A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand
looped in symbol
of being alone
older in the corner
mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;
labyrinth of him.
Cleave to that place
the vessel no the aerial
where fading flight merges
with being and life
is no longer
an only particular
but interior of great
of circulation density
in center toward
and radiates back
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.
no time for its
chair leaning against
the table’s futile stance.
I’m a pragmatic man
so I have no use for knowing
studies its own nature
by looking at its askew shade.
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.
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:
human wooden 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
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
Who chases the myth
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
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
to a milligram
Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
into open land?
Who will unearth
mankind and root
in the curl
of a cloud?
Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?