here is my ear
curled up
like a journey
it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape
some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness
I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels
whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound
here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.
I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose
I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me
I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future
watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience
look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux
yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body
like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers
But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips
asleep
to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around
minutes
to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to
kiss
to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old
tomorrow
when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows
when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf
when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause
when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.
…
This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.
I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be
a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy
a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear
I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument
and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:
its brevity compels
me to hate it
its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.
I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.
I have one penny of certainty,
to buy a glimpse of sky.
Then hunger and reckless
vortex of night.
Mankind is as sweet
as a machine’s ambition.
I am the bitter cog.
But allow something like a flower
to grow from this
stump of philosophy.
A fragrance or hope,
a whiff of purpose.
To suffer is a fortune,
and pleasure a Pyrrhic victory.
When I lay paint
on the canvas, I press
hard all the colors
towards a grey pact.
There was once
bright red love,
cold blue thought,
intense yellow joy,
dark green solitude.
Today the mess
is grey and this totality
cannot be undone.
I carry this enterprise
of chaos towards a prism;
perhaps if reflected
far beyond the senses,
this senselessness,
will make sense.
An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.
While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy
While these hands
have broken bread,
caressed drooling
lips of pleasure,
while grey wax streams
down these cheeks
for soon the path is fog,
a dotted line of street lamps,
lumps of light
doses of darkness,
nothing but cold in the event
silence in the hour;
a particle swinging between cars
and the busy lives of chimeras
this shadow amongst transparencies
this elevation without certainties
I navigate like lost wind
through edifices and glow
seeking a new contradiction
a newer totality
or the last
dust of god.
Beyond Language 
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