inter-galactically everything seems to be December 26

inter-galactically everything seems to be connected,
else – forged bridges, forged networks,
business for pleasure at the lunch-tables.
paraphrased poems fill my text-book
my eyes are not sure what to dream of,
black-boards and screaching chalks
parties with no one to talk to
you know, we have come so far
without counting the words we speak, very much
without looking at the stars hungry in yearning, very much
tax-evading town-jumping, refusing to read any rule-book at all
bent like crazy on the steering-wheel.
when the grass sounds, the side-profile of the trees frightens me
it reminds me, of how in my adolescence
I claimed to share a special bond of pain with the tree in my back-garden…
what was that all about?

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