If Artists Ran the Country
Sometimes Tired
 Three Days
The First Time 
 Watermelon Summer
If Artists Ran the Country
Three Days
The First Time
Watermelon Summer


If Artists Ran the Country Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
If artists ran the country
the Withe House would be mauve,
chatreuse, forest green,
electric orange, hot pink,
anything but withe.

If artists ran the country
the Pentagon would implode.

If artists ran the country
the Dollar would drop or the market
because it isn´t very pretty.
The automation of humans 
would be punishable by a fire.

People would dream in color again
and remember their dreams.

If artists ran the country 
full moons
would be celebrated, banks
and federal offices would be closed.
And poets could become their poems.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
wäre das weisse Haus malvenfarben,
chartreusegrün, waldgrün,
neon orange, schrill pink
alles nur nicht weiss.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
würde das Pentagon implodieren.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
fiele der Dollar oder der Markt
da es nicht sehr schön ist.

Die Automatisierung der Menschheit
würde strafbar durch ein Feuer.

Die Menschen träumten wieder 
in Farben
und sie erinnerten sich ihrer Träume.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
würde der Vollmond gefeiert, Banken 
und öffentliche Gebäude würden geschlossen
und Dichter verwandelten sich 
in ihre Gedichte.

Sometimes Tired
Sometimes tired of the struggle
and the light,
I have hid my eyes
and the hours of my day
and all my waking powers
in the strategy of sleep,
hoping to duck this fight
in some blind alley;
and so I sleep
and step into what seems 
a cozy dream
that, turning nightmare
turns on me,
picks me up
and shakes me like a rag
until I fall
flat out and wide awake
sweating, yet relieved
that ever my dark
holds stars and schemes
to make oblivion luminous.

Three Days
Three days on the mountain,
Three sunsets and three dawns,
We descend on a town
With our backpacks still on,
Enter a fancy restaurant
For breakfast,
We wear only silly grins
And some clothes
We´ve been sleeping in.
I wait for your order
while you devour mine.
When pancake come
They taste and act 
Like wine.
Then you read me a poem
Of Li Po´s:
As good a meal as any
To go with the hot coffee!

The First Time
It was your first time.
Perched on the edge of the bed
as if for flight, you were 
so nervous, your eyes
followed me everywhere
like the eyes of a trick picture.
Your looks were legal,
your jokes were technical.
You even said my cigarette 
looked phallic.
I had to sit on you
and tickle you
until you relaxed.
Then, laughing, you traced
my freckles with your fingers
and named them for a minor
You said the sky
is very fire tonight.
I said I would marry your hands.

Watermelon Summer
The watermelon, whole, is closed
and curved and finite
like space and time,
like Summer.
But once you halve it,
any way you slice it,
it gives a watermelon smile.
It divides into days
and there´s always another:
a Watermelon Summer, so sweet
you can taste its sky;
and none of it is wasted:
rind becomes rainbows,
the flesh reddens sunsets
and the seeds can be set
into the softest nights,
ebony teeth of the sky;
Watermelon days,
Watermelon nights,
curved and carved
and Infinite.
Die Wassermelone, ein Ganzes, 
ist geschlossen 
und gerundet und endlich
wie Raum und Zeit
wie Sommer.
Aber wenn Du sie halbierst
egal wie Du sie schneidest
ergibt es ein Wassermelonen-Lächeln.
Es teilt sich die Tage
und da ist immer noch etwas anderes:
Ein Wassermelonen-Sommer, so süß
daß Du seinen Himmel schmecken kannst;
und nichts davon ist verschwendet:
Schale wird Regenbogen
das Fleisch rötet Sonnenuntergänge
die Kerne können in die 
sanftesten Nächte eingesät werden, 
Ebenholzzähne des Himmels
gerundet und geteilt
und unendlich.