A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock
after death
love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand
every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol
of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic
mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes
love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand
those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;
the forgotten
labyrinth of him.
Maybe the air is vertebra
only you walk home
bending the muscle
of time,
a drunk man leaves
on the pub’s counter
the fire of thought
nothing changes
we can amass anguish
into a dragon
and see it writhe in
its halo
find a way knower
comb a molecule at a time
to be handsome
for destiny
that now dissolves in your honey-
dripping cupped hands
perhaps we hang immense
with city at our roots
what matters to be
draped in cloud
when age has a swollen
idea buried like a spine on
the morning soft
earth
step on pure grass
who leaves this animal
to sow in structure
the dream the
struggle
the science
of being such
near everything.
No one could deny her beauty,
her voluptuous center
her sweet ramifications
or her essential boundaries,
no one could falsify or ruin
her alliance to what’s desirable
and good in this life,
no one dared consider,
for a second,
that her decisive form
was a mode of deception
or biased perception,
no one ever attempted
to reduce her legend
by expressing platitudes
to describe or envy her,
no one,
at any rate,
saw in her the imperfections
and failures of our troubled world,
no one doubted the primal meaning
of her existence,
no one questioned her exclusivity
as being the only radiant entity
within the greyness and vapidity
of our routines,
no one ever challenged
her status of being the pinnacle of nature,
the overt instinct of some divinity,
no one, not once, asked why
she was visualized
as the mirrored image of ecstasy,
in the end
no one was capable of dying
without returning – in their minds –
to the pure concept
of her reality.
There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
himself mad
speaking loudly
and evening
with lawlessness
into rivulets a feather
nobody wings
possibility’s a stream
hours whirl
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
upon memory’
he listens
apparently
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
about time.
Preferably soft,
jelly-like
but resilient to heat
and the precarious nuisances of the jungle
tender but defiant
able to camouflage among
stones and clouds alike
its softness must be delicate
but decisive not necessarily static
as it can be allowed rigidity at times
equivalent to that of taut velvet
not too colorful nor flaunting
the impenetrability of black or white
capable of evaporating without dispersing
(i.e. losing its cohesion without sacrificing its wholeness)
different from the rest of its kind
without becoming an example of freak
it should waver at twilight at the risk
of turning ambiguous but never incomprehensible
its upper part magnificent
and evasive like the current of time in a dream
its lower part glorious and ubiquitous
like dawn in a desert’s sky
preferably sophisticated without being pompous
straightforward without being wholly divested of enigma
and existing mainly between
the eternal and the transient.
There were no instructions
and everything had a gleam
with no in between.
Even for the mind
there was no concept
nothing to break off
from the rhythm
of nature’s
self-portrait.
There was no suffering
of a thousand of years
and the mountains
were idiots with hands
in the sky.
There were no rules
of proportion and
we were born
in the middle
of gray.
In the midst of howls,
the happy blood-stained
gesture, but there was no
relationship with being
and non-being.
We killed until
ethics was an abstract
form of tool. And language
built a house for
loneliness.
This was long ago.
When something came
to dance and we were its
feathers.
I’ve wondered
to know nothing.
Seeing
my sea
of conscious,
weave wasted waves
of experience
into hairdos of light.
I’ve wondered
of returning
to enormous view
and an amorous
climax of confusion.
I’ve wondered to drink
night from water,
in unabridged absence
of divisions,
without order ,
with rain ribboning
the eclipse of impulse.
I’ve wondered
to forget
the sounds and the signs,
to find a strange design.
I’ve wondered
to know again.
Spying new round volume,
phenomena impenetrable else
glitters like a city;
in a distance sleepless to remember.
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.
Throughout itself,
ordinary nature
would no longer
be its opposite.
Truth occurs
within itself
no longer in earth
but open,
clearing, never rid of primal conflict
notice this Open
the world of paths
lighting
the self-closing
center
at bottom
intended to denote
that the essential
has rid itself
of everything
concealed.
(All the words, including minor phrases were extracted from page 53 of Heidegger’s essay The Origin of the Work of Art, found in the book Poetry, Language, Thought as translated by Albert Hofstadter, printed by Harper Perennial Modern Classics)
and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself
I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.
It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.
There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.
I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.
But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.
This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.
Beyond Language 
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