peeling off the whiteness
of stream
of consciousness
washing it
with the sterile lore
of silence
preserving its restlessness
in the hermetic jar
of time
feeding it the shadow
of leaves
the crumbs of wind
that I find
warming it
with the thick songs
of essence
talking to it
with the vowels
of night and day
loving it
despite
the shapeless ache
it leaves in my
heart
In the breadth
of a human
hair,
to originate
in a
exiting ray
of sun;
all the elements
in the purpose
of extinction –
I have
faith:
existence fits
in a gulp
of now.
the shape of your neck
wrestling with my focus
I could have smiled
and twirled a spoon
in my coffee
to taste the dimensions
of your spiraling
lips
I’ve wondered
how your body
would resist
being against a window
freezing like dew
in the dawn
all that we study
to forget
the longitude
of an instant
laughter
– yours –
dripping
from above
and there is no
sky here
let’s repose
and dissolve
like heat
ripples
from a distance
over
an unfamiliar
path.
What I employ
is not language
but the vivid shade
of movement and instinct
I have to be asleep
murmuring like a wide surface
of sea froth
twilight before the birth of pain;
my eyes expiring like new moons
in the obscure tingling of selfhood
only then
in that reflection
the hairs of the galaxies
sway like dark music,
the pupils expand
in one big womb of memory;
I remember
the place where the soul
used to be.
I have closed my eyes.
In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.
I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.
It is all there with bubbles and stain.
My eyes are shut.
The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.
The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.
My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.
Poem of dew legs
towards the heavy
impulse of bottom breath
the eyes turn road to exile
laughing culmination of clouds
poem of bitter it
ourselves tapping one universe
adhered living blindness
the motion of emptiness
the physics higher and unbroken
poem of tide or meaning
wrestling rustle of weight
hands dancing communication
the voice of whole suffering fingers
back and forth in speeding wounds
poem of cigarettes
transformation the blurry face
a voice of fatal fury
the organ of trembling gray
to smoke the blue song
a chasm of notes
eternally
behind the thistle
of your victim
eyes.
A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper
To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly
His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness
A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence
A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended
There with the elapsing sum of experience
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.
With a weightless sky in my eye
I drown in arabesque
can I blame the world
for appearing to be so real?
while walking in silence
I observed the solidity
the light calmly on the mundane;
something unfolding I called it wholeness
occult like a spirit
clever and persistent
behind the visible path that I take,
locality and image
are still my playthings
and yet something calls
like a spell to jump
into the final
unknown.
so damned
brimming
so eventfully charged
with life
my darkest pleasure
to live on and on
with the callous madness
of loving
words.
Beyond Language 
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