why choose
sky as volatile
art form
nihilism or
the other side
of beauty
or dimension
as a monstrous step
forward into the
wild
there
in unison
poetry and nature
blend as I stare
towards the
illusion
I chose
to be an insect
cradled in some
unspeakable obscurity
these are great steps
to take
and leaps of sense,
allowing
everything to be
and to be gone
What I ask of you
is to invent a reason
something of a shade
like a morsel of labyrinth,
to shed a tear
like a long branch of truth,
a solitude that has the figure
of a stranger followed by smoke,
something that I need is so elemental
like the way you tear away the wings
faithless in the heights,
what I ask is for you to turn around
bright, tangible and ancient
peeling naked our sense,
it is not hope that I seek
but in infallible squalor
to touch your name.
The heroes, or the emission.
happiness and earthquake
the sound soars
blindly behind curtains
of my perception
there are pieces
that I have forgotten
about myself
like the blackened scar
of shell beneath a foot
in morbid beach
reality?
a beauty.
insufficient
recently creating
the drug that fixes me
there have been lauds
highly articulate sources
floundering as brush stroke
in broken verses
to age!
furthermore
alive heavy with struggle
and purely irresolute.
careless evenings
youth, dream, iron
with a fossilized joy in my face
I put on the chains
to await bitter destiny
it is freedom
far beyond art
it is an activity with no ideal
that I pretend to know
one day the hand that writes
transforms into rock
rock turns into sand
and that sand prolapses
into nothing
and a silent
gaze
is vestige
of vacuous past
in that haste
of a gamble
I fooled around with desire
noise and love,
reckless towards
the assemblage
of oblivion
far
this film
phantasmagorically alive
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
of light.
I shall be of slavery
sobbing in the night
when the moon is hidden
behind a fantastic mountain
I shall be of anger
heat upon heat
glowing insanely white
alone in the dawning desert
I shall be of lies
blood gurgling above
as the stars drown
in its sea of disease
I shall be of number
when the bronze prophecy
casts the skeleton of the fields
where children remember nothing
I shall be of incense
a sound perfuming clouds
or a string wringing time
leaving the last drop to dry
it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts
it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods
it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour
a choice
forever collapsing
in the past
it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.
There will be poetry
as long as the world
swirls in mad convulsion
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is hidden truth with
dreary eyes
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is a road to the dead
silence
there will be poetry
as long as the world
covers us with the cold
skin of bitter mystery
there will be poetry
at 5am with glass o’
whiskey till the horizon
blends in with the empty sleep.
There was never a door
much less an keyhole
no answers to the secret of life
the prophets of despair
proclaimed total obscurity in life
at death everything muddled
forever
the Human
not much more than a succession of acts
performed for an audience of blind eternities
mere rustling of leaves
from the tree of desolation
no trunk to hold on to
no root to call god
so it is to be a function
consciousness
a fluke of evolution
a secondary property of the body
aiding its inconsequential survival
so it is to exist in the universe
that does not exist for the Human
an arbitrary dream with an irrational plot
in the cold ache of waiting
engulfed in lurid perceptions
awaiting the sudden “Cut –
it’s a wrap” of time
merely life… I say
merely life
I became an observer
a type of man within the man
not in the act
rather somewhere between
the meaning and the purpose,
I see him from abroad
I am always in another land,
he often follows a plan
making haste and waste
of the hours
I don’t talk to him
he’s too busy feeling down
or doing the dishes,
I let him run
the government of duty
I see his fortress of pain
from my tiny exile
I have visions,
seeing him old
brittle like flakes of rust,
confounded
not sure of what’s to come;
I pretend
to be dreaming
and nothing more
that man
is my only friend
like a good old book
I peruse in my
wayfaring days
like a star
in the night sky
that’s been dead
for years
Beyond Language 
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