cráneo, las ideas gestan pensamientos, pensamientos desatan lógica; todos los días tienen paredes pintadas azul oscuro con ventanas hacia el cuello.

Derechos Reservados

Breathe Rain

Rain has arrived on this date, someone's birthday, someone's deathday, someone's stillday. I'm trapped inside a modern building with windows to the highway, with windows to trees, with windows to infinity. Wherever water stagnates a puddle is born and someone is meant to be splashed. I'm not sure if the rain is aware of its own meaning, or of its own purpose. I'm not sure that I'm aware of my own intention. Our eyes are windows to the world, the prism of the soul wide open. Raindrops kiss the window, some stay with other drops, some slide above other drops, some wait to dry with heart. Take notice of what stays around you. Take note of your own existence. Be aware of your being.

Reo Del Cigarrillo October 19, 2004

Lorca, Crane and I stroll the Brooklyn Bridge

Lorca, Crane and I stroll the Brooklyn Bridge

City to city, trails connect
new faces to the finger tip of guitar lines;
a world intertwined between the street noise
and ink tattooed on a nomad's leaf.

Birds float above to eye every step taken,
and the train's steps clang alike at the station -
from winter to summer and back
unannounced changes roll through.

Buildings stand still to allure men
to covet and climb heights in feet.
A song plays and flows sinuously,
every harmonious note lifts up an eye.

©DirkWojtczack 2005
July 20