Here is language
standing in the world
like an obese piano
here are my lips
caressing chaotically
a plaintive arpeggio
a strung mass
of sea splatter
struck by mechanical
whim
I sense freedom
in verbal form
that suckles the
shadow behind
vocal foam
here are the colors
aligned in black mountain
& white valley
here the world
trickles in echo
here is language
standing in the immense
like sculpted fluid
here are my lips
opening like rain
the bouquet of sound
really believing
two of the greatest
musical quivers
boundlessly
I burst quite sick
into history
with how many heads
always holding symphony,
art otherwise despair
consider one literary
thing, make it your bed
and invariably perish
simultaneously with every
thing else
really believe
an absolute nature
factually accused
of producing
nothing
to be a seer
more indeed than describe
but misconstrue
into artless paralysis
walking in reality
but in truth
to bear torrential
truth
do not enter
a tree or song
but life
life, nay, breathe
into something featureless
who knows what reasons
mysterious dissolved them
as examples of this process
merely accept this object
as contour groped in darkness
possibly decades
in the making
itself a memory ago
where I promised
to write language
as crust enveloping
experience
Yesterday there,
could have written
a poem, a tunnel
to something greater
than what we amassed
in many units
of cyclic century
I could have, yesterday.
Created a segment of fiction
that borrows truth as tool
and made universe
a cog in a bigger dream
Yesterday, there
was only need for one hundred
twenty-one words
to serve as ligament
between the earth
and a single
human heart
I could have, yesterday.
Covered my eyes, my eyes
with pungent dust and
swallowed the interior
of a cloud. Something vague
but elementary, could have
been spoken
Yesterday there,
could have left legacy
to some mad prophecy,
I could have dropped
an ounce of voice
into the hole
that is an abyss
above us.
To peek within,
through artery,
like spying through
a window into a room
with two armchairs
and a book of chemistry.
To capture within
the vaulted length,
the sinuosity of entrails
like a mountain range
that forces trees up toward the sky
with perched birds inside them
looking down toward the earth
for the head of a worm.
To glance within
through dilated ache,
while standing outside a café
in front of a mob that clothe
with invisible meaning
the earth and pretend its
burning bone will survive
the excitement of light
as crystal memory
in the pockets of their hearts.
To visualize within,
through hot telescope,
the distance of our truths,
like studying the clusters
of emptiness inside
an amoeba of hope.
To see within,
through the gate of the mouth,
a deeper hole that is glutted with silence,
like a threshold that opens up
not to soul
but to something even more
lost.
The carvings in the wood. Steps up, turn right, unzip, let it rip.
There is some necessity for being unconscious of the process.
Of the origin. Of the consequence and significance.
There is some necessity to intonate without ideal,
to fling actions all of the sudden
as dice without any odds of winning.
Fix hair. Zip, down the steps. Smoke fury of flurry. Beer; what’s the score?
The second, while being a vehicle of careless novelty, is actually
heavy, almost pregnant with the expression of expired millennia.
Seamless actions operate unconscious of the thrust of heavy history.
Running out of beer. Was it 25? Come one Jones, put it in the box!
Poetry is an exercise in distillation. An appropriation of the
universal, namely, to compress the universe into the right word.
It is mutiny against language, a futile revolution against excess.
For fuck’s sake, that’s it. What a poor effort. Let’s grab a bite.
There is nonetheless an element of arbitrariness in all postures.
The only sin is definition, that is to say, narrowing the flux
to one single image, fluid as this representation may be,
that will necessarily congeal the real nature of impermanence.
The clouds are suspended as the self. Return my symbol; I’m under the influence of the absolute.
This is not the language of the everyman. But the poetic is an
elevation of ordinary life, a dissection of the vital rhythms
that run through the flesh of form and the bone of force.
I can tell you where I’m going, because I’ve been wrestling with remembrance toward the soft constellation and I scream in a loud abstraction: I aim beyond the tedium of destinations and I will tell you. Migrating like ink into the empty apartment, and the warmth of the sun sinks into my bloated pool of blood. The craftsmanship of carving windows onto the pale walls of silence. My voyage is a concentration of shadows amplifying the dominion of dust. The dialect is a purification of vision, to observe the structures that remain hidden behind the brightness of fear. This is where I’m going, dragging behind me the image of the ocean. Because I’ve lifted up the endless darkness that pulsated like an essence on the surface of the world. There is where I’m going, toward the equilibrium of the mirror, in a gigantic leap within.
Set the feeling down. Like a stone
you brought from the outside
from a neglected garden.
Let’s be naked, gooseflesh
and fling your thoughts (true or delusive)
as your dirty lingerie, on the couch
I bought the other day, from a
man w/ a beard and jesus christ
what a beard he had.
Let’s lie down, like a century
like centuries do
in a stomp and muddled
like all centuries do.
But we don’t care about time,
only care for licked flesh, the skin
that philosophy grew around our muscles
and wrapped us in that idealism of matter.
Then we pluck desire as echoes from our eyes
and we’ll press against each other
like two enormous skies
up against the other
like two skies crushing a cloud.
And then we’ll stare at the walls, the floor,
the ceiling, we’ll say it’s paint, wood, concrete
and something beyond that, and something beyond
that and something or other beyond the last beyond.
But you’ll be asking questions, what about the fire,
the tomorrow, the singularity of human encounters
and the wounds of the galaxy. But I say, shut up
drop the politics and judge the day
as a lump of poetry merely.
After a while when the cities collapse
and you’re back with your heavy stones
crossing chasms and delving infinitudes,
remember what I said tonight, judge the day
merely as a lump of poetry.
A common blink. The human
act. It’s 3.50 am and I am
a swirl of smoke with swing
in the bar but no cigarette.
I dance alone, snapping
fingers, closing eyes
fun against the circumference.
I drop a sigh and it tumbles
down the ankles and hits
the bubbles of the dirty
dance floor. I think,
I’ve been once
a fetus. An ounce.
A particle of blood.
Now, I blink and participate
in the trigonometry
of the complex. The act.
This is a vein of music.
I dangle and dance.
Brushing against the
solitary totality.
I’m blinking without a
cigarette. Squashing
the disease of saliva,
the last residue below
my feet.
Singling out the lonesome
route of the human
noise. Arms casually
spiraling toward the touch
of fat air. The fat noise.
I blink and light
is splattered onto conscious.
I dance. 3. 59 am and I barely am.
A rose above fury toward sea
life holy hole
I here stretch the song
of earthly length
to dwell in portrait and silk,
bushes of fire
decorate the string of minutes
like quick summits expiring
everywhere, every orient
framed in the dark charcoal
that is art of the dream,
a sky beneath violence toward star
death anchored across
thin perfumes of morning and love,
I hear strange technologies
building a mad edge,
in fog twine comets and flora
coexisting with the habits
of our blood, everywhere
every white memory
finding a violet conflagration,
to sleep united with some knot of
violin in the tremors
of the sudden heart;
that rose fuming with essence toward a copper sea.
When I awoke today
I looked at my exhausted limbs
and there – THERE was a wave of tremendum
shafts of wild fascination
hanging from every bit of skin
as by whim, as by holy pendulum
I’d like to judge and proclaim
the final voice is nothing but noise
I rage.
I remain.
Hidden in a territory that history does not interrupt.
A soft sinuous sense like solitude or silencing.
Oh man, how’ve danced and surrendered,
circling the city as a mote swerving around the shafts
of light in this barren room. Alive and extensions
of some unknown cause. Fluttering like a scream
in the barbarity of ignorance. I am proud, a huge
pound of ignorance. A huge pyramid of bliss.
I was a dream. A mirrored mirage.
But now, full of fascinatum
I have the holy stream of eternity
wasted as a shadow
below my feet.
I’ve spilled the moonshine over my bare breasts
in the agony of madness.
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