voluminous

carmine essence clouds

Cumulous figment of joy

the art of white eyes

I sense a bird stretching experience

colonizing an empty nest of laughter

my tongue is ripe with twilight

savoring the underbelly of clouds

their pink veins of magic

the iris coils on expanses of clarity

carmine volumes of essence.

 

 

 

from man to page

Poetry_page_blog

A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper

To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly

His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness

A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence

A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended

There with the elapsing sum of experience

Nihilistic Poetry

today

Sun poetry

a found a mystic’s cloud
today

strange stream surfacing
motion maneuvering mirthfully

a found the tree under the shadow
objects reposing, the light untouched

today was so short
a flicker

as a beautiful face
turning the corner
never to be seen again

empty sand
in my hand
again

but at least
these shoes of ache
brushed by
the mystic’s lake

today.
 

Nihilistic Poetry

the big rolling ball

I used to suffer

you see

I see a huge ball of beauty
rolling down
the corridor of experience
amazed, initially b/c there is a ball
but later simply b/c it is beautiful!
and this ball keeps rolling
beautifully, sometimes impelling me to say
it’s all dream… it’s all dream!
and yet I used to suffer
because I was sure
the end would come
this uncanny ball would
simply vanish once experience
removes the surface for it to glide
and I was so damn sure it would be over
I suffered mortally
imagining all this thrusting beauty
wasted in an absurd instant of death

oh yes
I used to suffer

but now that suffering is gone
and I keep the reasons why
to myself.

Nihilis
tic Poe
try

My friend

it goes beyond saying

lonely friend

you and I are strangers

afraid of each other

we may frown

as if we were advancing

with some sort of serious purpose

we may drag along, with tattoos and beer

as if we were sure of our cause

I comb my hair to look decent to you

you smile when we say goodbye to be proper

still we move in circles… wide empty circles

the wine soothes

our sleep pardons

suddenly you awake from elliptical wanderings

you are at a park interrupting your routine

brutally condemning our ongoing lies

the denial of loneliness and panic

can we stand another day of hypocrisy?

No, no, let’s not make questions

there are no real reasons

a chaos we organize in years

an avalanche we interpret as experience

though words may be wide as universes

my lonely estranged friend

we are bereft of all true meaning.

Nihilistic Poetry

Fatalism

If we must submit to the irrationality of following all logic to its end, conclusions may turn shockingly paradoxical. I once heard that we have chosen our life from the very start and that our experience on this planet is simply the revelation of our original choice. If this were true then the absurdity of our suffering would be justified since we have chosen beforehand to experience it. The question that remains would be: why have we forgotten our original choice? Why does life present itself as an unknown unfolding instead of being the realization of one’s desire? By some obscure mechanism our original choice has been obliterated, life remains a permanent surprise. At first this seems like another form of fatalism except for the fact that we have chosen that predetermination. On the other hand, most people believe that the universe is a spontaneous happening and we must choose our way through the hazards of spontaneity. Our life is the result of all our choices, but how do we ever get to choose anything? I sat down the other day to think this one over and I discovered that my choices are really just reactions to whatever is presented to my mind. From the pettiest choices to the most important decisions I simply obey a feeling, logic or a whim. In all of these cases I am subject to what simply happens inside me. Should I buy a black or blue pen? I wait for a moment, experience a certain sensation of pleasure in black and I buy the black pen. Should I live in Costa Rica or in India, I wait for a moment, a logical-emotional labyrinth emerges in my mind and by the end of this involuntary frenzy, I make my decision. Naively speaking, thoughts are like emotions, they arise involuntarily and by a law of their own. Most people are identified with their thoughts, but if you ask them how they fabricate a thought they must inevitably answer: it simply happens. So, if my decisions are nothing but reactions to what is presented to my mind, what is allowing these perceptions? If we submit to modern scientific thinking, to explain a perception in the human mind we must pursue a long path through Psychology, Sociology, Biology, Evolution, Neurology, Chemistry, Physics, and we will end up with an ultimate theory for the universe as seen by man. In very simple terms, what we experience is the result of the whole arrangement of the cosmos, and if we knew every bit of information about this arrangement, we could predict ourselves. Again, we fall into an unremitting fatalism.

 

 

But what’s the use of all this reasoning and the contemporary compulsive adoration to logic and reason?

  

 I choose not to know.

 

 

“Puppet on a string” by Steve Whitney

The oppression of language (two poems)

 

 

 

 

The following two poems explore the human need to express everything we experience and the impossibility of absolute correspondence between lived experience and our descriptions.  I wonder why we cannot contain the purity of experience in ourselves without exchanging it for the artificial-reality of words and symbols. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the flux to itself while we join in its silent (nonverbal) dance in an ahistorical frenzy? For what are our conversations but a miniature-history of the world and our lives? Must mankind be forever trapped in the webs of a descriptive situation? What’s the need to define place, time, mood, thoughts, hopes and expectations?

 

 

Is life too great for anyone to bear alone that we must reduce its intensity and infinity to the limited bounds and finiteness of language? 

 

If we cease to communicate (purge) life could we die from an overdose of life itself?

 

 

 

 

 

These are the dry leaves of the 21st century
Falling upon our feet that coil
A path as snakes on a dune of sand

These are the subway noises
Under the surface of our routine
Where are our shouts of ecstasy?

These are the ripples of passion
Unborn embrace of earthly bliss
We are one catastrophe away from paradise

These are the memoirs of all power-lines
Showering us with light of illusion
Approaching twilight for today’s relics 

These are the end-products of pleasure
Fascination with the wonders of plastic
And a what-for question left unanswered

 These are the dry days of the 21st century

 

 

 

 

 Fetch me nature’s product in a plastic bag
While this blue-eyed kid stares at me
As I dance to the melody of pure purposelessness 

 Talk to me about an Asian photograph
While this train takes me to your hometown
As I write lines of life’s ineffability

Promise me there is a higher plan
While I grow old with laughter
As I adjust my twisted underwear

Abandon me for taking the trivial for the profound
While the grass is still wet outside
As I swear life’s grandeur is best unexpressed

A prospect of madness

 

Would you call me mad if I can confess of a certainty in the prospect of the future, even when I fully acknowledge that the vicissitudes of Time can easily outsmart the most rigorous mathematical prediction; yes I was sure that in ten years’ time I would be looking back to this very same day – today – as the fantasy of a naïve child’s imagination that mistook the nature of reality for that of a game: haven’t I erred in my conviction that life is best lived through the transformation of its contents into those poetic representations that plunge me into an ecstatic state of mind, in other words, in trying to grasp life by its tail by scrutinizing every tottering thread of Time had I not missed the meaning of reality by inspecting it too minutely, too unsparingly as to leave out of the range of my investigations the global experience of existence?

I saw in that Delphic vision a day when all these conglomerates of experience that surround me today would be no more than the debris of a vanished Past, a trivial irony that would have no more power to excite my cynical laughter. That day will come when I rent a paltry hotel room in Belgrade, killing my time with a lousy inexpensive hooker and when night comes I will stare despairingly at the ceiling wondering if abandoning my youthful delusions was a wise choice, since by then I would have purged myself of any prospect in the road of human creativity and would be living in the pulsation of every naked minute, suffering like every other human being in the claws of the beast of existence. And every so often I would glimpse outside my window to see a crumbling civilization and I shall utter words such as these:

 

Withered petals gliding down
Breaking from their cone
Into scattered puddles in the street
Let each petal leave my rose
Each desire run away
All sorrow, regret and concern
Vanish below –
What is it to me that we must die
Why should I carry the burden
Of Fate’s indifference to us?