rockn’roll

dream_poetry

I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.


Contemporary Poetry

Tripartite

postmodern_poem_2013

Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?

A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.

They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?

The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.

The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.

The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.

Someone?
Anybody?

The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.

Alfred white as a number says, OK.

I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.

Knock, knock.

Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.

That’s $15, she said.

Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings

like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.

Contemporary Poetry

A noun is a thing that serves as a vehicle for the quality of its adjective

2013_poem

In the sky
whiteness
travels like a passenger
inside the cloud
I have seen it journey
across the blue
until it reaches the golden
arc of horizon
where it suffers
through a whim of fate
a mutation
from pure whiteness
to the brightness
of the gold;
but abruptly
as a bullet
entering a vein of blood
the vehicle cloud
turns red
in the throb or throe of twilight
and whiteness dies like a sigh
in the expanding gloom
of purple tinge.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

against the intellect

astronomy_poetry

In the pissoir I am a man.
(look above)
some sort of distant collision,
where totalities remain crumbs
see those tiny galaxies
crushing their bones
without emotion in a faraway
dissolution of waves.
I am a man leaving the certainty
of proud world.
I thought I knew the world
when shapes were its body
and chaos its breath.
But even that is a view.
The violence of the mass exists
like pink throbbing in the
dynamite of perception.
I leave the toilet and confront
a scroll of measures and a bunch
of mirrors masking the smoke –
at the core nothing is known.
The sky – like a word –
turns black.
And there’s silence,
like a shadow,
following me home.

Contemporary Poetry

my eyes and shiver

poetry_of_Shadows

There will be no more.
I will close my eyes
and shiver
as a wriggle in timelessness.

No tomorrow.

From the table
we put in our mouths
the last lesson of the bread,
we close the door
and the familiar unknown
disappears together with the
city noise.

There was no explanation
for this history of glimmers.

There will be no more:
injustice – no more form
and ideas will be lost
against the sounds of the bells.

The eyes will become simple silences,
clouded by the color of the music.

Everything will be resting
at last
under the warmth
& patience of the shadows.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

eleven short cantos

contemporary_poetry_blog

I

Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.

II

Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.

III

Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.

IV

The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.

V

The mirror is red with rage.

VI

The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.

VII

I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.

VIII

The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.

IX

No one dead has come back
to tell us
anything.
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.

X

How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.

Xi

When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry