Cleave to that place
arterial
the vessel no the aerial
where fading flight merges
with being and life
is no longer
an only particular
thing
but interior of great
continuity
of circulation density
dripping
in center toward
multiplicity
and radiates back
into blood
the skin, your eyes, your hands
the fur of the world
at your fingertips.
A common blink. The human
act. It’s 3.50 am and I am
a swirl of smoke with swing
in the bar but no cigarette.
I dance alone, snapping
fingers, closing eyes
fun against the circumference.
I drop a sigh and it tumbles
down the ankles and hits
the bubbles of the dirty
dance floor. I think,
I’ve been once
a fetus. An ounce.
A particle of blood.
Now, I blink and participate
in the trigonometry
of the complex. The act.
This is a vein of music.
I dangle and dance.
Brushing against the
solitary totality.
I’m blinking without a
cigarette. Squashing
the disease of saliva,
the last residue below
my feet.
Singling out the lonesome
route of the human
noise. Arms casually
spiraling toward the touch
of fat air. The fat noise.
I blink and light
is splattered onto conscious.
I dance. 3. 59 am and I barely am.
The self is a function of life.
Every aspect
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is
outside it,
nothing
belongs to something
other than itself.
Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
word
) of what nature
is doing.
My ego
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not
confront or exchange
with any external.
All my memories, actions,
thoughts, insights,
responsibilities, etcetera,
do not belong to
me.
They are all part
of that function
that life
is portraying
through a living organism.
The experience
of being-hood is a sort of modulation of life itself.
There is no center or
self that engages with life.
Rather life is engaged with nature.
In other words,
I’ve never experienced
anything.
One could say,
I am the illusion
of being a drop of water
inside a totality
that is itself all water.
The IT has been doing ITSELF.
Nothing belongs to me per se.
Even this instant,
these words, these attempts
to define what’s happening
are not me nor belonging to me,
but aspects of what life
or, sub specie aeternitatis,
what nature does.
Life is, a Spinozan could say,
a mode in nature. I’m inclined to say
there is no one
perceiving this, life itself
is busying itself with life-stuff,
nature-stuff, thought-stuff,
society-stuff, and so on.
There is no me
in all of this.
There is only a recurring
sensation that life – the
experiences that compose our definition of life –
belong to me.
But that sensation
is itself an impression like any other.
Can death be overcome?
Only a thought
that suggests that “I will die” exists,
but not the actual death of the self
– because there is no self.
While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy
I begin
to
approach
you
with a scarcity
of words
a simple
symbol:
snow
contains
the entire mode
of your
being.
I enjoy
being
the only one in the world
who does not
understand
a single
thing.
The afternoon came as an uninvited guest
in the midst of my being nothing,
the amputated pieces of sky I could see
together with the regret of two trees
beyond the damp window
seemed like the tortured bell of noon
breaking the spell of a sleeping happiness
in the midst of my being nothing,
the possibility of daylight and tepid airs
of a world altogether alien and outside
marred the fictions of my desires:
the slow inactivity of self
irrelevantly smiling to the amusements of time
but this light catalyzing the contours of weak objects
like a cold wave reaching the feet of my dream
in the midst of my being nothing,
the noise of what is external!
to exist no longer as a particle in the stream
but as an invisible swirl in the drift
layers of inaudible music
as the touch of night
in the midst of my being nothing,
rooftops like the written words
of forgotten minutes
outside, alike, trembling
I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
I
I cannot praise beauty
only the mysterious
I summon the elements
of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
– my own
who else stands here
– a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
the flesh of
this Being.
Beyond Language 
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