One drop
of
commonplace,
one drop
but completely
silent
within
empty engrossment.
A sole drip
of the mundane,
a trickle,
tingling
through
the minute
sense of being.
One gentle
course of earthliness,
a splash of it,
but soundless
echoing like
wings,
as a
boundless alleluia.
A speck
of prosaic,
a solitary
wandering
mote
concisely panoramic,
wordlessly grasped.
I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.
It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.
I wanted mystery.
Huge black eyes
drawn to a mystic smoke.
The electricity of the rock.
The mantra of the beast.
I wanted to be crushed
and cursed by the flames of misery.
I come to India to hunt
for the invisible possibility.
To cease traveling in a vehicle of thought-
to walk on the scorching embers of intuition.
I wanted to drown in a river and resurface
as an absolute beginner.
I came and saw the mystery.
I came to see the truth
that there is no truth,
written in the eternal language
of their sacred eyes.
I came to India to tie all the threads
of incense around my restless soul.
Here I am.
We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
And so philosophy ends.
History is a duel between art and time.
– Will Durant
Allow me
to carve
my strange vision
in your interior
let me turn
your feelings
into marble
shinning inside
my hidden truth
allow me to build
from your essence
the columns
to a new cathedral
where I will sit
to sing my memory
one day I hope
to be remembered
as the artisan that painted
the landscape of your soul
with the aurora of a dream
perhaps
this poem
is already a relic
of our brief encounter
crumbling on your tongue
crumbling like the rock
that was once art
but now becoming dust
for time’s wind.
I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year
I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn
that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments
the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences
to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time
I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.
Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.
I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song
as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts
as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant
I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind
as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper
as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy
I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound
find
the springing
color
the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm
emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs
ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness
leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs
sit between
two naked fires
neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea
listen for the echo
of the beginning
and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being
may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.
Beyond Language 
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