I’m here missing
the warm circulation
of your thoughts.
But I have to report
that my cock is heavy
with hot nostalgia.
Its destiny was to sleep
between orgasms, to drip
songs over your diaphanous
breasts. Even when the heat
is gone, the chimney’s last
strand of light will have
the flavor of a dream,
destined to become smoke
and whisper, yea far beyond
the annals of our desire.
Far beyond the flannel
blanket that kept us webbed
to a hymn of hums.
You now
must know
what it is to crave a glass of water
or to sip a kiss;
to be so reckless as to flood
the heart because it is a crater of chalk
and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.
I don’t remember what
kind of day it was.
Full of sun with
musky winds, dark with
impalpable clouds, perhaps
flat and drunk in sapphire.
I don’t care what kind of day
it was; a day to forget like all
the rest had I not begun to count
the breaths I’ve taken in despair.
I began stooping like an imbecile twig
that bends with every paddle of the wind
as if an essence had broken into milliard
tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had
to count and sew them back into a remembrance.
I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me
like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow
or even for a single mindless mote of dust
to land catastrophically on me and pierce
this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin
fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul
standing erect like a pagan odalisque.
But don’t show her mercy, kick her out
of this world drama, let her run barefoot
back to her incomprehensible origin.
It could have been a year ago, while getting on
a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence
by its throat and squeezing out a peep;
I had been so innocently prone to believing
that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating
me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but
now I feel at home because suffering
sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge
and even if it is reborn every day I dream
at night of being a thin echo of fiction.
Amen.
I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year
I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn
that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments
the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences
to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time
I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.
Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.
find
the springing
color
the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm
emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs
ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness
leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs
sit between
two naked fires
neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea
listen for the echo
of the beginning
and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being
may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Lilililililililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiili
if nothing had been
taught
green dirt pillow sun hidden source
I die
my love
my element
.
the taste of
reason
return as the red
towards the tasteless earth
how long can
the long understanding
last?
I die in 7 minutes
or 7 decades
for how long must I
invent the existence?
I must cry
because of all
these layers
of years
all these skins
that died
to become
thoughts.
I have a bubble
of music
swelling inside:
the silent walls,
the cold
structures of silence.
It is a tiny
flame of sound,
a flickering leap
upon the smooth
slabs of concrete.
I saw the snow
today fall
like an army of silent
white deaths.
And I wanted
to join its
fragile thaw.
I feel.
A minor chord
aches,
yes it resonates,
inside a minor heart.
I pressed down
decadently on
the piano keys.
The dark is draped with echo.
I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose
I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me
I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future
watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience
look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux
yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body
like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers
But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips
asleep
to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around
minutes
to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to
kiss
to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old
tomorrow
A loosely transcribed prose poem based on my Spanish poem earlier tonight.
There, something like a stain, was once a sky. Some aberration of smoke and light, of cloud and fire; a threshold. Was it even my decision to intertwine or to blend with destiny? I am governed by the first desire that slithers between two hesitations. I disown the vehicle of my body, the possibility of choice. I raise a hand like another Pessoa to hint a goodbye, but to what? The cloud? The sun that I never knew except for its light?
There was a man that could not continue today, he stood in front of a horizon.
He said: goodbye.
He said: I return to the unknown.
Beyond Language 
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