Undertones and Overtones
by Susan Weber
Sorry Jack, but ich bin kein Berliner.
The vibe is claustrophobic, don’t you think? Snaggletooth lover, foul-mouth clown, pushy broad with purple lips, squirrel-eye protester in my face with questions. How you gonna jail break, sister, what’s your plan man, what’s your master plan? I say, me?—I got no plan, not for you, drama queen of ink. Your streets are tattoo parlors, did you notice? Wonderland of night shade, gallery of—who made all this mess? Graffiti’s got you smearin’ up your walls, the irony of which does not escape me. One rude wall comes tearing down but not so fast, says who? Says you, Berlin. That B-wall’s gone but you got karma on your hands, martyr blood—there’s deadeye reckoning to do. You know the dude who named you Egypt, Rome, and Babylon combined? Heil Sieg Heil heard ‘round the world? That guy. I get it. Crazy rage pumping through the venomous chronology of you. People come from skin-tone everywhere to be here. They know you’re still atoning and it suits them fine. Penance is a team sport played with spray paint and elbow grease. You’re a piece of work, project perpetually undone by courtesy of truth. We take you at our word. We make you in our image on the U-Bahn. We bang buckets, pan handle jazz, peddle paper cranes on the River Spree. We wash down shawarma, kimchi and currie wurst in the trash strewn street. Don’t get so worked up about me saying we. I’m at best your odd jobber and get your smarmy lacquer off my hide. As for your question—jail break, master plan, all that diva-geek freedom-speak. Workin’ on it girlfriend, just like you. Joy wasn’t built in a day.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0