It was in 2013
when I started
dancing –
in the moral sense
of the word.
It was this
year when in
my hole, still
timeworn with despair
that I laughed –
in the philosophical
sense of the word.
It was under
a pale circle
in the sky
that I shouted:
‘more, more!’ –
in the maternal
sense of the word.
It was in
momentary empty
flight when I shot
over the aching nothing
to touch the inchoate
rim of creation –
in the real
sense of the word.
That once I found mirrors
sprawled on the floor, and I
looked for the mountains
of my eyes.
There were many
but lightly had I
taken flecks of skin
to cover the mirrors;
that I wanted to see
no more my reflection
but only feel the caress
of silence,
it was about blood
that trickles like a mute river
around the architecture of bones.
An aura,
myriad of angles,
a hollow breeze trapped
but circulating from one
morsel to the next,
the opulent scattering
of cavities and memories.
I would never comprehend
the purpose but once
inside I could walk
counting the domes
of each mystery
like beads in a rosary.
I could even step upon
the slabs of shadow
for I was only
an invisible thought
measuring the joy
of the black earth.
If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.
Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.
The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.
When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.
One drop
of
commonplace,
one drop
but completely
silent
within
empty engrossment.
A sole drip
of the mundane,
a trickle,
tingling
through
the minute
sense of being.
One gentle
course of earthliness,
a splash of it,
but soundless
echoing like
wings,
as a
boundless alleluia.
A speck
of prosaic,
a solitary
wandering
mote
concisely panoramic,
wordlessly grasped.
and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself
I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.
It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.
There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.
I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.
But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.
This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.
It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.
I see a man praying.
He’s begging, worshiping,
believing. I see a man that wants
to disappear from this world of weight;
I see a man that pleads to blend,
to unite, to be one with the absolute
meaninglessness. I see a man praying
inside a Hindu temple – speaking words
that only he hears and yet he is able
to convert this sight of flesh to fragrance,
from bone to beatitude, from blood to blossom.
I see a man waving to his idol and I keep walking
towards the heart of the jungle.
We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
And so philosophy ends.
History is a duel between art and time.
– Will Durant
Allow me
to carve
my strange vision
in your interior
let me turn
your feelings
into marble
shinning inside
my hidden truth
allow me to build
from your essence
the columns
to a new cathedral
where I will sit
to sing my memory
one day I hope
to be remembered
as the artisan that painted
the landscape of your soul
with the aurora of a dream
perhaps
this poem
is already a relic
of our brief encounter
crumbling on your tongue
crumbling like the rock
that was once art
but now becoming dust
for time’s wind.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
Beyond Language 
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