Americans are not like Rumi
No, not at all
South Florida is a fume gray concrete ghetto
Rumi would get stomach pain I assure you
Rumi and Srila Prabhupada would never visit the drive thrus
Never would the ascets of old run the same stairwells of instant gratification and fictive achievement
Neither would you see Rumi with his flute by the beach
Never
Miami
What a world for a girl
What a world for a girl it is
what a realm for a baby girl
to face the earth with all it’s cries
it’s subtle rain and pine tree roads
where emigrating birds may land
like snowfall on the valley’s fields
a world where among the water lilies
the bass will play in sunlit lake
where wars brake out with no remorse
where fires rage like napalm rain
when betrayal turn your life around
what a world for a girl it is
when nights are cold and lonesome
but even when the skies turn red
and she is walking on the cliffs
Christ will still be there to hear you
Jesus and your papa too
Ironminer: hero
The past is like a dream, and I cannot understand the present
my mind is thick fog like black powder smoke
I feel like the king when he rode into death in Lütsen
nights are my only sanity
days are like plays on a set
the curtain was closed but life wouldn’t pause
I met people in the street and they weren’t grieving
I wanted to stop them and let them know
I still do sometimes
I want to explain to them who you were and that now you are not
how can that be?
where are you as I write this?
are you still in the cabin
by the work bench in the tool shed
by the lawnmower
did you check the spark plugs this year
did you hook up the pump from the lake yet?
I will help you when I get there
don’t worry
we will make it through another summer
did Sven catch any fish from his pier yet
did he say?
does Rune still come by for a glass of whiskey?
and grandma is making her famous lingonberry jam?
do you know?
soon we will have our midsummer celebration
I grew some potatoes and we’ll have the first batch then
and grandmas pickled herring
it will be the way it it’s supposed to
and Nadja will sleep on the porch
and everything will be the same
and Hannas bible in the cupboard by the fireplace
the ww2 german bayonet on the wall
tell me again, who did you trade it with?
are you still taking walks on the old dirt road
do you still carry that same good staff?
did you really quit that chewing tobacco?
but still keep some in the fridge of course
just for now and then
and there’s only crap on tv
like always right?
and then its new years and I am there
with just you and grandma
I have sparklers from the store and chips and we all watch Dinner for one
before the bells toll for our future
like in a funeral chapel
I will tell you about the fish I cought
I know you’re too old to go out there with me
but just last year you were walking?
and I came to the hospital every time you fell or had a stroke
I dropped everything and left
I drove three hours in two and was there before you had even seen the doctor
I met grandma in the ER doors and just walked right in
I told the nurses to go and see you and to not let you wait
I was there all the time
I would have given you my heart if they would have taken it and used it
I would have cut and ripped it out myself with my own hand and the Mora knife
I visited you every time you were in the hospital
bought you car magazines and fika bread
every time but this time
I couldn’t come
I was on the other side of the world
I wanted to go
I should have still gone
but I betrayed you
I didn’t mean to
I didn’t want to
I wanted to be there with you
I wanted to die in your place
I wanted to let you know all
that our culture can’t say
I wanted to heal you and save you
from 95 years
from heart failure
from death
Options
It is not about to end
everything is already over
the cartridge has already exited the cranium
like the ancient words of buried prophets
and now all you can choose between
is to swim or drown
in the ocean of all the things we dreamed about
but will never get to experience
together
Guideless
Letters to no one
silence that screams
nightmares all week
cought in the life trap
keep getting lost
Psychoanalysis
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares

