there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
of fruit
the room is small
or the world
ignores
itself for this
instant
it doesn’t
mean much
this circumference
this small area
of being
the room to me
is like a tongue
tasting not much
more than its own
surface
somewhere
something
begins
for someone
but i believe
in the minimum
and reimagine the
sweetness
of being nothing
long before
this room
began.
I could
have loved
the fire
and hummingbird
little winters
stacked and trembling
my hand
wild and rodent
treading the
earth
but looks like
young time
nothing is nothing
my prayer being
when death comes:
may this consciousness
be that of a stone
stripped of its rock
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
Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?
How old
must I become
to return to the selfless
heaviness of the rock
has not the wind
that levels the tiny
sands of time
swept over
the last corner
of my life
must I continue
to stare
at the leaves
that shiver
purposelessly
on the sunlit tree
must I continue
to desist action
below the shadow
of a pigeon
that springs to flight
must the city
become soft
as the pages
of history
that I keep on
forgetting
how old must this
memory become
to fall silent at last
as the man behind
the mirror
how old
With a weightless sky in my eye
I drown in arabesque
can I blame the world
for appearing to be so real?
while walking in silence
I observed the solidity
the light calmly on the mundane;
something unfolding I called it wholeness
occult like a spirit
clever and persistent
behind the visible path that I take,
locality and image
are still my playthings
and yet something calls
like a spell to jump
into the final
unknown.
there are attempts
at writing.
nothing more.
the combinations
are infinite.
yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.
I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.
two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.
I exist…
Probably
every day of my life
is an eye
chains of eyes
closing one after another
it’s no wonder
that I feel this weariness
settling in
as
perception
frees me
in
a swelling
proliferating dream.
The world is my excuse
for existing
things, events, voices, phenomena
expand before me
like leaves from a budding green
new and virgin patterns
buried in the dot
under the nose of my own consumption
untouchable heavens as the purity of my soul
the small lesser ground
that I call:
myself
and my world.
It was in the disfigured arrangement of thoughts
that I found the elements of art
prompted by the vision
of aging cells reversing into nothingness
sparkles bones disappear
nothingness engraved in being
life feeding from that source
the beautiful ugliness of my thoughts
unfinished – poisoned
myriad of eyes, arms, despairs, trash
tending my lost confused body
on the stillness
of poetic
landscapes.
Beyond Language 
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