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

today

nothingness

Today, I’m convinced
that the hard edge
of matter
is nothing but a
soft pillow
of cloud,

that I’ve never seen the earth

because I’ve made nothing
but sculptures of smoke
with the shadows of
the mind.

Today, I might shrink
to a piece of petal
and wait for a flood of light
to drag my sight toward perfume
and thaw my flesh
to dew.

I’ve never visited the world,
standing drunk here between
two columns of dream.

Today, I could have erased
memory with its tail of tale,
today I see there’s nothing
in space

not even the pulse
of silence’s throbbing slumber.

 

Contemporary Poetry

home and eternity

pocket of emptiness

We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness

When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.

And so philosophy ends.

Contemporary Poetry

awakening

awakening

I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.

Nihilistic Poetry

arch

mystic poetry

It was not yet summer
when the light dissolved
absolutely over my tongue

I had to return to the past
as if digging
a ruthless hole in my skin
my veins my bones my sky

will the black worm
eat consume digest
reinvent me?

death is the smoke
we breathe in
to unfold like a cluster
of manifestation

passively
the dream
reposes inside the
shell of reality

in one drop
of philosophy
the solitude
is assuaged

but the aperture
the encounter
the expanse
available only
through the pristine
ache of mystery
and its pilgrimage
found in an alighting
morsel of
beauty.

Nihilistic Poetry

dreaming rock

dreaming rock poetry

No matter
what I write
this will never bear a name
all creation falls through
the empty sky
always falling
no hands here
to catch and retain
anything
no matter what
my memory is always empty
it has no truth
no one is here
to witness anything
the mind is uninhabited
and uncharted
a rock fell asleep
and this is its dream.

 

 

 

Nihil
ist
ic

run

Run motion

run
your naked
ditch
shiny hurt
on the stool
of ass
mission of fingers
making murder
in my eyelashes
of grieving
love’s cake,
eat now
or be eaten
by the insect
with deathly stomach
my aims
of dying
like a loose
hair
falling somewhere
when in a jerk
you
hop off
the
dream.

Absurd Poetry