globe poetry

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!




Nihilistic Poetry


nihilist poet

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

Nihilistic Poetry

Algún día los días ya no serán días

luna de sal

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.





Poesía Moderna


beard epicurus

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.




Absurd Poetry

The ant feeling

World Knife Poet


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
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.


Nihilistic Poetry



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

Poesía Nihilista


Sun image

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?





Nihilistic Poetry