There must be
to turn off freedom.
To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.
To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.
To chew the furniture of words.
To fall into the sound of water.
The idea of thought
would be framed
and memorial sites.
Like an ancient artifact of struggle.
All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux
and language moss at the rim of our lips.
They found a bulge
and it was in the news
and the hearts
shook with dread
a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness
the lights of police
and the endless of an image
no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge
it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes
factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs
it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science
and melancholy is a growth
in the heads of those
that gaze with wonder
A saint is a stain on white monotony
aloud he thinks: I
am a strange dot among the government of lines;
a mystic is a calm slip into abyss
all joking aside he says:
above the city leaps into tower;
a shaman is a subject under the tyranny of wholeness
aware of segments he asserts:
a fraction is mind lost in the order of totality;
alone in the world every man wonders:
afraid like a leaf in autumn my life
amidst the rain;
a poet is an absolute ark of air
abstruse and above all
a little puddle of reflection
at the end he writes:
a full world and its aura
asleep inside a shoebox
an allegory for barefoot monks.
Life is quite explicit.
Like a fly that lands
on a piece of paper.
Thought is quite intricate.
Like the Rorschach blot
a fly produces when smacked
on a piece of paper.
I have a street and no metaphor
a layer of moonlight but
This is a street and
not a metaphor
not a shivering slate of moonlight
I’ve seen my street bare without metap..
The street is cold without metaphor
drenched in the shudder of moonlight
This street is devoid of metaphor
a meaningless stretch of cold trembling
I have a street but without metaphor
even tho I’ve left a ripple on its moonlight
A street sleeps without metaphor
moonlight awake floating away like a trembling mist
these streets are meaningless without metaphor
the light of the moon is afraid but isn’t visibly shaking
A street has no meaning and cannot be a metaphor
because it’s drowning in the yellow of its moonlight
I walk upon a street and find no metaphor
half of its moonlight has been wasted on rats
This street has an absence of metaphor
because moonlight is nothing but the light of the moon
Upon a street I walk without a metaphor
all the while thinking that the moonlight
is the simile of a smile
The street is empty; empty of metaphor
only a light is seen and it’s not from the moon
A street is a place where nobody cares for metaphors
and the moonlight is a spot you leap over
Somehow this street lost its metaphor
but I found the moonlight tattooed on my skin
A street is no metaphor
and a poem is not moonlight
It could have been an ordinary day.
Calm cadence of constant.
But the moon got in the way.
A violent thing
when you’re going up a hill
and it’s there
big orange organ of light
sharp as a knife
levitating above the curly sea.
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.