Ashes for Breakfast (16 page)

 

 

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And why, you ask yourself (why being the most childish of questions),

Why am I involved in this rat race on bartered ground,

Where these weaklings are kicking around a dead pigeon.

Silently bred out of love, only to be, who knows, hauled onto the nearest stretcher

After the cardiac event, with rapidly cooling testicles.

Someone who knows when a word has run out. Who nods silently,

Because a smile or blush is too much of a deception, and the mouth prefers to keep the throat covered anyway.

Aren't tragic parts generally mute? And how many scenes there are

That go unwitnessed, before the duster wipes the coffin down.

People change, cities change, but the mole beside your navel stays put.

And woe if you don't perform your reverences, kissing a hand here, inclining

Your supple torso there—to this life, so useless, so rich.

 

(ROBINSON IN THE CITY)

These petrifying coasts … Only he gazes out to sea, as ever.

“Who is that biped anyway?” the scaffolding poles on the new office block,

The skeleton-stiff cranes, inquire silently of one another. “Fucking bonkers,”

Yawns a malodorous hole in the ground.

                                                                           Not one room, not one plank of his cot

That survived the shipwreck. “Nothing I can put a name to,” silently replies

A security fence, when asked whether the fellow reminded him of anything.

But he can't let it go. Stranded somewhere in the interior,

The suburban roofs are the horizon that he scans. What for?

His sails are now the screens of multiplex cinemas. The foaming waves

Are traffic noise. No mast that doesn't say: “I'll flatten you.”

“And you can piss off!” he hears from the graveyard that the bulldozers

Are clearing, because time's up for moldy bones, their concession's run its term.

Everywhere the flashing lights and sirens of the emergency services—

That deafening
da-du, da-du
—only he, beachcomber, keeps grazing the concrete,

Fails to get it when, on a Friday night for instance, on high heels, the stuff of dreams,

A chanson teeters past, hips swinging:
“La mort vient et je suis nu…”

 

(ON THE DAILY NEWSPAPERS)

I have breakfasted on ashes, the black

Dust that comes off newspapers, from the freshly printed columns.

When a coup makes no stain, and a tornado sticks to half a page.

And it seemed to me as though the Fates licked their lips

When war broke out in the sports section, reflected in the falling Dow.

I have breakfasted on ashes. My daily bread.

And Clio, as ever, keeps mum … There, just as I folded them up,

The rustling pages sent a shiver down my spine.

 

(ON TALKING IN ONE'S SLEEP)

The damage has been done. Now you'll see.

What holds a life together is a window in a calendar.

Even the man from Omaha—no Apollo he—will tell you

You must change it. A lot of crying goes on here.

But only once did a woman experience birth pangs over you,

And only once were you the subject of a convulsion

That went through the walls. Hey, snoopers, that's how it began.

When the evergreen drips with rain, and Christmas trees sparkle with tinsel

The knees go weak, reliably, year on year.

                                                                              No toothache or neuralgia

Can suppress the pressure of dead days, that longing for an unlived life.

Are you sniveling? The damage has been done. What you see here

Is utterly different from whatever it was that made your thumb,

Sticky from sucking, so distinctly promising. Worth bawling for.

The tablecloth, the stain the flies investigated only yesterday,

Will testify that the hour is endlessly perishable, that the miracle has not taken place.

Where there is a date, the body, bringing up the rear, had better look to itself.

And the further it goes, the deeper it sinks, ultimately in over both ears.

And who knows whether it's shame, maybe what will survive of us is
Blah …

The damage has been done. Someone, call in the receiver!

 

(ON THE BEAUTY OF HEMATOMAS)

Blood allays itself. Pain remains the skin's secret,

Mapping the intruder till the end, and asking for soft knocks.

The bone-stuffed earth crunches underfoot. Time leaks out of solitude,

Hence our little twosomes … When a violet flowers on the thigh,

Suspicion is apt to fall on the devil, the senile old companion.

But it only blooms for days, Etruscan and beautiful, under stockings and dress,

A pressed orchid. A blood-frilled quadrilateral

Becomes a chartreuse smear that mocks: “Look, you're getting on.”

And soon enough it's lost all value, the blue Mauritius above the knee.

The duff spot.

                        Was man not the animal who chewed gum

When he left Eden and blasted off for the moon, bemused by love and π

Like your foot when it sticks, in summer, to the asphalt.

 

(ON FALSE MOVEMENTS)

What days are these, that begin like frolicsome foals, and by night

Are hedgehogs schlepping their bloody bulk along the side of the road?

Whoever set off bright and early to learn about fear, crisply crunching on the gravel,

By the end of the tour stands spraddle-legged over gurgling gutters,

Full of Andromeda's gift of department stores,

Mixed with secretions and the effluent from certain clinics.

Impossible to remain Fortunatus.

                                                           Whoever once saw the stab in the back,

Or the wasp find the child's open mouth, will have nothing to do

With the wheedling and cringing, the “Our Father,” and “Blessed are…”

“Too late!” cries Mr. Sadist as he sees the bloodied hand—

Three streets along, at the taxi stand, there's the next cry of “Stop, thief!”

Every full moon is an anniversary of helplessness.

                                                                                       Purblind, fussy

Catastrophe clears a path through the crowd (“Gangway!”).

A five-course dinner ends with a fish bone lodged in the throat …

No amount of “Oh woe!” will lift the dumbbell off the crushed toe,

Once the pas de deux turned into a weight-lifting contest.

In the crush, the plainest news assails the passerby

Like the sodden film poster with its blurred “The-o-di-cy.”

 

(ON THE HERE AND NOW)

What if your glance finds it ever harder to be away, the nice pet

That found nothing human alien to itself? Now novelty just tires it out.

Manageable, and with helpful illustrations, it falls easily through the slit

Of your inflamed lids: that pompous now and jumped-up here.

What begins as piano, tiptoeing like a mouse, an étude,

Ends up as stadium rock. The assembled rabble

Sweats it out in fortissimo, screaming, “Pan is dead! Pan is dead!”

Not even in the unconscious does time stand so still that you can stop

And catch your breath. Each instant is instantly ended.

With the note still held, or the expression. Repetition menaces

Any primary impulse. Holding a pencil perpendicular to your skull,

A hand scratches the name it's learned. God, it tickles.

KOSMOPOLIT

Von meiner weitesten Reise zurück, anderntags

Wird mir klar, ich verstehe vom Reisen nichts.

Im Flugzeug eingesperrt, stundenlang unbeweglich,

Unter mir Wolken, die aussehn wie Wüsten,

Wüsten, die aussehn wie Meere, und Meere,

Den Schneewehen gleich, durch die man streift

Beim Erwachen aus der Narkose, sehe ich ein,

Was es heißt, über die Längengrade zu irren.

Dem Körper ist Zeit gestohlen, den Augen Ruhe.

Das genaue Wort verliert seinen Ort. Der Schwindel

Fliegt auf mit dem Tausch von Jenseits und Hier

In verschiedenen Religionen, mehreren Sprachen.

Überall sind die Rollfelder gleich grau und gleich

Hell die Krankenzimmer. Dort im Transitraum,

Wo Leerzeit umsonst bei Bewußtsein hält,

Wird ein Sprichwort wahr aus den Bars von Atlantis.

Reisen ist ein Vorgeschmack auf die Hölle.

COSMOPOLITE

The day after getting back from my longest journey,

I realize I had this traveling business badly wrong.

Penned in an airplane, immobilized for hours on end,

Over clouds that bear the appearance of deserts,

Deserts that bear the appearance of seas, and seas

That are like the blizzards you struggle through,

On your way out of your Halcion-induced stupor,

I see what it means to stumble over the dateline.

The body is robbed of time, and the eyes of rest.

The carefully chosen word loses its locus.

Giddily you juggle the here and the hereinafter,

Keeping several languages and religions up in the air.

But runways are the same gray everywhere, and hospital rooms

The same bright. There in the transit lounge,

Where downtime remains conscious to no end,

The proverb from the bars of Atlantis swims into ken:

Travel is a foretaste of Hell.

BERLINER RUNDE

Für Christian Döring

I
TAUENTZIENSTRAßE)

Ach, kein Liedchen wirbelt mehr durch diese Straße.

Und der Fahrtwind, der vorbeischaut, flirtet mit den Kanten

Dekorierter Stahlvitrinen, drei vier Stockwerk hoch und voller Waren.

Die hier leben, eilig und in kleinen Raten, sind Passanten.

Kehrmaschinen sorgen nachts für reibungslose Flächen.

Überm Glanz von Eislaufbahnen streuen Leuchtreklamen

Wie Gerüchte Namen aus, von denen es im Telephonbuch wimmelt.

Früh im Schlußverkauf gibt man die letzten bürgerlichen Dramen.

Eine Kirche steht hier, die erinnert streng an Bunker,

Seit ihr Turm, ein abgebrochner Flaschenhals, plombiert ist

Mit demselben Baustoff der im Parkhaus höllisch von Motoren dröhnt.

Taucht ein Lächeln aus dem U-Bahn-Schacht, stößt es auf Maniriertes.

Stecken Zähne im Asphalt, sind sie von Fahrradboten,

Die beim Slalom stürzten oder Fensterputzern, vom Gerüst gefallen.

Grün der Mittelstreifen wird zum Sprungtuch. Durch den Stoßverkehr

Blitzt ein Glücksrad für die einen, wo die andern Bußgeld zahlen.

Wieviel Krimskrams trägt man in den Taschen

Mit sich fort von hier, und wieviel bleibt an Ort und Stelle

Für die junge Archäologin, die im Schutt der legendären Städte kniet,

In der Hand den weichen Pinsel, dieses Echo jeder Maurerkelle.

 

II
ANHALTER BAHNHOF)

Hier haben die Panzer gewendet,

Und Machorkarauch stieg aus dem plumpen Turm.

Wo kein Gleis mehr, kein Reichsbahnzug endet,

Legte sich der
Mongolensturm.

Griechenland Expreß. Abfahrt der Schönen und Reichen

In verhängten Coupés, südwärts, in Polster gelehnt.

Ein Russe stand an der letzten der Weichen

Und sammelte Uhren ein, Goldschmuck, den Siegeszehnt.

An den Kreuzungen las man kyrillisch. Den Weg

Durch die Trümmeralleen zeigten Dachbalken an.

Den Roten Stern zu belächeln, kein Sakrileg

Wäre schlimmer gewesen. Verworfen der Plan,

Berlin, das Räubernest, zu schleifen wie Karthago,

Im Staub von Brandenburg ein Großstadtschatten.

Doch Gulasch dämpfte bald, Kosakentanz das Largo,

Wenn auch Frau Krause nichts zu lachen hatte.

 

III
AM FRIEDRICHSHAIN)

Nein, von Begrüßung konnte keine Rede sein,

Sieht man die Einschußlöcher Haus für Haus.

Es waren Trommelfeuer, keine Salven

Damals am Friedrichshain.

Und vom Verbrüdern war das alles weit entfernt.

Wer im MG-Nest saß, der schoß heraus.

Kann sein, im Park die Hunde und die Malven

Haben dazugelernt.

Die weißen Fahnen zog ein strenger Winter ein.

Verbandszeug brauchte man und Bettuch auch.

Daß in den Kellern keine Bitten halfen,

Ahnt man am Friedrichshain.

 

IV
POTSDAMER PLATZ)

Um und um wird die Erde gewühlt für die Hauptstadt
in spe.

Der nächtlichen Menschenleere gehn Raupen vorweg.

Germania im Bunker, auf preußischem Kanapee,

Von Baggern im Schlaf gestört, wälzt die Hüften im Dreck.

Downtown Berlin
hilft der Diva den Gürtel zu lösen.

Und schmachtend macht sie, Walküre, die Schenkel breit.

Das Gehirn, in den hellsten Momenten, den bitterbösen,

Wittert etwas, das nach Zerstörung schreit.

 

V
EPILOG)

Was geschieht hier, fragt man, und erkennt nichts wieder,

Schultern eingezogen unter Kränen. War man nicht ein Riese,