At the corner of Karl Marx Straße
he bought a used typewriter
in a thrift store
that sells junk no one needs.
He carefully cleaned the used cord
and began to write.
Below each poem he added
the exact time of completion.
Many of the poems tried
to figure out
the way she relates to the things
that she barely notices.
At the same time she never failed to register
the slightest movement of the clouds.
She painted the firmament ̶ day in day out.
The nocturno of his room
these days is not a mundane one.
A melody seeps in
through an open window.
The unwritten keeps him in the dungeon
of his own choice.
As the Neukölln sax
the music stands for everything
he must resist.
Don’t let them to turn you over
and transform just like that you into something that you’re not.
Not now. You’re becoming a mechanism of self-destruction.
You’ve been waiting for the moment
when you’ll be able to say:
this is one hell of a good coffee!