bon voyage
exiting self
to achieve
transcendence
from the will
acutely parted from the sky
wasting awash away
timeless
in the music
of plasma of objects
timeless drizzling self
aching in eternity
but effortlessly resonating
– exiting self –
at the core
of the
true
position
She is my pond
I drown
her innocuous waters
I drown
leagues infinite bottom
I drown
and never die
her waters are hands of mothers
her currents womblike sighs
I drown
songs that swim like free fish
my pond
the place where I dissolve
like a borderless ripple
she is my pond
where I drown
ineffably
in an entropy of love.
I am drenched in words
like skin that covers my intellect
while sitting here
I do not feel like any word
neither floating nor sinking
in between two nondescript states
perhaps more
plucking my names
human, animal, person, soul, pablo
petals – I exist or I exist not
an empty receptacle
in my hand
or a savory thought
or gone with the wind.
The world is my excuse
for existing
things, events, voices, phenomena
expand before me
like leaves from a budding green
new and virgin patterns
buried in the dot
under the nose of my own consumption
untouchable heavens as the purity of my soul
the small lesser ground
that I call:
myself
and my world.
It was in the disfigured arrangement of thoughts
that I found the elements of art
prompted by the vision
of aging cells reversing into nothingness
sparkles bones disappear
nothingness engraved in being
life feeding from that source
the beautiful ugliness of my thoughts
unfinished – poisoned
myriad of eyes, arms, despairs, trash
tending my lost confused body
on the stillness
of poetic
landscapes.
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
To lay hands on the molecule
to cut the strip that separates
life from rock
to circumspect the unfathomable
poems breeding in test-tubes
the height makes nauseous aftertaste
to be human is an old prank
played by the algorithmic TV
sidewalks my city veins
to be headway but no meaning
soon to be becomes
mind the vessel of heaven
to
be
godlike.
I woke up today reading
the Secret of Life
the stairway was the same
but the streets, oh the streets
they were building blocks of awe
molecular lumps alive with the wind
processes in motion
like trees in a storm
every face was a map
charting the layers of the universe
scenes changed as propelled by engines of time
orchestration by a slow chaos
everything interconnected by invisible spokes
why o why
must days like these
come to an end
tomorrow I must wake up
and open the first pages of
the Gates of Unknowing.
and so
my unsystematic leisure
by better name
idleness
take a bottle of wine
to the dilettantish midnight
a solitude so drunk
it spirals like an epiphany
I am hugged by prophesy
consensually the two
hemispheres of my brain
tend to disagree
all I need
is an intermediary,
to borrow a medium
like your saliva
carries voice
place my cadmium red
on your activity
like a pollock
dripping from the sky
the question tonight
really was
why act
when it is still
unsettled
whether
action is deliverance
eh, prisoner?
It’s in the ambivalent
sense
of the word
terrific
that I encounter
the
ordinary
the plain
matter-of-fact
objects
that surround us
like fences
of yesterday
the external
inanimate junk
that seems
simultaneously
a reflection
of the sublime
the objective wasteland
that is
proportional
to the subjective Edens
it is in that sense
of duality
that
I see all things
as
the nascent
finite infinity.
Beyond Language 
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