I, the dream of a god,
an outcome of invisible hands
at once performance and spectator
this precise instant
this internal precipice
a newfound religion
whose scriptures are written
in every one thing
where the god and the dream are the same
the cloud and the rock are inseparable
the sweet motion of transience
coursing over the stream of eternal action
I, alone and united,
one more spoke of divinity
one more billow of infinity.
More Useless Poetry ?
Be. Let whatever happens, come to pass.
To be: embraced by a field of happening.
There is nothing imperfect, even contradiction
and desire – let it all come.
Allow motes of dust to float
the heaviest pain to sink
there is nothing at all that does not belong –
let anger and irritation play their part
but release them and go on.
Close your eyes and dig deep.
Study the phenomenology of thoughts
the strange ocean of being
overpowering pain, elusive pleasures
Be. Embrace the field of happening.
Twilight and morning are now irresistible
they hang above like motherless children
there is no reason to believe in one or the other
all the insects swarm this local abyss
fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour
anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible
reentering again a field of silences
morning or night or true or false
were all excluded
an intimate void
more or less… yours.
What need is there for Nietzsche’s euphoria in language, for his excess in possibility and contradiction, for his telling of unnecessary things? What do we actually need but a secure income and a full stomach in this modern world, perhaps a fancy car and the latest gadget, but beyond that, is it not completely irrelevant to look for more? So, in the context of the 21stcentury, where life is just life, when you are rich or poor, possessor or possessed, what urgency is there to plummet into the depths of the unknown? There seems to be lacking an insistence to forge other realities, to strain the last fiber of consciousness in order to erupt a newer self, a deeper “I”. Isn’t Zarathustra saying that we are not only living (a passive image of passing time) but that in fact while we live we are creating…
The question remains latently hidden inside our hearts, while we stroll in a “comfort-zone” age… what is yet to be born?
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La tengo en frente,
la abrazo con fuerza
es innegable que la tengo en mis manos.
Estoy solo en mi amor por ella
esta cosa desconocida
que solo yo conozco en mi delirio.
Lo que siento…
se escapa como la mariposa
que percibió un sonido extraño.
En la calle de al frente o cualquier otra,
un asfalto cualquiera – con este dedo
la penetro y la calle se empieza a derretir;
porque solo puedo amar aquello que se descompone
Y respirar – lo hago en trueque:
un respiro por cada gramo de mi ser
que se vuelve ceniza invisible.
Hoy me di cuenta que soy un hombre,
en proporción a la velocidad
de mi desaparecer.
There is no place to start
a beginning point
an igniting flame.
There is a Rorschach blot
a streaming dream of structure
a finite accomplishment;
surrounded by infinite reach.
If you start from this,
then anything is possible.
My chest can suddenly burst open,
and twigs may grow.
Impossibility is an illusion.
A repeated illustration
of what’s real;
keeps infinity from shining forth.
I couldn’t lie
or distort the truth
when I tell you that seven seagulls
– not six or eight – I counted,
took flight in the direction of the moon
and that the water was slightly offering an insult
with its restlessness and simple undulations
I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap
a precipice that links two different lands
behind me everything that is
before me everything that could be
I was inside the great hole that separates the two
and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge
sauntering from fact to possibility;
to cross this gap
requires the courage of a climb –
to create a new fact
demands a start from the lowest point
to climb up again in rags
to emerge from the deep
after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…
only then can the gap be closed!