Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree
in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork
the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds
the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge
in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.
I only dream
of filling the body with dry sand
to relegate desire to veins of darkness
flowing relentlessly towards a dragging sea –
if hands and fangs were buried in true illusion,
thirsty accidents and ultimate beginnings;
the taste of polar penumbras
to blind the eyes with totality
defoliate the skin as absurd autumns
to lay thought as a carpet over existence
and roll down the slopes of nothingness,
as the denuded birds throw off their wings
to join the worms wallowing in the mud
of my ancient heart.
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
if
some
fundamental
level
of reality
the blurry steps
of the passage of time
limbs moving, solitary breath
dying streams of flesh
darkness with short
explosions of light
everything is metamorphosis
formlessly attached
to the mind
the visible is unexplored
nobody sees the becoming
was
the world
collapsing
into my soul?
the greatest adventure
to have all the
planets in view
to be a leaf
and die like a
son
A wild band of maniacs
command me
I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel
they feed me futures
the bones of tasks
I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth
hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy
I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss
I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts
There were so many things
left to do
the city had abrupt faces, ideals
our hands were eager with schemes
so full of intent and consequence
the flavors we would discover
some of the poetry entailed
but our hands were sealed
collapsing monuments on the bed
our bodies were already heavy
with the black of time,
we decided to end our lives
as naturally as a flow of music
our destiny was a quiet ending
alone in that dualism of self and terror
we would begin to fall
now sleeping towards
the arms of a nestling hiatus,
we began our descent
down the throat of nullity
certain that this abandoned world
was only a first dream
and that reality was fully awake
at the dawning clouds of death.
a found a mystic’s cloud
today
strange stream surfacing
motion maneuvering mirthfully
a found the tree under the shadow
objects reposing, the light untouched
today was so short
a flicker
as a beautiful face
turning the corner
never to be seen again
empty sand
in my hand
again
but at least
these shoes of ache
brushed by
the mystic’s lake
today.
far
this film
phantasmagorically alive
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
of light.
the receptor
is fire in the body
smoking as the embers
unite with shadow
over the ultimate
coat of illusion
the path of the worm
is a flight in the night
this season of suffering
when wisdom is
reaching out to the
divine
death
of the thinker
there’s only music
the ears are my feet
to dance is the fatalistic
engine of love
silence.
pause
the rock
of the sea.
.
I walked alone b/c
the streets were attempting
to be white
I’m all sorts of blues
so what a contrast that was,
when I found the open boulevard
imitating a mouth or lights
exactly like my sparkling daze-hood,
the shadows were falling everywhere
like broken pieces of love,
I could hear cars, reminding me
that I’m nothing but a drive;
I was hoping for a journey but found
myself crushing little roads of silence
blinking sadly,
remonstrating:
am i the only poet out here
tonight?
Beyond Language 
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