here is my ear
curled up
like a journey
it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape
some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness
I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels
whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound
here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.
To be a bed
where two flies procreate
a scoop of nailed flight
to be a hiding of swirls
and heavy wax hairs
alpine view here with the roar of a minute
to be born of sperm and fact
trapped between two breasts of dirty fruit
feeding from black poisonous miracles
to be fallacies of waste
to have animals over you scavenge for dumb teeth
to be a gulf of chewed respirations
aging dawn of wings
crashing against oceanic mirrors
to be a bed of cactus
where virgins report to god
and sacrifice their blood to color
the brick walls of love
to be all the circles of anatomy
but not the equations of multitudes
the guilty resin of interpenetration
to be a savant sleeping under
hoards of cannibalistic dreams.
By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps
I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind
there was Rimbaud
the seer
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
outside
vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
dirt
alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe
there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing
so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
of being
poet & chasm.
The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness
no symbol
is free
to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable
the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning
an opening in the clouds
supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky
inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance
a sufferer’s music.
I gasped
and was
a child
so it is a lost
saddened
reality
who made it?
I was breathlessly
spellbound
the name of it
is there
but the maker
is long dead
to be drunk
awake
with the uninhabited
world below my knees
the eager moon
hungry for my course
I designate the sadness
at the street
death
the watch has said
death
tea
is in my mouth
morbid
florid pain
I’m watching
and nothing
effortlessly
febrile
useless personality
I am nothing more
silver meaning
rotten sound
kill me sage
here
The view
from here
is horrifying
I cannot
say
anything
nothing to add
to worthless
phenomena
there’s
nothing to be saved
in all this death-bound
totality.
The heroes, or the emission.
happiness and earthquake
the sound soars
blindly behind curtains
of my perception
there are pieces
that I have forgotten
about myself
like the blackened scar
of shell beneath a foot
in morbid beach
reality?
a beauty.
insufficient
recently creating
the drug that fixes me
there have been lauds
highly articulate sources
floundering as brush stroke
in broken verses
to age!
furthermore
alive heavy with struggle
and purely irresolute.
the receptor
is fire in the body
smoking as the embers
unite with shadow
over the ultimate
coat of illusion
the path of the worm
is a flight in the night
this season of suffering
when wisdom is
reaching out to the
divine
death
of the thinker
there’s only music
the ears are my feet
to dance is the fatalistic
engine of love
silence.
pause
the rock
of the sea.
smoke touches brain
neurosis and all
have you seen it curl
like neurons thinking of clouds –
yes clouds are always in my mind
life is so barren of poetry
that the only word
that saves me is
CLOUD
a single
puff of shredded tobacco
cold in the lungs
a wild uproar of vapor
in the skyline of
awareness
It keeps me warm
threads and threads
a wonderful composition
to keep me warm;
I bought it and now it keeps me warm
it has fortified my skin,
I am a modern bear.
I walk with my coat
the streets are windy
but the coat hangs on
it falls naturally on my shoulders,
I am its underlying foundation,
therefore I must exist under it.
I am hungry
contractions and blurring agonies,
I am okay
but I must touch food soon,
then swallow it
and then it becomes me
I become it:
we must both exist at some point.
The bicycle has wheels
they roll on a surface,
a hard one,
I am fast; to be fast
there is weight, force
I am a force in motion.
I see the bakery
full of smells and heat
many folk are in there
bread is being sold,
I have some money:
I must be at the right place.
I park my bicycle,
rationally, I am locking it
removing the key from the lock
the bike sways and wants to fall,
I catch it because it should not fall;
they are not supposed to fall –
a car glides behind me –
why would we let bikes fall to the ground,
what would happen, who would I become
if I had permitted this bike to fall;
what kind of man would I have become.
Mouth is watery
mushy croissant in my savory mouth
this pulp goes down my throat,
it falls,
this is allowed fall.
I leave the bike –
cannot deal with questions right now –
walking is natural, effortless
step, step, step, step, step, step
kind of percussion,
I must be an artist.
I went astray,
is this the north of the south
or the west of the east,
this place is relative to something
I know that much.
They are talking about shoes
shoes are valuable
they are like hard feet for hard surfaces,
these girls use their hands when they speak:
hands must also be part of language.
I must return, somehow
because if I remain lost too long
I might not be me anymore;
with so many new sights
I might disappear in these perceptions.
TO DOWNTOWN,
there it is, an arrow
pointing to my universe;
back there I can be caressed again
by the same old things I know:
we exist side by side.
Step, step, step, step
this is my home, my street, my block
my mailbox has a name
the floors have numbers
the door has a lock and I possess its key
and I pretty certain that I keep track
of who I really am.
Beyond Language 
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