A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock
after death
love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand
every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol
of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic
mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes
love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand
those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;
the forgotten
labyrinth of him.
Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?
A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.
They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?
The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.
The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.
The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.
Someone?
Anybody?
The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.
Alfred white as a number says, OK.
I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.
Knock, knock.
Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.
That’s $15, she said.
Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings
like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.
Suddenly a soft drunkenness came over
Me
not knowing if late night
or the glass
however
I just needed to
close
these eyes
and leave unattended
the earth.
You sit
by the bus stop
and study the event
it’s a place
where you’ve cycled
innumerably a place
where you sit
and watch the light
dissolve in the liquid
of your eye
you’re there because
you don’t know where to be
you’re there because
you’d like to witness
the event
and you see things happening
once and units of behavior
he was speaking to me
through a cloud of thought
through a wind of misery
through a vapor of memory
through a rain of laughter
he was another
man far away from everything
another or other man
another star failing in the dark
another strand of conscious throe
a man from denmark
in the glow of streetlight
toasting and talking spanish
transmitting his monad of sadness
and everything being faraway
like a flash above
our private picture of
solitude.
If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.
I’ve translated the sugar
of lung and by mist
the meaning of language
is a family of pauses
appearances that crawl
like incense between crevices
of hard barrier,
but then there is truth
which as a fence
we jump to land
on barbarous scenes of fading,
where we hang the moon
in our hollow cavity
and there walk in thick groups
of solitary breaths,
aiming to cut the tragedy
in two great halves
with the rim of suffer.
Here in my face
I feel gravity
when light and darkness
are only found in
two eyes that brush
with memory the
portrait of movement
what am I to do
when language’s gone
astray
smashing against
a window like a dumb
bird
we discovered
that the only thing
in heaven are rocks
and columns of gas
that the soul is
an inaudible whisper
returning to nameless,
to a wind to a wave
little man, I hear the elements say:
logic swallowed the world
and reason spat out an abstraction
so, little man, let’s start over
with a new skin around language
caressing the river of change
as only the surface of infinite
dip before death your body
in emptiness
O manifold, never compare
abandon the mistake of identifying
body with body and mind with mind
rather cling to miracle as petals
do to their perfume
and drop judgment like a stone
thru the air and little man
open the mouth the eye and your
bouquet of fingers in the madness
that moves worlds as auras
around the light of stars
fast, construct a minute that is
young fountain and invent a word
that will finally deflower infinity
little man – I hear a voice from all
elements strangling me with all
greenness that is a red orchestra
conducting as a blue cloud
the dance of the night around itself
allness allness
I have a face and it is a seed
at the threshold about to cleave root
in the manifestation of music
so profound
that it enters an orbit
around the love of everything
At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.
Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo
his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers
I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones
and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey
but bottle was empty
scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt
and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing
that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog
these things like winds are words
and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks
and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies
it was the night
to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles
at the very least,
a night
without ideas
and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,
dirilin dorem, silafu.
Let’s be tired of words.
Of how we started endless
galaxies from an eye that is smaller
than the grain of infinity.
Of sadness that is a mess
nailed to the CORNER of
LIFe.
Let’s be weary
of how eyes open
and close into new
continents of light
and junk like hung
in memory’s mausoleum.
Let’s put a Beard on Happiness
and let it sail without rum
into the range
of yellow.
L’et s be tired of language,
‘tis
but a mayor reason
to abandon reason,
look how wide
the measurements of our bodies
have curled like hair around
the concept of love.
Let’s be grotesque
born figments fancying
fragments of fire
making fury like florid
petals atop the function
of the facts.
Let’s sing silences.
In vaults of fine emptiness.
Let’s abandon
the distance that is mirrored
in the instance,
faintly so feebly fleeting
into utterance.
Let’s be flying error
that spat onto text
like orgasm.
A man walks into the store and buys a pack of smokes.
You see him leave and get into his car. Drives home and smokes one.
You’ll never see the man ever again. That’s how it goes.
But the next day you realize;
He was a man that once had a cat.
He had a theory about the universe,
and a tear that sat like an effigy
in the cubicle of his sad brown eye.
Beyond Language 
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