the hurried streak of beauty
to walk chaotically
on open midnights
hurl hums to cosmos
like a muddled beethoven
ahhhh the freedom of finitude
to live and die instantly
within this globe of atom –
I see you
vast manifold energy
spiraling around this
meaningless soul!
you see
idont give a damn
you look at me
holy emblem of waste
granite fuck beyond idea or purpose
proletariat or anarchist
I’ll sit legs crossed
hair spiked up like
million million hands up
in the air for manna
only it never comes
you see
we are merely relics of the infinite
retrospectively the truth
is so simple
in this interlude of rustling
there are only moments
faint improbable moments
visiting the tender pouch of consciousness
and to sit is just to wait
for fire and nothingness to fuse
into a scar of memory
I sit rather than lie supine
because I know the sky’s lips
are there nibbling the souls
I prefer to sit today
to catch your stare
like hard bright
moonshine in m y
face.
Algún día los días ya no serán días.
Habrá cortinas que se eleven
como párpados,
la textura del tiempo
temblará como mar verde,
todo minuto sabrá a sal de una luna
bajo loca luz del recuerdo.
Las hojas crecerán como montañas
con sus sombras besando
el riachuelo del deseo.
Habrá grandes máquinas
que brillen a la distancia
como ojos de pájaros.
Las estrellas
como musgo colgando
de los cuernos de un animal dormido.
Las nubes serán las islas
talladas en la piel por los años.
Las madres liberarán palabras
como peces a un piélago de sentimiento.
Habrá un día, cuando los cuerpos
sean hilos de himnos enrollados
en un remolino de horizonte.
the feet preserve their nails
but the noses have returned
to the grind,
below the throat of dome
pencils crushed to mosaic on the floor
pensive but not counting the days left-
this endless translation
of feeling to words to image to truth to play;
I’ve got a favorite seat in a museum
greek perfumes still cling to epicurus’ beard
the marble is still cool
like the pillow of the centuries,
melpomene turns with funky mullet –
somewhere I hear a trickle
as both stone and man
wait for the last crumb
and bone to rest
far beyond the tongue
of the sun.
I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.
Cuando un pájaro
me recuerda que
el sol vuela
a través del color negro.
Sabiendo que hoy deposito
mi nombre a la tierra
y regreso a un invisible
rincón de silencio.
Que si cada verso
fuese un trago de vino,
un párpado pesado.
Me desvisto de mi piel
para derretirme por las calles.
Un algodón de beso;
me absorbe la nube.
El follaje de las palabras
me abandona;
si algo dije, hoy
corre en el río
de una sombra
Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?
There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.
Escucha, estoy cansado.
Quiero dormir y seguimos tomando vino.
Me haces escribir líneas que no tienen sentido
Escribo tonterías que van a caer en el olvido.
Sigue escribiendo para poder justificar que eres infeliz,
insignificante e inferior. El arte es arbitrario.
No tiene valor absoluto.
Busca morir. Morir bajo algunas palmeras en el trópico.
Mira el sol levitar en el horizonte y ahí mismo duerme,
en el porvenir de infinita nada.
Deja toda ambición, inclusive la ambición de no tener ambición.
Descansa por fin, como una llovizna que se desliza por los aires.
Descansa por fin, como una burbuja que arrastra el mar a la superficie.
Descansa, sin entender el dolor.
Sin entender la marcha del soldado.
Sin entender la niebla del tiempo.
Descansa neutral como un gris detrás de una sombra;
descansa,
alma vacía.
I fear the same stone of light that you fear. I am the bone and you are the sky. We are earth hidden within the mines of space. Darkness – like a baby – hangs from our necks. If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Pure restless surrender. I fear the pause, the allotted time. It sinks, truthfully. I know we cherish the denial of our times. Like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. The gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that same conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral.
Nothing.
Beyond Language 
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