birthday

happy 30

 

 

 

happy thirty
happy death
happy where are we

I have traveled
inside a cave
crushed inside skin
dried patches of skin
hands callous
the incurable stink of walking
over distance
dark distances

I have traveled
in dangerous caverns
falling, screaming
repeating

savagely
for thirty years
scavenging
closing in on those
scarce drips of essence
those impossible puddles of truth

inside a cave

where I begin to feel like shadow
dark layer upon dark layer
going nowhere

I already hear them singing:

happy happy thirty
happy birthday
joyous shadow
lost lost lost in time

 

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh’

 

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same
thing

 

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
libidinal
to fit the term

 

pleasure, yes
but excess?

 

but I’m not
here to
judge
or compare

 

simply to
repeat
on my twenty-
eighth
finished year:

 

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’


wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?

If…

If stories had some sort of reality I would narrate my dissolution amongst the heavenly bodies; if fantasies were not merely fictions I would vanish careless in the wind; if words were not all vain and empty I would tell everyone that life is a bubble of dream and we are nothing but footprints on sand.
If changing the world meant anything I would form a new republic; if truth existed I would refute the philosophers; if god existed I would be fearless to leave this world…
On my 26th birthday. January 7th 2008