absurd poetry
migrations
How they got into thought
– the swans –
nobody knew
how they would echo through logic
like a kite in the wind
and
like little girls
they would comb their feathers
with infinite time on their hands
– these swans–
had a sense of mission
but they are complex
creatures with sin as a stain
on their coats of snow,
who knows if they’ll go back
to the nervous quivers of the pond;
for now, they’re stuck
like a satellite
to the cusp of an hour
and I’m embarrassed
to admit
that I stare at them
all the time
as they sleep between
the chunks of words.
Contemporary Poetry
and the emptiness of
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.
Contemporary Poetry
Tripartite
Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?
A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.
They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?
The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.
The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.
The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.
Someone?
Anybody?
The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.
Alfred white as a number says, OK.
I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.
Knock, knock.
Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.
That’s $15, she said.
Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings
like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.
Contemporary Poetry
from above
They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
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
bulk
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
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze with wonder
from above.
Contemporary Poetry
19A
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.
Contemporary Poetry
A noun is a thing that serves as a vehicle for the quality of its adjective
In the sky
whiteness
travels like a passenger
inside the cloud
I have seen it journey
across the blue
until it reaches the golden
arc of horizon
where it suffers
through a whim of fate
a mutation
from pure whiteness
to the brightness
of the gold;
but abruptly
as a bullet
entering a vein of blood
the vehicle cloud
turns red
in the throb or throe of twilight
and whiteness dies like a sigh
in the expanding gloom
of purple tinge.
Contemporary Poetry
the moment
The lens capturing ache, a spot left to blind around nobody’s serial zipper. Afar while ignorant by her purpose a sigh rehearsed black blink the tune is closing the drumming aperture. Zoom aerially alongside sensation my mirror coldly awakening after rebellion shoots truth like arrow shorn of wings. Meanwhile a little closer my love carefully and hairy the machine makes appointment between moons and bus stops. Shift dimension because the rule has carved rust on laughter and soil drips sardines, hungry small animalcules and vulgar drunk remarks. The visitor FLASH awesome teeth while zones of legs remember the long overhaul and missionary status. Lately a fly meditates on the heavy scent of sums, mean chasms calibrating the here and now; an owl overflies the morning damned. The events captured logistically by nature’s circumference white underpants exposed within the thick fog of human greed. Sex wonderfully colored, centrally in the mind because a flower is pure in the mind better than an orgy of doubts sweating paradoxes. Buildings always poured with honey and served at midnight with a television smile. Mystically our school shrank from situation to circumstance to coincidence like fish, schools of fish diving deeper into unknown coordination with night above bowing as strange concave dark banana. The birds tiny church angels motes of dust leave individually one by one consciousness a door with the figure of a feminine sound. The animal buys a ticket to catharsis calmly the wine rhymes the trees are sharp silent sticks. The animal fenced in irony learns the catechism of turning on its own axis. The animal takes the arm of the herd expecting nothing less than the wave of feasting on echoes. The animal stores sunlight in its radio, tissues of right and wrong, the effort is its monastery. The animal against animal but bubbles merge with soap bubbles like families holding hands forever against the backdrop of mountains forever, terrible shadow-drenched mountains forever that rise toward the pinnacle and forever pierce the dead corpse of night with their tips of white melting gold, forever captured in ache.
Contemporary Poetry
simple analogy
Life is quite explicit.
Like a fly that lands
unexpectedly
on a piece of paper.
Thought is quite intricate.
Like the Rorschach blot
a fly produces when smacked
on a piece of paper.
21st century Poetry
In this globe of mud I only found fables and seas*
*The above expression
remains unclear to this
date. It is unknown
whether the author
intended it to be strictly
a metaphor or to be
taken literally in its
full consequences.
It has spurred a string
of speculation and debate
dividing opinions
into warring camps.
Some claim that it
was written in a state
of utter stupor and therefore
must be regarded as an aberration
of the unconscious. Others
argue that that the author
has pierced through the veil
of language and has given
us direct access to
the core of meaning.
Leading figures in the field
of semiotics have given
popularity to the notion
that the expression transcends
the use of its symbols
and signifies nothing
in itself.
Research into his biography
has only added enigmas
to the puzzle of the author’s
mysterious expression.
Until further discoveries
are made between the logical,
historical, metaphysical
and aesthetic relations
and order of the words
employed,
little guidance
can be given to the reader
as to the ultimate significance
of the author’s seemingly
unintelligible statement.
Beyond Language 
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