monkeyhood

Monkeyhood

 

I am observing the world

whose very act of existing

has made us claim

that it is the only world to exist.

 

I am observing

the shadows of the sun

when suddenly the monkey

appears again, opening

that window

below my language.

 

It picks up all my words

and chews them, only to spit

them out while producing

a grotesque sound of pleasure.

 

I’ve seen this monkey many times,

he comes from the world within

that is populated by innumerable monkeys.

 

They all seek the only thing

they claim is real: monkeyhood.

Monkeyhood is hidden

deep in their jungle,

it can be eaten, soft caramel-like

substance that it is.

 

But only a few monkeys are able

to reach this sacred core.

 

The monkeys that visit me

are those that for whatever reason

have stopped seeking monkeyhood.

 

They would rather appear

unannounced in this world,

to taste a few fragments of illusion –

as I believe they once called it.

 

I sit watching the shadows of the sun,

here below the clouds while I describe

the indistinct quality of being alive.

Inside the screech of an owl

three contemporary postmodernist poems

Three poems published (buried) at The Screech Owl.

Poems titled:

  • The Postmodernist
  • Four.
  • Hardly a time for poetry.

THE POSTMODERNIST
exploits
the game of reason
to escape the predicament of truth,
s/he operates the machinery
of logic
only to jam it
with its self-generated contradictions.

The new literati
are not avoiding the difficulties
of meaning,
they are stirring the flame
that will one day consume
the substance of our values.

The postmodern human
does not rise above the ideology of symbolic interpretation
and gladly participates
in the confusion of verbs and vituperations
aimed against the metaphysically-drained
ambiguity of the world’s narrative.

The certainty of facts is no longer
the underlying foundation of knowledge; rather,
the elusiveness of truth
is what impels us to disclose
what lies
just beyond the grasp of language.

Four.

Is it ridiculous
to open the door,
and expect the world
to dissipate
like the isolation of a cloud.

Is it worth
inventing a concept
where sadness is all
puckered and arguably
thick as a shadow.

Is it futile
to attribute to movement
an arm that ends
in the grasp of decay.

Is it strange
to find in this image
manifold flames
slowly wounding the eyes. \

Hardly a time for poetry.

I have tried to avoid
negating the
exaggerated passions
of the poets.

There is a colossal amount of desire.
And any contradiction
of the size of the sky
is often no more than the obscured
simplicity of a pebble in your hand.

I have been sympathetic
while successfully demystifying
the emptiness that gathers in pools
inside the poetry of the modern.

Some time ago
when the edifice of silence
merged with the horizon of knowledge,
many placed the value of paradise
in the service of an absurd rage.

I suppose that the reason
we expose our insights in the light
of years is only to remember
the minute cave of their origin.

After we have transcribed
the entire system of our impulses into monuments of smoke,
we can then go on and specify
how many illegible dreams transcended
the ordinary realm of the image.

The question as to the real significance
of the rapid decay of our art
does not bother me so much now
as the hopeless need to lose oneself
in the numinous stage of the ineffable.

A longer poem: the event

the_event_poem

We experienced.
And then thought.
Later we looked forward
to something.
The anticipation ended.
The event elapsed,
it finally happened.
We were in shock.
And the angst is past
us now. The event
happened and we remain
in its wake.
We look at each other.
Thinking.
Analyzing.
The event is over.
Now, we look.
We sit. We eat.
We memorize the story
of the event.
We wait for
another event.
We expect something of
incomprehensible rapidity.
We wait for destiny.
We experience truthlessness.
We are sad.
We try being human.
Soon, with cruel
intensity, it will come.
We drink. We write.
The words imitate flames.
We wait for understanding.
Then another thought, then
a hand followed by a cloud.
The event comes nearer.
Immense, like a wave of myth.
We talk. We kiss and ignore.
And sleep. And wake up
in rooms still of darkness.
We remember. An event
but not the event.
We try. We encounter.
Some perpetuity of repetition.
We imagine chaos. Another
planet of structure.
We listen. We weave
pleasures. We choose.
We feign. An event
exceeds. It renews
laughter, anger.
We forget the rhythm.
We crush our hopes.
We get naked and less logical.
We depend on revolution.
Then an anecdote. A joke.
A look in the mirror.
We question. And doubt.
The origin, the meaning.
The event continues,
we dress. We read fifty
pages of civilization.
We shift and shadow.
The event dances.
The event disappears.
The event makes a bird
lose itself in our language.
We remember the story.
The voice in our skins.
We draw lines and contours.
We invent strange cosmic
silences. We stand.
In moisture.
We hope and fear death.
We build an afternoon.
A mess. And the actual
size of the event.
We stare. There is a gap.
In the event, an opening.
We feel. Natural events,
hard episodes of injustice.
We make room.
We undergo war. Another
circumstance. Combinations
of raw force. We occur.
We ejaculate. A memory
in stone. An ideal in oil.
In transit, absentminded.
We despise and lose.
A sock. A lover.
An immense event escapes.
An immense object out
of focus. There.
An event ripples
in the light. A small
dot of meaninglessness.
A glimpse of seawater.
We imitate. A song.
The parody of proof.
We collect things. And
solitude in the cereal.
We put out some trash.
A solitary knot of
event. We calm the eyes.
The elephantine tears.
The glands of happi-
ness, the bed disheveled.
We recall the person.
The air around a woman.
The terrible essence
of that man. We translate
feelings. That event
at the edge of dust.
We pronounce promises.
We are older.
We electrify the options.
The event in the eyes.
An ecstasy. A somewhere
else. Then, a symbol
eclipses our breath.
Soon, the event a
decadence of melody.
We enact bodies. We
swallow densities.
The morning makes
a gesture. We howl.
After petals. And
feathers. And clitorides.
A thought of painting.
Inferno or a horizon.
Of pines, the smell
of lips. An event
desired. We leave.
We act.
A purple city.
A night without years.
We sit in sand,
in mounts of sorrow.
We practiced nihilism.
A long event. A quick
existence. WE allowed it.
We carried a version
of will. A point
of home. We began
with ash. And purpose
on a mountain. We
yield and it hurls.
The event found us.
We gaze.
We see bright
older selves.
We one last time.
We make a speech.
The event leaves,
we needed.

Contemporary Poetry