Beyond Language Poetry
The house is now in order.
The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.
I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.
You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.
The description of what is,
without category or detail.
It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.
Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.
There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.
The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.
It has never rained so much in 150 years.
I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.
There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.
I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.
I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.
It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.
The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.
The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.
It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.
I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?
The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.
This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.
People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.
I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.
The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.
There are other ways
than language.
Let’s observe
simply
the fire before us.
The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.
Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.
The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.
This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.
This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its
valley.
This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
swallow
pregnant fruit.
There are other ways
than ideas.
Let’s dry the story
and blind the
behavior.
See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its
shell.
The ground
fertile
with the patience
of time.
This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
understand
the sand.
Once we pull
language
as a thorn
out of the world.
This
and only
this
will remain.
The dark enters the scene (left)
to crush the last day
into trim of twilight.
You sit sensing the wall
watching your mind
being sponge
absorbing gainsboro
from the wall’s last
paleness.
You must be struggling
the ocean the sea a shelter
in some mountain.
There is a crackling
in the woods,
a decision to move.
The wind
not an object of pain
travels through the pines.
Needles trembling
thin creatures
not afraid
but as a web of wave
through which
you already
in awe.
The wall reemerges
(mistlike entrance)
to become a window.
Drawn
ashore by the emotion.
Drinking the ocean,
thoroughly
drop by drop
until
the mind craves its break.
You look up.
Enter moon (right)
conscious of its own silence.
The moon
casts its light
an echo bare
washing your chest.
Your deepest response
allows a pause
first to savor
and then smile.
You close your eyes.
Curtain.
Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the
wind.
At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.
Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo
his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers
I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones
and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey
but bottle was empty
scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt
and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing
that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog
these things like winds are words
and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks
and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies
it was the night
to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles
at the very least,
a night
without ideas
and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,
dirilin dorem, silafu.
origin.
When nothing had yet
lured electron.
Before beginnings,
when totality
was numb and coiled
like a tongue.
The buds
savoring
a patch of permanence.
Illumine the solace
when the folds of eternity
were not yet
outstretched.
Omnipresence
was a droplet deep
of dense darkness.
Then a slither of light scarred the night.
A new hunger
clung to the breast
of heaven
till
it began to bleed
a timeless light.
Becoming.
Outpouring curls of colors.
The clouds
the mud
and the appearance
swathed in shadows
& painful pulse.
Beyond Language 
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