to have known the lazy mote
short quivering dust drawing
letters fruits and tongues on invisible air
when these strangers, lovers
and broken loves waiting for the
train see the speck restless,
there and then, the trance of the path
whose swirl is as elementary
ancient as the nakedness of the sky
a speck who deserves as many words
thoughts and aches
as those we touch and hurt
a mote debonair in air
finds its rest gracefully
like drop of grey symphony
at the base of our feet
here is earth
all earth dreaming
this sliver of earth
this earth of maze
a rueful path on earth
all earth divine
hard as cock
as breasts voluptuous
this earth of sex
and dream and pain
here is earth
all earth excelling
in voice and void
this earth like
body drunk
with melody
the hurried streak of beauty
to walk chaotically
on open midnights
hurl hums to cosmos
like a muddled beethoven
ahhhh the freedom of finitude
to live and die instantly
within this globe of atom –
I see you
vast manifold energy
spiraling around this
meaningless soul!
Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?
The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.
peeling off the whiteness
of stream
of consciousness
washing it
with the sterile lore
of silence
preserving its restlessness
in the hermetic jar
of time
feeding it the shadow
of leaves
the crumbs of wind
that I find
warming it
with the thick songs
of essence
talking to it
with the vowels
of night and day
loving it
despite
the shapeless ache
it leaves in my
heart
what
was
it
this
fable
of deformities
life
when all
thought
is of the size
of a grain
of rice
and you shave
to feel the snow
on your cheeks
clueless
of how you
indefatigably
will love
the next
occurrence
in this
fable
of ideal
encounters
with something
real.
NIHILISTIC Poetry
I imagine a day
when young rose vowels
uttered from my mouth
brimming with the perfume of laughter
that joyous I’d be
still full of falsehood
but arms around strange folk
like they’d be the secret
truth of the age, we’d sing
and sit like tired twigs
leaning on the inside of a whirlpool whose
destination does not amount to too much
but neither does the apprehension of it
so that day comes
my pen on the edge of the table
my pipe curling arrows of smoke
but truly my eyes fixed on
clouds with no purpose
what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –
no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.
A wild band of maniacs
command me
I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel
they feed me futures
the bones of tasks
I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth
hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy
I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss
I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts
Beyond Language 
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