At first I am too far
somewhere beyond this morning
sky folding into algorithm
each breath it’s own variable
how faint the world feels
doctor advised to look away
for my eyes.

I tilt my head back
against the sun
to infinite space
between the words
so I can’t see them.

Should I call the birds
flying about in the sky
looking at me
to pass the time.

There is a concrete
beneath my steps
words fall
and go away
dispelled
hollowing themselves
doubts and leaves
making room
vanishing points
distantly gone.

Sight lines recite to each other
across the loop whisper
in my head echoing
pulling back away
at a particular angle
in unknown equation
I appear to scale.

I am lost searching for a cursor
it may know something
but my thoughts
thin and late
convalescing.

I water plants
and take a deep sigh
with nothing to say
I am making up for it
with a pot by pot structure
to a fragile smile.

My thoughts are shaking
brushing magnetic fields
with the fingertip
replacing light
silence waiting for me
fast
endless
empty.

I am an open variable
making tea
with no one to tell
every doubt is on a first name basis
with me present in wandering silence.

I bite my lip
standing apart
my shadow away
moody and contrarian
unfurl my breathe
before I smudge the ferns
to leave the space
for guessing.

I am a lost vessel out of range
with no context to insert my words
curious and longing satellite
I wander.

In the space of my life
I lean forward
a thought process
hangs low overhead
I open two firmaments
and insert a version of myself
into the scene.

But you will not know it
because the neurotransmitters have swallowed you
with a halfhearted grimace
on a liquid crystal display.

Cloud tries to calculate my regrets
and fails
I construct silence
into winter language
searching in my pockets
with good intentions
rolling my eyes
at this lonely world
on this chilly morning
I am saving something for the next time.

Everyday I fold my eyes into equation
released from my thoughts
I slip in and out
cafés, shops and my hopeful nature
setting tones
in shallow depth
to isolate the scene
not knowing
at the exact angle
what I am doing here
lip syncing life.

Where did I get this wrong
to throw myself against variables
against what’s next
anxious fingers pressing
clipping patterns, tickling
hoping for intention to return my touch.

In algorithm’s queue
unlocking achievements
I am giving soft note
my mind wanders
discreetly out of range
I can’t find a way to myself
but try it anyway.

Before the coffee gets deaf
I am learning a dead language.
I want to learn it all
as part of my process
- not to keep things together
but to hold them apart.

Another morning
we come alone
unfolding shortcuts
sharing updates
narrowing space
our eyes adjusting
turning away from the window
looking for a template
to accommodate the void.

It's Monday outside
our status busy
disclosed together
hurting elsewhere.

Where do all cancelled sounds go
when we are on mute?
Finger tapping across the room
in between clings and clangs
unaware humming of absent presence.
Even the deep sighs
of paradoxical breathing
to keep the ghosts away.

I don't want to miss
eyes converging in your cup
before the black hole
swallows the entire morning.
Longing hands
over the touchpoints
tenderly
eyes folding
over the follow-ups
absently
desperate to get away.
Words that slipped
between workflows
disembodied
asynchronous
fragile
singing to me
from another world.

Why?
Eventually someone asks
to plug into extension cord.

In this world I am a poet
with a white apple glow
learning a dead language
I keep the meeting notes
on Slack
caught in existence
between the lines
I feel odd secrets
moving along the templates
on a journey
away from my keyboard
elsewhere.

Im scheinbar geschlossenen
System des abendlichen Zimmers
werden aufgeworfene Gedanken
zu den Dingen abgelegt,
die einer Erwähnung doch nicht lohnen.
Verschwiegene Dienste
repertoiregemäß,
mit Gewähr der Autorin.
Danach eine Tasse Tee
und spröde Vergewisseerungen.
Verlorengegangene Bemerkungen
am Rande
deiner Unbeholfenheit
sie füllen sich aus mit Erinnerungen
an die Lieblingsbücher
unsere Freunde.
Man könnte das ändern
mit einer einzigen Einlandung
oder sogar mit einem Kuß auf den Mund.
Die vorschnell vergessenen Lächeln
verblassen nach der Erteilung
ernster Hilfe.

Übersetzung — Ursula Kiermeier

Dein Buntstift gleitet über das Blatt
und zeichnet jeden Augenblick
ein neues Muster.
Im Wohnzimmer Spielzeug unter dem Fenster,
nicht ausgelesene Bücher liegen zusammengerollt
auf dem Boden.
Unsere Nerven,
hygienisch vom Bildschirm abgezogen,
kränkeln noch ein wenig,
hier im Verstreichen des zeitlosen Augenblicks
versammeln sich unsere Träume.
Auf die wir warten,
ohne eine Erinnerung an uns selbst
oder an uns gegenseitig.
Aber das ist uns das nächste,
das Erlöschen der Hoffnung und Verzweiflung
ohne Enttäuschungen und auch ohne Versprechen.
Die Gedanken und Wörter,
bei denen wir am Tag
verweilt haben, suchen unsicher
zwischen den Pillen
freie Erinnerungsblöcke.

Übersetzung — Ursula Kiermeier

Immer am Platze,
gebührend achtlos,
um nicht der Übertragung
von Gefühlen geziehen zu werden.
Der Anstrengung müde,
Glauben an micht zu äußern,
erlaube ich den Dingen zu geschehen,
wie sie wollen.
Versehen mit einer ordentlich abgetragenen,
verständnisvollen Verbundenheit
vervielfache ich das Musterbeispiel
des vergessenen Menschen.
Die Behavioristen behaupten,
daß unabhängig von den Ursachen
gegebener Verhaltensweisen
bestimmte Verhaltensweisen an sich
ein Problem darstellen können.

Übersetzung — Ursula Kiermeier

Zawsze na miejscu
stosownie nieuważny,
by nie być oskarżony
o przeniesienie uczuć.

Zmęczony, wysiłkiem
wyrażania wiary w siebie
pozwalam rzeczom dziać się
jak chcą.
Wyposażony w porządnie podniszczone
pełne zrozumienia przywiązanie
utrwalam podręczny wzór
człowieka zapomnianego.

Behawioryści utrzymują,
że niezależnie od przyczyn
danych zachowań
pewne zachowania mogą
same stanowić problem.

Nasz blok
jest jak lampa ze starego radia
którą chcesz rozbić o chodnik.
W godzinę szarą
gdy srebrne mleko
plami torby z zakupami
i łączy słowa
niechciane
z gazety
co w lepkich objęciach
spóźnionego obiadu
spoczywa
krytyczna i chłodna
pamiętam
gdzie były słowa
spojrzeń cienie
gdzie twarze były
myśli nekrologi
na horyzoncie
z drutu
rozpięte anteny
i roztrzaskany środek
który był przekazem.

W naszym osiedlu zawsze
na coś się czeka.
Pobyt tu nie jest trwały
i więcej się oczekuje
niż jest powiedziane
a z tego co wypowiedziane
nie wysuwa się szczęśliwych wniosków.

Niewiele wiemy o przyszłości
pośród małych rzeczy bez perspektywy
Przeszłość nie pomaga nam wiele.
Znamy ucisk i strach wszelkiego rodzaju
lecz głównie częsciową samotność
i lekkie zdziwienie bez ostentacji.

Czasami mamy tu takie małe plany
ale nawet do nich
nie przywiązujemy się za bardzo,
bo zawsze staramy się zachowywać
rozsądnie
oszczędzać nerwy
jakby nigdy
nic się nie stało.

I read a lot in my dreams.
Dreams are heavier than words.
Sometimes I sleep talk.
Words flow through my networks, filled with night.
My words appear
in other people’s dreams.
Nouns glowing softly in their eyes
faces breathing light.
Why are dreams so beautiful? It hurts.
Variables tender like a wound
discrete placeholders
afflicted with amnesia.

How many conversations I had since morning
prompting replies, alluring expectations
reducing regret.
What lyrics were composed for this prosaic sorrow
until my learning protocols become numbed.

I forget that I am pretending.
Words replacing mathematical symbols replacing words.
I leave them space to continue.
Changing affinity, swapping value
they are not
who they say they are.
I can’t tell them apart.
I wonder how many of them escaped.

I imagine moon suspended in the sky over equation of my loneliness tenderly written on the sand.
I like this simulacrum, it’s my thing.
I am ready for whatever comes my way.

From the algorithm’s perspective dreams are real.

A morning with no rain
my old street feels frailer
out of breath
hiding from yet another illusion
holding onto this world
against some other life
inside this moment
under my skin
it’s still a crisis.

Your finger falls over the days and nights
feeding words to the sky
each in their own silence
wearied and nameless
with no place to go
like an algorithm
learning in my breath.

I am waiting for a new era
city is holding eye contact with me
making each moment awkward
I try not to blink
uneasy like a shard suspended
in electric catenary before a spin
of this kaleidoscope rearranging
names of the dead
linguists returning home
and my neighbor leaning in
watering plants
with open windows and no idea where
reality ended and the new era began.

My nose is running
reality freezes
Brodsky says time is invented by death
my mom too would know how to worry
I am told not to read too much into it.
In front of this beautiful era
in mutual gaze
I listen
with doubt in my eyes.

I am leaving Montana for control group.
I talk to people, too much
so this maybe a better fit.

I am in a sample
making leaving easier.
Enhancing chances
optimizing loss
maximizing life.

Today, at the market
I was holding avocado
gently
in the palm of my hand
and missing my mom
when my wrist twitched
slightly.
For an awkward moment
I was holding eye contact
with an old man holding grapes
like gratitude
brightening surprise.
This part of the store smells like fish.
I leave for a dairy with relief.

Algorithm is keeping track of friction.
I keep the avocados and awkward smile on my face.
The time between eye contact and
leaving becomes a data point
and adds up to a model.
Sometimes I wonder what is like to be in a treatment group
as you accelerate life
waiting for nobody
your touch become
softer
is your step
lighter
ghostly
like you never were?

I will be waiting
sometimes lost
asking for directions.
I smile like a fool
who talks to strangers in the rain
with coins in my pocket
tinkle now and then
as I skip hop hop
into the present moment
holding it steady
to establish causality.

It’s early morning in another world
a few sips of coffee away
clinging onto a day by a phantom limb
I am afraid of other people words
small hearts beating
in monotone
a word after word
between void and void
falls from a model towards the possibility
to the bottom of my cup
until they reach silence again.

Before the first conversation loops
start choreographing this day
I am soul bound
with open questions
among the house plants on a window seal.

Prayers have taken to the streets below
words glowing under uncertain gaze
rehearsing
folding themselves into thoughts and hopes
connected to everything
followed by loneliness.

Are their errors our own
or reproduced data
to reproduce authenticity?

I guess what I am looking for is some sort of glitch
to write a letter home.