Deep into these travels, out of pocket and still I feel good, look good
tonight. There's a swivel globe giving light to Tania's living room.
Outdoors a balcony eats up Berlin with chairs for soft
lips. An old, important song is on bail from iTunes zoo cells that are
crammed with sing-along festival slogans, and I'm onto happiness,
staying with the globe as if I could have remained a small boy, all those years ago
(this phrase I can now say) guessing capital cities, ignoring the third
world, the real world and my future world. My reading loosens into a
gaze when I see beyond
the Pacific Ocean, as if to come upon an undiscovered constellation: a
girl in a white trench coat, speaking German through smiles. And then
I'm back with the globe, this time it's a
glance at nihilism and civilization, Afghan, and what she
doesn't know once our eyes have met is that I want to be there; I want
to be ironed and hung up for this, where my finger tip is pressing a
warned warning into the
Earth; I want to fuck up a nemesis, to fuck her, the both of us fucked
up, and still I forget to open my mouth and speak into that future, into
which, always a blown kiss and a fist listening for fear (of)
