my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond
I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity
I have to return
to the meaning
of stone
I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits
that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.
.
I walked alone b/c
the streets were attempting
to be white
I’m all sorts of blues
so what a contrast that was,
when I found the open boulevard
imitating a mouth or lights
exactly like my sparkling daze-hood,
the shadows were falling everywhere
like broken pieces of love,
I could hear cars, reminding me
that I’m nothing but a drive;
I was hoping for a journey but found
myself crushing little roads of silence
blinking sadly,
remonstrating:
am i the only poet out here
tonight?
by then
i had crossed
the reason
language was tender
naive and insipid
i was beginning to write
verse
with motion
perspective
a salving madness
i began asking
for the drop
to steal
heaven
a spark in the horizon
a mission
a long-drawn laughter
after the joke of life
had been exposed
it was with all the things
we came to know
that i crossed
the sadness
at last
alone
by the emptiness
of the road.
decadence
is not simply
squandering away
the last remnant of this life
– for all that’s left are remnants –
the art of demise
is hardly only destructive,
it is a destruction following creation
a long struggle
to create something pure
in us,
yet once the new
has been achieved
desperation sets in,
necessarily we strike
a deathblow –
making all the
necessary room
for newer
catastrophes
something set me loose
abrupt and cryptic
sailing in a medium
that infuriates me
headway headway
progress is like a precipice
i knew about the rocks
long before my pessimism
took over
corroding the oars
my bores
counted like stars
yawning as naturally as breathing
boat body bodhisattva
drowning in the air
sinking in the blood
world me (mindless) me world
nothing is so big and cavernous
so ingrained
in occult emptiness
within the rising steam
of hot silence
the anchor
the destiny
simultaneously my hunger
the greasy milk of the sea
fattening the grand course of solitude
scraping against the seabed
slowing the haste
the waste
a motion brave and stupid
pushing me like a vessel
of filament
farther further away
from the goal of existence:
stillness
If I could do something
with this mess inside
do something similar to what snow
does to the argentine sky
constellating it with the falling
flakes of a weeping
chaos
I would be swarming
with zigzags of pleasure
and pain
collapsing under the weight
of
chance
then whatever remains
would melt
find the lowest cavity
of my dirty soul
and stagnate,
quietly
so quietly
dying
down
there.
I begin
to
approach
you
with a scarcity
of words
a simple
symbol:
snow
contains
the entire mode
of your
being.
behind windows
I tend
to imagine
truth
to exist
much like the
beauty
that no one ever
visited
or the eternity
that time
misplaced
behind windows
not much
needs to happen
for
life to sway
like a dizzy
white speck
of
bliss
It keeps me warm
threads and threads
a wonderful composition
to keep me warm;
I bought it and now it keeps me warm
it has fortified my skin,
I am a modern bear.
I walk with my coat
the streets are windy
but the coat hangs on
it falls naturally on my shoulders,
I am its underlying foundation,
therefore I must exist under it.
I am hungry
contractions and blurring agonies,
I am okay
but I must touch food soon,
then swallow it
and then it becomes me
I become it:
we must both exist at some point.
The bicycle has wheels
they roll on a surface,
a hard one,
I am fast; to be fast
there is weight, force
I am a force in motion.
I see the bakery
full of smells and heat
many folk are in there
bread is being sold,
I have some money:
I must be at the right place.
I park my bicycle,
rationally, I am locking it
removing the key from the lock
the bike sways and wants to fall,
I catch it because it should not fall;
they are not supposed to fall –
a car glides behind me –
why would we let bikes fall to the ground,
what would happen, who would I become
if I had permitted this bike to fall;
what kind of man would I have become.
Mouth is watery
mushy croissant in my savory mouth
this pulp goes down my throat,
it falls,
this is allowed fall.
I leave the bike –
cannot deal with questions right now –
walking is natural, effortless
step, step, step, step, step, step
kind of percussion,
I must be an artist.
I went astray,
is this the north of the south
or the west of the east,
this place is relative to something
I know that much.
They are talking about shoes
shoes are valuable
they are like hard feet for hard surfaces,
these girls use their hands when they speak:
hands must also be part of language.
I must return, somehow
because if I remain lost too long
I might not be me anymore;
with so many new sights
I might disappear in these perceptions.
TO DOWNTOWN,
there it is, an arrow
pointing to my universe;
back there I can be caressed again
by the same old things I know:
we exist side by side.
Step, step, step, step
this is my home, my street, my block
my mailbox has a name
the floors have numbers
the door has a lock and I possess its key
and I pretty certain that I keep track
of who I really am.
I touch the moment by its hectic word,
without imitation, from bursts and bursts
I come in unintentionally.
By name, by function by friendship
I invent this place;
I don’t have gifts of sky or lantern,
I don’t fathom an exit.
Entities and noise musically erase my eyes,
a cold sheet of water, no more days
possessions by an instant.
I intend to own an ocean
wet by the iron that hurts
a depth of gunfire.
I live by tendencies, the tender spots
placing what’s left of me on this bench
I sit: time begins
Why assert when doubt freely listens in
don’t ask why I fell into this stateless love
imagine that I have just begun.
Beyond Language 
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