When I ride my inline skates
truckdrivers are honking at me
but I want to hitchhike you
accidentally
on the corner
of some irrelevant street

Take me to the next
parallel reality
where we are some other people
with same eyes and smiles
but different
past and presents
in our identity cards.
Maybe there I can relax
and write a story like
I see it in my head
the way I really want
to write it
in which you won‘t be
supporting character
and me clumsy beginner director.

Until then the truckdrivers
are honking to me
while I ride kilometers
of my doubts, fears, longing
Gordian knot of my emotions
which I have to cut at once
now or never, but my scissor
are unsharpened and rusted
of stying on the rain of dissatisfaction
and with my thieving fingers
I can not untie it.

Maybe it a question of jitters
Jitters that I will miss out on the currents
because later everything will pass
like concrete underneath my feet
trampled in a speed of compulsiveness
because I admit I am coward
I will run away from the thing

I can‘t solve and be quiet
Like only I can do.

While others see just this pretty mask
on inline skates passing, like a butterfly
somewhere beneath, in-depth
lives this real me,
to whom truck drivers don‘t honk
who needs some other drive
through some other landscapes
of intimacy
to which you can‘t hitchhike.

Hitchhiking someone’s heart is hard
nobody lets in strangers so easily inside
in their car, in their small red Ferrari
which drives fast, dangerous, and crazy
like it‘s just once in a lifetime
in this moment now, like the gasoline
will never run out, like the machine
won‘t burnout and stop and give up
from this insane drive on the
highway of emotions.

Dear truckdrivers leave your car horns
alone, it‘s already quite noisy inside of me
even when the streets are empty
I hitchhike in my dreams
stick up my thumb and wait for illusions
to stop and pick me up
Even there where the stopping
and parking is explicitly prohibited.