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
to have known the lazy mote
short quivering dust drawing
letters fruits and tongues on invisible air
when these strangers, lovers
and broken loves waiting for the
train see the speck restless,
there and then, the trance of the path
whose swirl is as elementary
ancient as the nakedness of the sky
a speck who deserves as many words
thoughts and aches
as those we touch and hurt
a mote debonair in air
finds its rest gracefully
like drop of grey symphony
at the base of our feet
My eye
struck the stone
of your joy
the overlapping petals
of your crying rose –
its perfume, its
innocent accumulation.
My long white perception
dripping like an exact
measure of this curve
a martyr clinging
to the last faith of the flesh
a mellow sun
suspended like
perspiration
on the twin clouds
of your legs.
My eternity
is the wall
holy plane of cement
there
a bird
stuck in solid whiteness
upon inspection
the rusty limb
of a nail
dawn is
but a hole
a minor cave
between two framed
photographs of the sky
of Arizona
a babel rising
against this vertical horizon
books and books
leaning against
my immobile infinity
a finger
combs the
miniscule craters
as if caressing
a tooth of God
my wall
neither
warm or cold
a monk’s sigh
converted to stone
Anything can happen
rocks can fall off your bed
and smash the little structure of happiness
we had on the floor
the lamp can explode
into milliard moths
that fly into a whole neurosis
the moon can leap into your soup
drowning behind an outshining pea
anything
like biting off the nails of your assumptions
until hitting the hard red pain of delusion
you can even lose your marbles
drop them along the way
because you run after
the bigger tumbleweed of truth
anything can happen
when the world is an empty
chord reflected
from the wings
of a sleeping
butterfly.
the invisible oar
of a metaphor
stirring the air
like the slightest hair
as the subtle gust
of a floating mote of dust
if this a dream
that our eyes stream
and the knowledge of the dream
but an echo of the passing gleam
may it flicker passingly on the wall
that nothingness has placed over all
I lift
the stone
and find
red
the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast
they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound
I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart
so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence
I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax
if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves
I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible
I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows
my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn
I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings
I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.
The standstill motion
of the substance
around us
in a flicker
the wood is a infant body
laying on the arm
of a ray of sun
the hourglass has
a plan to move
the shadows
the incense is dead
reeking like a
flame of pus
the instant sails
through all the events
carried by the wind of memory
with a transparent dress
a ghostly rain
is expected to sweep
up the remains
the fragments
in an untitled and random quest
Half
the sky
in my laugh
shattered
into myriad
flakes
of clustering
snow
the white
concentrations
like palpitations
of the cloud
coming from
a vaguely symphonic
summit
where they touch
and perish
my drops
of comic
hours
I am a cosmic
view
behind the windows
longing
the cold
touch of something
external
You, flesh and bone,
gas and scars
of phenomena.
My hand slides down your ranges
into the pockets of pleasure,
the possibility of birth and gargantuan
orgasm.
The winding road of decisions
and the soporiferous wind blowing
of distant causes.
The trees have danced,
reenacting the groove of colliding
cosmic bulges in the rhythm
of passing gusts.
We do the same?
In silent gaze, creating
the torture of possibility
with endless and mapping thoughts?
You and winged beasts
from dawn. Red and innocent –
open mouth and chants
from the sky… where
we belong as tinges
of intangible.
Beyond Language 
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