poem: dancing 'til the end

the wind takes you high up

to the neverending sky

as if you weren't ment to

touch the ground in the end

and on your last journey

you dance with your companions

until you die

19.2.2009

poem/ poesia/ Gedicht: untitled

my grandmother came to this city

down from italy a long time ago

maybe it was the winter days

maybe they were grey in another way

I can't say why

but when she left

she told my father

é una cittá dei brutti

it's a city of ugly ones

it's the city of the ugly ones

no one ever dares to smile

she lives in the veneto

and born in the lazio

she never knew why not to smile

non é roma e neanche venezia

ma nonostante

non posso far niente

é la mia cittá di nascita

it's not venice

it's not rome

but after all

it's my home

es ist nicht venedig

und auch nicht rom

ich kann nichts tun

ich bin ein teil von wien

xx.12.2008/25.2.2009

50 Wörter aus dem Rettungsdienst über ... LICHTBLICKE IM RETTUNGSWAGEN

Heute hab ich eine 97-jährige transportiert, die mir ihr Herz ausgeschüttet hat. Seit 36 Jahren verwitwet, dreißig Jahre verheiratet mit ihrem Mann, den sie seit ihrer Kindheit kannte. Sie konnten nicht früher heiraten, denn er war Halb-Jude. Sie hat darum gekämpft denn: "Ob Afrikaner, Amerikaner oder Jude, sind doch alle Menschen?!?"

50 Wörter aus dem Rettungsdienst über ... XENOPHOBIE IM STIEGENHAUS

Heute hab ich einen Grantscherben nach Hause transportiert, der 12 Tage im Krankenhaus war. Im Stiegenhaus trafen wir einen Nachbarn mit ausländischem Akzent, der ernsthaft Anteil nahm am Schicksal unseres Kunden. Der regierte abweisend, obwohl sie sich gut zu kennen schienen. Im Lift darauf angesprochen erwiderte er: "Der ist Afghane"

poem: ferryman's confessions

it's my job to get the old

people's stories told

it makes me sad

to help them out of the bed

and hear what they have had

when they were young like me

and the places they have been

and the things that they have seen

are the things I wish to see

and the moment they are leaving

that's when they stop breathing

is the moment we will meet again

I take them cross the river

and they have nothing to pay the ride

so they sell me their stories

and sometimes their worries

they know to tell them well

and there is nothing new

so they tell you

the stories 4 times sold

the whole ride through

one time we'll be old

in some way I can't be happy about it

I see the worries, the loss of memory and the pain

I see people dying

but mostly they are crying

about the things they have lost

still I've got nothing to lose

for sure I'm not the one to choose

but I wish to die before the bitter end

23.02.2009