mammal joy


how can I evaporate
the pearl of clitoris
these hands that are fat
clusters of touch
and render shine
like a drop of moon
my crash that rubs against torment
strung and the column’s
fresh pound
strikes upon the amalgam
of velvet
I have forgotten where
this clump of noises
the moan scrapes morning
and the last mammal joy
escapes from
this splatter of skin.



Contemporary Poetry

my ear

ear as journey poem
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey

it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind

some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness

I hear a
of impossible

whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound

here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.


21st century Poetry

el proceso

German Bunkers Denmark

Estoy naciendo –
del nebuloso bunker
de cruel manía de risa
mis ojos son todavía ostras de pétalos suaves
semiabiertos con chispa rosa de olor
estoy siendo creado –
por hombros de cielos a primera luz
por las cuatro palabras del viento
por la mirada caída del mar temblante
estoy emergiendo –
con vestuario fecundo del desierto sobre mis pieles
el semblante de roca busca atenazar su agua
construyendo el esqueleto desde las raíces de un silencio
estoy en transición –
de cascara de vidrio a unas alas de trueno
de átomo partido a civilización de abrazos

hoy dejo de ser mancha negra en el ocaso
para turnar azul como la mística sal del cielo.

A quick translation:

I am being born –
from nebulous bunkers
and cruel frenzy of laughter
my eyes are still oysters of soft petals
half-open with rosy flint of scent
I am being created –
by shoulders of skies at first dawn
by the four words of the wind
by the fallen gaze of trembling sea
I am emerging –
with the fecund clothes of the desert over my skins
the face of rock seeking to pinch its water
constructing the skeleton from the roots of silence
I am in transition –
from husk of glass to wings of thunder
from split atom to a civilization of embraces

today I cease being black stain in the twilight
so as to turn blue like the mystical salt of the sky.

Poesia 2011

unuttered world

The sky: my desperate dispersion
an expansion creeping slowly in
the autumn fields of my lost war
manifest the gesture that condemns me
to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed
                      saints and mystics
heavy with the saddle of onrushing years
seeping the dripping paint
like the dance of mechanical yesterdays
the grave of my birth and burying
thus a multitude of poems – astray
detached from the events of time
isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception
sky, fragment of other lives
or why November and dying
that last sullen word behind chaos
a return
a miniature spot
whose own language
cannot participate in its description
thus the sky and the lesser me
thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.


Nihilistic Poetry




Please stop.


Leave whatever you are doing right now,


and do me a favor.


Look out outside your window


(I truly hope you have a window)


to some small gilded leaf in the sun.


Stare at it,


there’s nothing romantic,


poetic or beautiful


about that leaf.

It is just there


motionless or


swinging with the wind


it is just there


almost too fragile


almost too irrelevant


but it is there.


It is drunk with something


it has something we don’t.


It is not brighter or duller than us


but it has more depth


than our little lives.

Nihilistic 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

A definition of consciousness


This vengeance of feeble consciousness

engulfed in the wild roar of mortality’s ocean

battling hopelessly with madmen’s zest

diseased with the poison of its own vitality

secretly conjuring fantasies for eternity

dripping down the spine of Illusion herself

drowning in pleasure and soaring in pain

nurtured by the stings of challenge

greatest when forgetful of itself

crippled by the burden of its weight –

the threshold of all realities

           and because, weak and coward,

   possesses doom in its very heart

abandoning the mellow horizon of non-existence

          captive of its deadly fear. 


I fear,
therefore, I am.

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