because the wind grows my nails
I sit this evening
on the ledge of an ancient
mystery
the rain is the dream of the present
the noise of rock
of my bones –
penumbra is the rejoining of fragments
in this quiet atmosphere
speech is green grass returning
to the distant seed
because the wind has fed from
these thoughts of dimension
I am bottom
of the
pendulum life
Modern Poetry
I don’t talk much
what’s going to happen
probably doesn’t
that my silence
travels here
nowhere else
unshuffled words
my ideas circle
like moths
about a light
inconsequence
too bad
I aborted eternity
for
this spurious
paradox
of
life.
Nihilistic Poetry
I try
to surpass existence
I fail
I simply: exist
I feel myself in the world
I am in it
yet I spend most of my time
dreaming
that I am not
I don’t deny that there
is something
my only yearning
is that I cease being
part of it
A portrait of nothingness –
the tininess in between the worlds
the invisible underlying cup
a blank canvas for the painted universe
absent undisturbed gulf
the sleep that dreams me
while I play hardball
with the junkies of pursuits.
The day begins
has it?
already night
the stars squash me
with their colossal laughter
is it funny or cruel?
hopelessness is my cue
I’m a colonial boy
with imperial regrets
I have stepped onto cities
that once existed, oh history
I – is a word
the most engrossing word
for the conscious beast
I am impossible
and all the rest
I step onto a stone or an abyss
which?
is still undecided
I woke up today reading
the Secret of Life
the stairway was the same
but the streets, oh the streets
they were building blocks of awe
molecular lumps alive with the wind
processes in motion
like trees in a storm
every face was a map
charting the layers of the universe
scenes changed as propelled by engines of time
orchestration by a slow chaos
everything interconnected by invisible spokes
why o why
must days like these
come to an end
tomorrow I must wake up
and open the first pages of
the Gates of Unknowing.
Jet stream of time
squirting months
momentarily too late
to do anything
that will save the moment
history has me by the skin
I am all biodegradable
compost for the unknown
developing
appetite for the instant
that will last for centuries
the idiot
as I am
seeing time
as a machine
industrialized for more
there is fluidity
in this duration
that spreads like a flood
over the coastlines
of my
isolated sojourn.
and so
my unsystematic leisure
by better name
idleness
take a bottle of wine
to the dilettantish midnight
a solitude so drunk
it spirals like an epiphany
I am hugged by prophesy
consensually the two
hemispheres of my brain
tend to disagree
all I need
is an intermediary,
to borrow a medium
like your saliva
carries voice
place my cadmium red
on your activity
like a pollock
dripping from the sky
the question tonight
really was
why act
when it is still
unsettled
whether
action is deliverance
eh, prisoner?
It’s in the ambivalent
sense
of the word
terrific
that I encounter
the
ordinary
the plain
matter-of-fact
objects
that surround us
like fences
of yesterday
the external
inanimate junk
that seems
simultaneously
a reflection
of the sublime
the objective wasteland
that is
proportional
to the subjective Edens
it is in that sense
of duality
that
I see all things
as
the nascent
finite infinity.
The iris
expands
way beyond
the circumference of light itself
that stare you give me
makes my skin
rockhard reptilian
immersion is your talent
deluge as dissatisfaction
till I drown from inertia
your heart is a fish
in the reddest sea
my bait is saline love
your iris is a flying saucer
abducting my hope
nothingness is two feet away
but I’m afraid to look
in this sad world of ours
eyes should have been
history’s greatest revolution.
Beyond Language 
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