Category: Poetry

Goodbye Berlin (2018)

Erica Avey

Saying goodbye to Berlin. All the history, the hofs, the cafes, the dark hallways. Messages in bathroom stalls. Strangers and smirks and lit uBahn station tiles. The haircuts, the black. Dogs waiting outside Lidl off-leash. Seven spätis on my block. The canal. Sourdough brötchen for breakfast, with extra butter. The zimt rolls. Working at Clue. Kotti. The first time I tried to pronounce Straße. The complaints and the appreciations. Grey skies in winter. Fucking February. Sonnenallee. Hermannstraße. Karl-Marx-Straße. An apartment all to myself. Quiet mornings. Summer sidewalk seating. The smell of cigarettes. Nah? Sunset at 4pm; sunset at 11pm. Candlelit bars. Clubs with no phone policies. Femme attire including white sneakers on the dancefloor. Faces full of speed and ketamine. Event poster on event poster on event poster on event poster. The first warm day of spring. 3€ slices at Pazzi. Buying groceries at the Schillermarkt. Cherry blossoms and momentous parks. Eyes on thighs and catcalls. That one pitbull on Dresdenerstraße. She’s not there anymore though. Grunewald? Bad pot at Hasenheide. Learning the proper sauna regimen. Nudity. Being scolded by an aufgussmeister. Seeking bougieness in Mitte. Falafel und halloumi teller, bitte. Azzam. (But Maroush is better.) Reminding grown men not to litter. Open-air festivals. Feeling empty, then full. Looping thoughts. Australians, Australians everywhere. Natural wine. Getting into Berghain. Not getting into Berghain. The wedding caravans of honking Mercedes. The wedding dress shops of Neukölln. The chocolate cake at L’eustache. Always foreign/orienting ambulance sirens. Keith. Blaming and praising Angela Merkel. Sitting topless at Tempelhof. Funkhaus. Being called Frau. Spilling gluhwein at Christmas markets. Unapologetic PDA. Still saying hella. Babies in backpacks and bike baskets. Abandoned TVs and mattresses. Cryptic heartbroken messages. Gold plates under your shoe. The Ausländerbehörde. A mountain made of rubble. Trees you wish could talk. Rides on the front of his bike. Music everywhere. The people. All seeking and leaving and finding and hiding and yearning and making and changing. See you soon/never/always.

ðottir

Erica Avey

“

everything
is
all sorts

      a cup of coffee is a dream
      a dried grain of rice, a dream
      a roundabout, a dream
      a cell phone, a dream
      a dream, a dream
      an escapade, a dream
      sixlittleducks, a dream
      the radio, a dream
      a diamond, a dream
      an argument, a reflection
      love, love
      a body, a temple
      a temple, a house for spirits

 

-Ásta Fanney Sigurðardóttir
“FOREVERNOON”

Hardware store comforts (we still love it here)

Erica AveyLeave a comment

Cole Hardware on Cole. Showing that same old man a bulb I need to replace in my glass chandelier. A specific little teardrop, must be a proper name for it. Ohhh… that there… that bulb’s illegal. Can’t get ‘em in California no more—that’s gotta go straight in the trash. Really? Really… When? Year and a half ago or so… Man. I only just bought these up at Goodman’s… See shops were only allowed to sell their remaining stock. He pointed at an LED bulb twisted upward like a fake flame with four neon orange rods visible inside… Awww… The aesthetic… just so much nicer with the older bulb… I agree—you driving to Nevada anytime soon? I mean… Why is California so annoying? I’d remove the ‘why is’ and leave the rest. Where do we go? Nevada… Texas. My mom’s in Texas. Next time you go, fill a suitcase and post up out here with a sign: ILLEGAL BULBS and you’ll sell out quick. They really think this is gonna save the environment? They’re in the moral right? Who’s making more money now? Ohhhhhhh——they’re in cahoots! He rattled off on the energy companies and the state. Something about keeping money in California. PG&E and another acronym starting with a P. I dunno. It’d be one thing if the sincerity was real. Well, shit—thank you. Shaking heads, sighing, smiling. Thanks. See ya later.