A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock
after death
love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand
every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol
of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic
mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes
love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand
those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;
the forgotten
labyrinth of him.
Cleave to that place
arterial
the vessel no the aerial
where fading flight merges
with being and life
is no longer
an only particular
thing
but interior of great
continuity
of circulation density
dripping
in center toward
multiplicity
and radiates back
into blood
the skin, your eyes, your hands
the fur of the world
at your fingertips.
What happens at city
when blank is a building
and the corner is brutish
and the road ahead pale
like something at the end of time
see nihilism is a tentative position
an aggressive form of modesty
because below the blue sky
a head is incapable of understanding
the many things that are absurdly naked
in the world;
of all words
we select a crown
to place that holy concept
over our heads like laurel
to impress the wavering leaves of trees
see nihilism is nothing about thought
but about feeling what thought cannot attain
at the light you stop and feel the beast
the wise thunder of blood
and what happens when city
is trembling and being chased
by whiteness or a hot drunkenness
you pick a word
and make claim that it will save you
under the streetlamp
like a natural haze
at that common street
you remember like an ascetic
that this flesh will be forgotten
were sitting on the ledge of a building
talking about the pursuit of happiness,
how every human action is motivated
by self-love and trying to reconcile
morality with a mechanistic view
of a universe, everywhere ruled
and determined by inflexible laws
the talk went on for some time
they would interject a few modern expressions
to avoid falling into a complete anachronistic conversation
reminiscent of the 18th century philosophes
then the one on the right said,
– What if we jump?
– there’d be a fall
– yeah, and then what?
– who knows
– do you think there’s consciousness after death?
– as much as you can find in the drunk man’s sleep
– should we jump? what stops us from finding out?
– fear, our loved ones, the desire to seek new experiences and store them in the insatiable coffins of memory. But mostly fear.
– if you could have anything in the world before you die, what would it be?
– another lifetime to figure that out
– do you often think of death?
– on rare special occasions, like funerals and that kind of thing
– do you find any consolation in the thought of death?
– yeah in the thought that death dissolves all suffering with the same intensity as life withheld happiness from the individual
– I’m going to jump
– I’ll take the stairs
He did not jump but was he really considering it? They decided to go home. As they walked together over the bridge they both noticed the sea was restless that day.
The table no time for its existentialism and absurd chair leaning against the table’s futile stance. I’m a pragmatic man so I have no use for knowing myself. The table studies its own nature by looking at its askew shade. Chair, somberly contemplating suicide because it wants to remove its painfully ingrown nails. Paradoxically they keep it alive, in form, in function. I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. My furniture’s introspection is a trifling problem in my busy condition. The table has begun questioning things. It likes it when I leave Camus on its surface. I hear the creaky whisper, quoting: ‘the
humanwooden heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it.’ Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity of my modus operandi. I cannot be stopped to wonder. Progress is my mission. The table is a stranger to itself. The chair competes for my attention. I have appetites that the world cannot satisfy. Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity, through logic the chair has arrived at the conclusion that knowledge is a form of chaos. I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. In spite of poverty, war, injustice or my furniture’s uncertainty and their long episodes of incoherent silence.
House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
and tiny
thing
or
soul.
Who chases the myth
while drenched
in the blood
of the primordial hunt?
Who has placed a hyphen
between Sky and I
to sense the aura
of a blue atmosphere
as a newer skin?
Who will concentrate
all language
into one singular word
that falls heavy
as a meteorite
into the sands
of nocturnal desert?
Who will endlessly
double the depth
of one earth suspended
in the night?
Who will reduce
consciousness
to a milligram
of image?
Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
walks out
into open land?
Who will unearth
mankind and root
childhood back
in the curl
of a cloud?
Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?
I have never tasted the world.
With skin, I cannot live as a man
in a city simulation.
Before it rains the landscape
sober despite action.
I did not walk across
the surface of awareness
. Pure angst that it is.
Imagine happiness like held thunder.
When something is new
its artificial language displaces the
characteristics of the innovation.
But I’ve prayed for the earth
to dissolve as a drug on
my tongue. And extend
a bridge between truth
and this movement.
The blood stands in the way
like a mural of total redness.
I’ve never tasted the world.
With this skin that can only mirror susurrations.
Don’t be shy
I’ve suckled that nipple
called sky
the universal figure of smoke,
whose body I call yours
and time’s standstill has been glimpsed
in the trunks of blood
that our tongues have enacted
what then is not an instant
but creation that will swell either
like an echo or a myth
don’t pretend like you
don’t understand
this carnivorous cosmology
don’t pretend like your
intelligence was flared and pure
and bubbling like open
lawns of lava
return to me tumultuous
and with gales amongst those
fluttering eyes
and and – and turn
your cold torso
towards the permanence of
the flare
don’t be shy
I’ve conquered without
logic the theory
of your lips
this is the only day left
for us —
to spill
like assassins
the bleeding cup
of night.
When Midas asked Silenus what fate is best for a man, Silenus answered: “Pitiful race of a day, children of accidents and sorrow, why do you force me to say what were better left unheard! The best of all is unobtainable—not to be born, to be nothing. The second best is to die early.”
– Will Durant (The Story of Philosophy)
Whose torn bolt
was released
on the curvature of time,
who left this mass
of obscurity as a stone
in the sky,
have I begun
to carve enough
misery
from this chunk of night,
or designed
a chorus of smoke.
Its slanting invasion
made us embrace
like twins of twilight
and the irony
of it all
we are abundance
in its thirst,
dancing like swirls
of sweetness in its mouth.
To be happy mud
smeared
on your breasts, I said.
But I could hear
you muttering
the wisdom of Silenus.
Unable to rephrase
the meaning of silence
we laid still
like two
immobile spots
of darkness.
Beyond Language 
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