numbers and illusions

The desert
the streets are made of sand
crumbling tombs, atoms
they are disintegrating
sidewalks and numbers
bleached, ambiguous
some street signs
echoes and hallucinations
this urban hell

streets turn into cities
cities into graves
graves into civilizations
worlds into multiple voids
this is not philosophy
but it tastes like it 

I, you, us
in a substance
quite unknown
still unidentified
that is the illusion of knowledge
secrets and denials
to become confessions
of the upcoming third millennia 

when you are the tip
no longer the base
you fall
fall you disappear
in quiet intangible

sleep.
Awake or not
wave upon wave
silence within silence
void delivering avoidance
what is the word
for the miracles

that keep us alive. 
 
 
 

 

 

on magic

By the proximity

      of endless spirals

spiraling dimensions

firmly situated in front

of the faces and worries

as if by magic

but magic so fiercely unwanted

    it is looked upon as

            ordinary occurrences

so without objection

the red flame of wine

sinks and stays at the bottom

encapsulated by the glass

yet its fire is irrepressible

too powerful minuteness

seeded in all things that

          transform us

magic, unheeded magic

magical cores burdened – with reality

together with the ungraspable circumstance 

           of happiness

containing not identifiable things

rather emerging like a gigantic bubble

at the center of a monotonous lake

more and more is given

more and more resides

I extend my grasp to any one spiral

      to the suddenness of it all

there are magical births here

          trembling with infinite abundance.

Nihilistic Poetry

The beautiful irrelevance of language.

Limitations to discourse and knowledge.


The
undeniable reality of language,

the sounds inside our heads,

the discourse within our skulls,

the rigorous mathematics of our technologies,

is a matter of great uncertainty.


The fact that
we rely so deeply in the functions of language

seriously undermines our attempts

at concrete knowledge.

The discovery that knowledge is portrayed by language

or symbols

and that linguistic symbols are inappropriately

capable of representing perceived reality

is an astounding obstacle to our assessment

of an objective reality.
 

 

 

In more simple and human terms,

the realization that we obtain “acceptable” knowledge

in any form by its communication

either by mathematical symbol or linguistic form,

already makes it clear that we are submitting ourselves

to an established norm.
 

 

 

This norm is adopted,

valued

and protected

by the establishment,

namely,

Science,

 

but once this establishment is submitted to the scrutiny of doubt,  

we realize that Science or concrete, irrefutable knowledge  

depends, and in fact,  

survives on language and symbol,  

thus we can begin doubting the certainty  

and accuracy of its claims.

 

The first undeniable doubt is the perception

of the incapacity of language

or any symbol

of portraying reality.

Language is by its own nature, rigid, stiff and linear.

 

No matter how prodigious the scientist

or philosopher is,  

the fact that he or she describes reality  

by communicating a symbol,  

already contributes to our suspicion:

the use of a rigid tool (language) to describe  

a fluidly ungraspable perceivable reality.
 

 

 

The proof that language is inadequate to describe accurately reality  

is in no way possible of being proved by language itself.

It must be realized, perceived, experienced by the thinker.

Just as Science seems to be the absolute truth to the world today,

we must never forget that Science is not an entity by itself;

it is preached and believed by humans.
 

 

 

Any human, no matter how committed to objectivity,

will still be influenced by subjective impulses, personal past experiences

and biased ideologies.
 

 

 

Science has by this account two main weaknesses.

It utilizes linguistic symbol to portray an un-symbolic phenomenon;

and secondly, it is sustained by humans which are never unbiased.
 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Braver men…

That I must
never
be read
will be clear
from the vacuous
vocabulary
I must borrow from
and still
there are memories
or phantoms
of an uncertain past
the magic bricks
I thought I could
move with one
finger
the trees that watched
my infant
nothingness
I must never be read
my life is already
buried by dust
there are braver men
out there…

with fear
the embodiment
of disaster
that I call
“breathing”
is not
of any use…

there will be
peaceful silence
when this and other
poems
are no more…

they can’t surface
but sink
drop,
deeply,
disappear.

Trapped in today

 

Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light

      since these words are still in the air we breathe

nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today

                 nobody has measured the necessity of crying

to be sick and living 

       asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion

the taste is in my mouth:

      progress has vomited a sickly herd.

Newfound

I, the dream of a god,

      an outcome of invisible hands

            at once performance and spectator

this precise instant

         this internal precipice

a newfound religion

      whose scriptures are written 

              in every one thing

where the god and the dream are the same

                  the cloud and the rock are inseparable

the sweet motion of transience

        coursing over the stream of eternal action

I, alone and united,

               one more spoke of divinity 

                  one more billow of infinity.

 

 

 

 

More Useless Poetry ?

Mantra — field of happening


Be. Let whatever happens, come to pass.

     To be: embraced by a field of happening.

There is nothing imperfect, even contradiction

   and desire – let it all come.

Allow motes of dust to float

          the heaviest pain to sink

there is nothing at all that does not belong –

     let anger and irritation play their part

but release them and go on.

Close your eyes and dig deep.

Study the phenomenology of thoughts

              the strange ocean of being

overpowering pain, elusive pleasures

  

              Be. Embrace the field of happening.

 

More Poems

More or Less

Twilight and morning are now irresistible  

    they hang above like motherless children 

there is no reason to believe in one or the other 

           all the insects swarm this local abyss 

fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour 

    anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible 

  reentering again a field of silences 

          morning or night or true or false 

were all excluded 

             an intimate void 

more or less… yours.

The Gap

 

I couldn’t lie

 or distort the truth

when I tell you that seven seagulls

–   not six or eight – I counted,

    took flight in the direction of the moon

and that the water was slightly offering an insult

  with its restlessness and simple undulations

I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap

    a precipice that links two different lands

behind me everything that is

  before me everything that could be

I was inside the great hole that separates the two

  and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge

sauntering from fact to possibility;

      to cross this gap

I felt

  requires the courage of a climb –

to create a new fact

     demands a start from the lowest point

to climb up again in rags

    to emerge from the deep

after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…

only then can the gap be closed!