groundless

 

2018_existential_poetry

Something dwells hungry
by the moonlight,
that measure now
vulnerable as clod
of experience,
recognizable by all,
below naturally
impermanent stride.

How did one
of these commonplace
collide with gravity,
clung magnetized
like heaviest descendant,
literally,
descending to stillness,
something so neatly
tucked in by white,
almost aluminum light.

Who hurries
to lift dear thing
so organized like organ
that means to sleep
sturdy like breath
woven to stone,
dance married
to mineral.

What energy travels
rough as arrow
through fluid eye
to catch the body
of the thing,
radiating borrowed sun
from borrowed sun.

It is hungry
but to consume
some ailment,
some human angst,
that lingers primarily
as longing,
until contact is made,
suddenly,
with the surprise.

Something,
not yet named,
remains motionless
meditating below
the slanting moonlight
that cannot keep
its curtain of glow
still.

Someone
roams like dust
ringing around
the room.

The moon
is half sharp
with light,
half naked
alike the rest
of the night.

the language we taught each other.

the_language_we_taught_each_other_poem

 

Carefully we took
the language
we taught
each other.

We lifted
with those young fingers
the dense dough
of color
while we spoke
of the seasons.

We pressed that language
hard against the wall
while we ran
smearing the wind
with the transparency
of possibility.

We sat crossed-legged
answering the questions
that seemed to enter the room
like sharp rays of light
through the blinds.

We became clever surgeons
dissecting nearby words
into transcendental aspects of flesh,
kings, heroines, shamans, aliens.

We were eager to purify
the picture that played
in our minds.

We noticed the pause
between the plane
of each word & world.

We served as interface
for the dots of time
to swirl inside
our domain.

We grew right next
to language
older and heavy
with immeasurable
detail.

We saw it coming
this elegance of
ending whatever
has been spoken.

Carefully we carried language
as a glorious deceased body
into the space
our ancestors said
to be sacred.

the signs

contemporary_existential_poetry.jpg

 

Perhaps slow age
was ignoring
the signs.

The signs
that came
very quietly
to dismember
the rhythm.

At first
they were pockets,
diaphanous moments
where magic appeared
to gently comb
the rye fields.

They became
more obvious
when light evolved
into heat
that could burn
memory
and bestow
endless ripple.

Somehow
at some stage
the stage
dissolved
leaving the plot
unhinged and atomized
like motes
without purpose
in the air.

At some point
every point
was connected
and any thing
could cause
everything.

The mind
became a boat
a vessel pushed
by the pull
that the tides
tied to the ideas
of time.

Then it sunk
but nothing died
the wave continued
busy with bubble
and burst.

Nothing but songs
instead of signs
were heard
the ear was as good
as any door
facing the journey.

monkeyhood

Monkeyhood

 

I am observing the world

whose very act of existing

has made us claim

that it is the only world to exist.

 

I am observing

the shadows of the sun

when suddenly the monkey

appears again, opening

that window

below my language.

 

It picks up all my words

and chews them, only to spit

them out while producing

a grotesque sound of pleasure.

 

I’ve seen this monkey many times,

he comes from the world within

that is populated by innumerable monkeys.

 

They all seek the only thing

they claim is real: monkeyhood.

Monkeyhood is hidden

deep in their jungle,

it can be eaten, soft caramel-like

substance that it is.

 

But only a few monkeys are able

to reach this sacred core.

 

The monkeys that visit me

are those that for whatever reason

have stopped seeking monkeyhood.

 

They would rather appear

unannounced in this world,

to taste a few fragments of illusion –

as I believe they once called it.

 

I sit watching the shadows of the sun,

here below the clouds while I describe

the indistinct quality of being alive.

the swamp of volition

strange_poetry

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

us

postmodern_poem

They told me to squeeze
structure
into home
and open windows
to air out essence
see I have been obedient
shedding coats of laughter
like films of light over
a miracle of corner,
and this thing
consciousness is hanging
like dust

in the atmosphere
but we’ve
made arrangements

and passion is hard
like furniture,

mahogany and steel
like dream and real

together bound
in braid

somewhere near
the end of this

and the world
tiny pretty thing

climbs into the air
like a moth

to disappear
over the object
and become invisible
like the rest of

us.

Contemporary Poetry