There
by the brook of your stare
I meet the sound
of your drowning,
‘alas’ so light and lasting
a word surfacing like sighs from your eyes
I make room and stand back
so you run into the invisible
curl of a mistake,
my child you’ve begotten
sadness and its truth
is more distance than those streaming
glares that leap from walls to illusions –
there
I recognize our mutual meaning
nowhere in this fog
the outline of solution
nor the source of our misery.
buried
in red
illusion
in the anthropomorphism
of ginger youth
in the great convulsion of beauty
affliction mirror fountain and edge
in dense mist of light
waiting for events
to dissolve
in
truest
red illusion
a hum
emerging
like hot laughter
from the frozen
fields of ego
what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –
no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.
I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.
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.
I have closed my eyes.
In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.
I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.
It is all there with bubbles and stain.
My eyes are shut.
The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.
The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.
My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.
From the phantom tables
and vanished walls
a cloud of light
and thunder of shadow
the foundation is lost .
I still glimpse an inkling of
cold geometry and
wooden truth;
but the glue of substance
drips like echoes of brevity. . .
I witness
and no longer
participate.
What collocation of beginnings
side by side in the sky
looking through window
at a fiery gas and ox flame
woven in lurid clouds,
the unit of beginning
3 seconds of origin
awoken in the mist –
then return to the tunnel
of thought, drug and routine
as a dark spiral without
exit.
I was divagating in a fluidity of language
collecting in the subjective aroma of an objective pinpoint
a star deriving its presence by its undulating waste of light.
I contained the arching earth and the moon
pretended to shift through the clouds of a mind
like an unconscious mirror spinning.
The arrow of the sensation was pointed
towards a nectarous instant of sound
a long necklace of harmonies.
My hour is traveling through imaginary pleasing effects
the seconds are my mistresses in red corduroy –
the age – a vague perfume of disparate dimensions.
I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert
I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose
I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence
I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.
Beyond Language 
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