My clouds, my thoughts
my volatile innocence free
in blue, being there for a moment
as a passing question
whether the blue is what I think of it
or that it damns my wishes

The familiar blue
encloses me, encloses everything
as a heaven around the earth
as the promise that I too
am included in the big
forever

although it is empty
thus passing
the utmost judgment, on
my vain thoughts
my religious illusion
that it is all

In the dream garden I celebrate
the beauty of everything
that pleases me
No corpse smell anywhere

everyone a floral scent
on his paradisaical body
with heavenly senses

like Adam and Eve
and no one falls

and there's nothing to lose

Pleasures abound
everyone's wishes fulfilled

because they have changed
and no longer bite each other
The perfect world

where life is no longer
what it was, not as we
know it, a garden where
our time, time, does not exist

And the evening and the morning
were the eighth day, the people
plaited roofs, they mated

and the men said: pure
are our homes and all
that we need

but God is the Creator
of life and death, everyone who
touches those becomes impure

and must humbly wash
off the germs of his pride
his fertility

is a given
or refused grace
he must remove

the smell and the traces
of her bleeding and his seed
so as not to perish from impotence

If it really could have been his son
how could God have been so mad
as to have him tortured to death?
Even worse than the madness
of Abraham who sacrificed Isaac?

Apparently, it was required
by the priests and theologians
for part 2 of the story:
Christianity after Judaism

With the nonsensical twist
that The Giver Makes A Sacrifice
to the superstitious

who want to receive heaven
and bow their heads once a year

at the words 'Have mercy'

I walk twenty steps, five feet
down into the darkness
of buried secrets
on the outskirts of the oasis

I walk twenty steps, five feet
in the excavation
next to the shallow ditch
which was once a pond

Discovered from the sky
vaguely marked in the sand
by odd gauge values
of the substrate

Back into the light
where a man sits
on the roots of an old tree
looking at me

Compelling, he beckons me
pointing to his water bottle
and I realise
that he knows the answers

to the questions I shall ask
when he is no longer there

It happened by itself
the training of my body
to eat, poop, and sleep
at set times, the limits

that punish me
if I pass them
to consciously enjoy
the freedom that I didn't have

as a baby, when I was still purely
an observer of the world
a stormy place of rest
a heaven of the limits

heaven of the constellations
that I drew, my maps
of the intertwined patterns
around me, the limits

of what I knew, of what I know
safe walls with windows
if I want to go further
in my meditation

Invisible is my hand, in which
the earth lies, I caress and hit it
pull fire out, pile up ice

I bring hail, snow and rain to it:
Love me, please!
Oh, love me, please!

     The humans hope to see me
     and to hear from my mouth who
     I am and what my plans are

     they search the secrets
     of life, they ask:
     Love me, please!

They seek access to heaven
to the power over safety
no unpredictable wind

but Amma Appa
to look after them:
Love me, please!

Sometimes a bad wind is blowing
in my head, a devil chasing devils
in other people or

a wronged haughtiness
that favours itself, asking:
Love me, please!

     From whom can I buy prosperity
     (life-lasting and guaranteed)
     which options do I have

     what in the world should I
     and shall I do for it?
     Oh, do love me, please!

I'm muttering prayers and follow
their status every day: Sent!
Considering article two

any action on my own behalf is
not allowed, so I beg and entreat:
Love me, please!

Chains of five handshakes
have woven a net around me
connecting me with everyone

on earth, they say, with the world
that calls out to me:
Love me, please!

     To do so would really be difficult
     It's okay to love my neighbours
     but physically and financially

     I do have my limits
     and even then, what is the answer
     if I ask you: Love me, please?

We all prefer to love
the friends from our own
groups, don't we?

That's why I'm listening
within my own circles
wishing I knew who

     I can trust
     and who just wants me
     as his possession

     because without trust
     I can not reply
     I love you

In empty places in the city
I stop for a while to see
if something is there anyway

Because attention must
be lead away from what you want
to keep unseen, like

God being unknowable, dressed
in the universe and hidden
under the invisibility cloak

of a religion, that gaudy
robe of customs
and holy words

Just like voids
they show nothing, just the nothing
if that existed

And yet I pay attention
whether something is noticeable
of the secret of everything

People want to believe in their own
importance, continue to shine
after their death, also

they like to dream to be
elsewhere than where they are
and they hope for better

and for love, that holy
story that makes beautiful
what their unbridled lust is doing

Oh, Faith, Hope, and Love
are romantic poems
suns of happiness if you like

or fictions if you dare to live
without Grace and privileges
that you keep for yourself

because everything is for everyone
but what you have received
you don't have to give?

Only now that I come back here
I see it as a paradise, this green land
the flowers, the golden grain
all the riches I thought to be normal

Now, the familiar overwhelms
my new eyes, filling me
with nostalgia even before
I think about leaving

Or will I stay for the rest
of my life, knowing very well
that it is soulheart work
to sleep together

wolf people and sheep people
cow, bear, and snake people
It is heartwork in paradise
for enough straw for everyone

The god of thunder and the sea
is the most dangerous, he does not plunder
he does not rape, makes no slaves

he shakes the earth, the houses
collapse and the plains are torn
open or drown with everything alive

in the flood that he pushes up
People suffer and die
centuries later we still know:

fertile fields under the Black Sea
the drowned army in the Sea of Reeds
the buried walls of the glorious city

and ruins in the barren land of Argos
the famous rivals destroyed together
by trembling earth and pounding water

We still know it, looking out over the banks
of the Panitsa and the Little Meander
under which the angry god is sleeping

Hair turned white from worries
right away, shrinking
for fear and a pinkish skin
on light feet when being in love:

transformations
are very normal
even the blissful body
after a jar of mead

that divine food
which unmistakably pours
immortality in all cells
with everyone who drinks it

the gold, searched in vain
of which the powers
and alchemists dreamed -
forgotten by almost everyone

after - the pious redemption
of the soul, the plagues
of prosperity and the brewing
with yeast, gale and hops

What my brain can do so well
it cannot do one more time:
put upside down
images of the eye right

I tried it
with a film
and got sick
of the world

dizzy into my intestines
as in Villa Volta
where I braced myself
against gravity

Only with closed eyes
I can relax and hang
in ropes, or stand on my head
like a tarot-twelve yogi

and exist in slow motion
floating from alpha to delta
waves into the depth
my imagination of eternal

life

The speed of the train pulls
the weight out of the world

before my eyes, shapeless stripes

draw unscientifically the formula
of Einstein on the windows

Sometimes there is a short view of
what it is, when you stand still

Then you can see
what it is, something temporary

in its puzzling flight
of apparent illusions

Everything exists
not knowing how

If a door is not a door
but an artistic optical illusion
then I can still appreciate that
but an inheritance of debts
or a romantic wedding night
in Paris l'amour going wrong

are certainly not dreams
I wish to come true
I rather keep up the fairy tales

So I point to a positive side
or I play that it goes well
and nothing is at stake
But is a tree alive when it rustles?

What is truth? Can illusions just be
recognized by the appearance
to be as real as real?

Or even more real, if happiness
is re-enacted in a play, because
loyalty and doubt seem to be
much more authentic on stage
and to render more sense there
than is possible in my own life

The world is divided
but I learned to tie
the pieces together

to patterns, and still
I saw more and more differences
so I searched for connection

in religion and the One
soul of mankind
in which you have to believe

because it cannot be seen
in the divided world
in which I live, surviving, and

the other is a stranger
however much I know about him
even if he is my dearest

there is plenty to guess
I call it secrets
that comes close

to the mystery

Let there be light, and there was light
big bang alpha from darkness
the first day the beginning
of all days of history

until the last day
in the omega hyperhole
the way, the truth
life and all

is described and recorded
in hologram bits, all
that exists existed and will exist
it has expanded itself in time

and it has compressed space again
it is collecting in It's
ultimate hyperhole which sees all
and knows all, and it stands still

Thought enough, it's time
to live and do
to feed and breathe

to breathe in the tiniest
vibrations of the allsoul
the knowing consciousness

of love and death
everything I know
if I'm not thinking

So thought enough, it's time
to live and do
to give shapes

to possibilities, to the seeds
of my passion and my will
to give shapes to love and death

Because the whole is whole
completely without nothing
and of course anyway
also all nothing
of the whollyverse

not just the unthinkable
what ever was
before the beginning
of the stars
and what will be
after the existence
of the stars

but also the illusion
of the time
in which we live
and think we know something
of what the whole ignorantly knows

When I feel that there is something higher
I feel, on the contrary, my body

Not looking from the depths
if there is a ladder, but
limitless, and then
I know It does not exist
as higher, but within everything
I touch, within everything I think
and inhale and exhale

What I feel is not the distance
but the proximity of the all
and I sigh from the depths
of my soul, which does not exist
the way I've learned, but
which is bodily, I feel it
when I feel that there is something higher

I sit in a warm shade
under the sweet smelling holiness
contemplating the world

in revelations, drugged
knowing who why what when
where with, and that also

the white mountains are holy
bloodlessly cold, then warm again
always untouchable, therefore

I embrace the world
tree, the strong, flexible wood
of the largest bows

that shoot further than is possible
with other bows, with arrowheads
and poison pots they are exhibited

in the museum
as the triple power
of rapid death

The children ask why
we live where we live
how you got

the antique lamp, and why
I don't know all the answers
With magic

I make stories out of it
life stories
of pain, sorrow and success

smeared up smooth
with a little boasting, shiny
with enough meaning

to make them survive
to let them give support and comfort
hope in anxious days -

anecdotes, whipped up sturdy
and thickened till they are firm enough
for others to preserve them

and robust enough to remember them
and to pass them on
stories to pass on

Cooing pigeons in the trees
of Mother Earth and Heaven
the home of the Spirit

whose breath quietly rustles
in the leaves, tapping the bronze
like charivari music mocking us

The oracle priests listen
and make sanctimonious faces
Whispering they deliberate

to pronounce riddles
with sense and authority
about matters of the soul and politics

here in the woods on the mountains
between the eternal snow
and the shores of the sea

It's hot down here
Bitumen grinds in the clay
smoking in the pores
of the steam cracker

The chimney fills
itself with ethylene, under
the stopper, the navel
of Mother Earth, until in

a new star month
a sacred show begins
a woman is led to the stool
a man opens the navel under her

solemnly puts it down
under the canopy and the priests
stand out of the smell to listen
with feigned attention

She is intoxicated and raves
She is in a trance of ignorance
She is getting light-headed
She is losing more and more brain cells

To the priests, it is clear
They have poured the divine answer

into hexameters and have repeated it
until they could recite it flawlessly
as the translation of the dissonances
from the mouth of their prisoner

whom they serve for show
for farmers, citizens and envoys

at a foot of the house
of the gods, the white mountain
of weak limestone
at the intersection

of hidden cracks
in which the ground has sunk

In the evening the heat rises
and my blood cools
I roam the rocks and mountain
terraces, sniffing for traces

of the sweet gas that, for centuries
has successfully defied the mind

The envoys of Athens
in their comfortable carriages
democratically stripped of finery

are dignified by the inability
to make a decision, divided
by all the nuances of reason

They'll have to wait
because we don't have any news
from our informants yet

We sprinkle the goat
with lukewarm water, it does not shiver
so the god will not speak

until the stars are right again
and we are informed
about the politics of the monarchs

We save expenses nor pains
We are the dedicated priests
of a notable consulting business

As a child I believed
in God and eternal life
but
the adults were doubting

As believers, they believe
and they hope, always
in the full awareness
of their shortcomings

They believe, hope and pray
to be truthfully nonetheless
afraid that their good deeds are no
diamonds in God's omniscience

but stains of hypocrisy
on their best clothes
in the house of prayer
for the royal wedding banquet

to which they are bidden
as wanderers, without merits
anxious if God will cover their souls in time
with the clean garments of his grace

After the departure of the Romans
we were again our own masters
at war with each other

The sergeants took over
first the peripheral areas
then the middle land

Only behind the mountains
the residents continue to resist
longing for a king of their own

As once
his sword shone
his sword shines

immovably stuck
in the eyes of the people
dreaming of a peaceful life –

a passed-on promise
for once, but unfortunately
the sword has disappeared

She's just sitting there
as a strong magnet
People come and go
home healed, they say

She must be a saint
a new one, who is among us
She doesn't need anything
she returns everything right away

People who give hope
receive hope, people full of love
get even more love
The disappointed leave

deeply disappointed, and aggressive visitors
are knocked own with their own anger
Wishes and curses bounce off
her, so full of everything she is

a black star, a full void
in which there is no more space –
complete gravity, visible
in everything she reflects

We aren't friends, yet
I nod to her, my hand too
bends to greet, nobody can

see this, just to be sure
I keep a distance, everyone can
damage me

The people spit at her
since the neighbours' son
is sick and the fever goes up

Last month they pulled her
out of her home, they tore
the clothes off her back

they have beaten her
into the pond and drove her
naked through the streets

There was blood in the zucchini
the baba gave her, everybody
has seen she is a witch

The boy is better again, but
the neighbour is entitled to her
land because of his child, they say

Sometimes thinking is making difficult
what is simple, but uncomfortable
to admit, yet the children are happy
with what their parents explain

for example that they have to learn
to mistrust Evil, which is talking idly
and giving free tickets
that you will suffer for after your life

You know that it isn't true
It isn't even from hearsay
and far from everyone
is thinking about it that way
so, as long as nobody gets serious
you can just do as you please
the older children have found out

What else does Evil
harm than the tender soul
of the adults and the good
they have devised for you?
To be a victim, or an offender -
it is a devilish dilemma

Like wild geese, fishermen
and monks landed here, others

sailed on and discovered America
but they came back

by the north, Thule
where it rains glowing stones

where the land burns and the rocks
swim between boiling fountains

There are the gates of hell
and the paths to heaven

the huge curtains of ice
above the clouds

They came back to tell
about these wonders, too biblical

to want to keep them secret
from their family and friends

And the new world
they forgot

It is not personal
when things go wrong
although I live wisely
because we put everything together

in the karma mixer
of instincts and virtues
and circumstances that change
from moment to moment

My life is too short
for any karma of my own
It only comes out
of the karma mixer later

as a drop in the brew
That's all I am
insignificant, even
when I'm famous

The arc of the sun: counted
with marks and stones
showing the shadow

of the days, the differences
in the journey of its light
and the rhythm of the rain

from standstill to standstill
You can measure time
in half years

and see it at intervals
of a few weeks, but
without stones and marks

you will not notice
that you cross a boundary of time
like sailing between the Diomedes

the counting does not match
reality any longer
Calendars are fiction

years too, they have no boundary
no days before and after
that are different

each day is new
and unique as a number
in a series without end

that's how life goes
the life all of us live
as if there is no end

Seeing smooth water
in the canal and then without
looking any longer, think

of the fuss
of jumping molecules
the superfast sparks

of our slow mind
with its outposts
the retina watchmen, they

need magnifying glasses
to see differences
in the breathless water

and they call them time
and mass, hence space
in one word existence

which slows down
the more you distance yourself
Thought to infinity

everything stands still
in sets of now
immaterial photos

of nano seconds
and I call them
eternity

Despite squallers
rotters and villains

despite opportunists
schemers and profiteers

looters, murderers
and rapists, I do believe

and in spite of myself, my
worries, fears and pride

my greedy gluttony, flattery
impatience and envy, I do believe

in a better world, fair
justice, equal opportunities

cities and villages without
oppression, cruelty and wastage

In such a life after my death, I do believe
in people without fear of each other

I knew the outside world
from stories: there are forests
and foreigners, mean people too
But always someone comes
to help, and I learned

you can be a hero
It's about the outcome
(the blessed life only starts
  with the happy end)

That's how I grew up
and the world grew along with me
so that my outside world got further
and further away, and I learned

daily life is boring and
it is unfeasible to be a hero
But my little son wants
me to tell something exciting

So I get brews
from the wizards of stories
I stir and boil them up
I let him feast

eager
to be soon grown-up enough
to go into the wide world himself
travelling to the happy end

and I keep silent how far it is
and that it is shifting away
every day, to the future
in which we won't be

Everything is a continuation
of days gone by
which we can dream
as a hold in our lives

Boulders and push moraines
eternal snow, powerful rivers
migrating birds and giants of the forest
the earth born from stars

     It is so much larger
     than the tiny dream worlds
     that divert our attention
     as a hoped hold in our lives

     But the stories of arts
     science and politics
     that divide us into differences
     are too small to unite us

The narrow path is better
I learn from the adults
who complain and go
the broad roads with ease

It's not that simple
as you will learn, they sigh
this is the real world
not the true one, we know that

too well. Cheaters
I think, I don't go along
with that, you walk around
the old treadmills without me

with justdo's mustdo's don'tdo's
the enemies, who are allies
in the weak steps of vice
on which no police is ventured

for one shouldn't be naive
The whole world participates
That's how we small me's
have come where we are and

we have a loved one who wants
to live in an ordinary house
with ordinary children. Traitor
I think, there is no worse

When my conscience cannot get out
afraid of fainting of myself
I have to settle for laws

the books of emergency dressing
for blood that I don't want to see
for a wound they should have prevented

If necessary, we fight it out
in court or with God
on our side, I have help

of lawyers and soldiers
priests assist me
the loudest word is up to me

If necessary, I will stop the world
until there are new laws
and then I'll start anew

if all goes well

Attentively
humans have created
problems, throwing one after another
into the empty foreworld

They lacked norms, invented them
and were content with all the virtues
and vices to live from day to day
and also at night

They wanted to control everything
and created gods and leaders
with power, to be cruel
without strife in their hearts

The leaders organized it
with secret police and militia
with torture and contempt
and the people agreed to it

It became evening and morning
the morning of the fourth world
of the taboos and the dreams
of elusiveness and afterlife

Anyone and anything can be dangerous
be careful who and what you touch
also with roommates, neighbours, friends
dear colleagues and nice people

Better keep in touch virtually
just let the machines work together
because for us in the fifth world
it could be fatal

The temple stands solid as a bull
in the reeds, a High House
on the horizon, with a hall
where the elements come together
and the people can moor

to sing praises and shed
the prayer of honour and lease
upon the heavenly light
that gives life to the nest
in which I grew up

In the flowery bed-chamber
where the holy rests
the leaders sit on the dais
of the higher powers
to share in their prestige

They get tangled up
in the shackles of the gauze
of the sun's mantle
a trap
they cannot understand

For centuries I have thought
about everything
I don't understand
and there's no choice

for it but to reveal itself
from time to time
I Exist, it says
and it says no more

You can't make an image of it
Sometimes people are jealous of that
because they áre jealous
They impute it to I Exist

It is a failed theology
and therefore persistently
It is our image and likeness
No one is allowed to touch it

It could break down
and then you have nothing left
to hide yourself
for I Exist