I’ve had the world
spinning on an idea
yet I never became
Schopenhauer
I never saw it good
or bad or evil
it was simply there
as a mystery
wordless play
and the more I look at it
the more it became
an idle dream. . .
idealism
existential poetry
true history
I have been standing
here
for the last decade
people call me weirdo
rocklike
monument
or
nothing
what am I waiting for
in this passive
insistence?
I will tell you
the glimmer in the eyes
at the exact moment
when the next one
realizes
that everything is in its right place
and nothing more needs
to be done
the rest is fable.
Modern Poetry Blog
when there is pain and surreal anxiety
I am heaping like an
intersection
of instances
dispersing as the floral
loop of sleep
tangibly draped with invisibility
the static beeping of my departure
witnessing the burst of egos
so uncontrollably distant from each other
in the topography of my identity
I am lost between the trees and the forest
I can’t see the wood
for the raw wildfire of my
existence
all I am saying is that I have no control
in moments like these
being a Buddhist
would have been a good idea.
Modern Poetry Blog
intentions
Automata
eject the unconscious
under the wild smear
of the event
anger
a coil
like a spin
on the axis
of regret
together
like the skies
change as the seasons
of our fears
waiting
while creating
the future
that entertains us
like a drug
in the mouth
of time
Modern Poetry Blog
exit to enter
All that I prophesy
is the way the world
spirals unto itself
there
space and dream
hibernate into consciousness
the product of my speech
is the withdrawal of meaning
in words
from reality to possibility
multiplying the interior
by tearing asunder
every perception
into further
fragments
ultimately
I have noise
as fur over the idea
of myself
beauty
sideways to phenomena
precipitates
towards the pinpoint
of my
heart
Modern Poetry Blog
never mind
there are rare days
that begin
with orchestras crying my eyes
colors dripping memories
city strolls in mammoth steps
I carry pocket-sized chaos
on my shoulder, pretending to be a pirate
on the sea of modernity,
off we sail
into the wind
as plastic wrap
buoyant on meaninglessness
there are rare days
that begin
with suspension points
calmly insinuating that
life is passing by
there are rare days
that begin
with tiny airplanes tied to the tips
of my fingers
seems like I’m about to take off
but then I remember
the anchors tied to my toes
that sink me
into
never mind.
Modern Poetry Blog
busy living
No reality,
reality does not satisfy me
and it hasn’t tried hard enough
to sugar me up
I need alcohol
to soften the rough edges
of futility
I need chemicals
to inebriate the chemicals
of my brain
only then
reality
is reality
I can
surrender
to.
Modern Poetry
indictments
It is no accident
that we grew civilizations
like beards
on the first day
we became pubescent
instigators of chaos
the profligate erosion
sculpting heedless
landscapes on the arc
of this catastrophic planet
was not
enough for
the erotic sapiens
complexity as fetish
how the tables have turned
dread
served in Smörgåsbord style
for queuing prole
while the offices are
pulpit for the priesthood
of the abstract totem – $
and the day comes
carcass-congested rivers
clearing the malaise of cogito
the terrible sunshine of noon
falling on the
unadulterated
playground of the earth.
Modern Poetry
sui generis
A portrait of nothingness –
the tininess in between the worlds
the invisible underlying cup
a blank canvas for the painted universe
absent undisturbed gulf
the sleep that dreams me
while I play hardball
with the junkies of pursuits.
Nihilistic Poetry
handful of visions
This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land
Beyond Language 
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