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
I have a minute to sing,
that is to say,
to open the mouth and exhale sound,
or, one could say, to release
a melody-scented breeze,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
one could say,
to extract from the lungs
a billow of rhythm,
or even more wildly poematic,
to secrete from the lips
a blossom of chords,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
radiating threads of harmony
from the oval aperture.
And I’ll sing of the sand,
that is to say,
of the minuscule shining cells,
or, one could say, of the worn
establishment of rocks,
perhaps even,
while stretching its meaning,
once could say,
of Blake’s innumerable worlds,
or even more wildly poematic,
of time’s corrugated vestige,
which can also be put,
if one indulges in poetic flights,
as,
soft volumes of exhausted earth.
But I only have a minute to sing, so I sing a simple song of sand.
By understanding the fundamentals of ambiguity the technologist of the obscure harnesses the power to create suitable artifacts (not to be confused with anti-facts) that encrypt the purity of communication into a meshwork of impenetrable significations. This technology, having being exploited by philosophers for ages, has surreptitiously leaked out and fallen into the hands of the architects, engineers and builders of unearthly images and unintelligible utterances, a group of formidable sophists that work relentlessly in the advancement of their art. Commonly grouped together under the heading of ‘Poets’, these deserters of lucidity utilize a wide array of techniques to camouflage their superficiality and produce, to all appearances, objects of intelligence. Their methods include the avoidance of the vernacular, the exploitation of the thesaurus, and the occasional usage of logatomes. This alchemy of language can reach such degree of high abstraction that the reader can momentarily forget the existence of the earth. Such manipulation of perception, while not yet proven to be lethal, can lead to a long-lasting veneration for the incomprehensible. While there might be some value in fiddling with obscurity, it is highly unlikely that straightforward communication will ever be supplanted by the monstrous impenetrability of the ambiguous.
If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.
Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.
The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.
When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.
I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.
noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings
how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors
wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity
observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt
have you noticed
how a poem
fractures the surface
of the known?
If a closed
pair of eyes where
I could crowd
the effusiveness of 16
hours spent in doubt
and awe,
if I could stitch the
wonderful cloud
of perception behind
the dark mirror
of sleep,
if a coarse
hum of cars could
kindle the low brass
handsome innocence
of the thunder,
if the cocks collide
at hilarious dawns
in darkness the pupils
empty of light
to be cups brimming
with the honey of sense,
if the boulders of the eyes
spewed by the dreamer
land far away
in raw fields of
bliss
They say
I should kill
myself.
I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.
But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.
. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.
I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.
They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.
I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.
I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.
I say no; I’ll write poetry.
Visualize
the first act
of violence
that gave meaning
to the word
‘violence’
the first dog
that symbolized the
genus of all dogs –
the moment
when abstract
was no longer
a word
but the whole history
of the world
Imagine
the timeless
before we gave
it a name
or happiness
before it
became a goal
or truth
when consciousness
was still ineffable
and nesting
Suppose
meaning
was the hardest
bone
and eternity
a living
cloud
Conceive
matter as the
drying spirit
or spirit
as the sleep
of atoms
Assume
if only once
that essence
is the entire
instant of life –
and death
is the entire
essence of poetry.
Beyond Language 
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