Tripartite

postmodern_poem_2013

Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?

A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.

They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?

The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.

The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.

The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.

Someone?
Anybody?

The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.

Alfred white as a number says, OK.

I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.

Knock, knock.

Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.

That’s $15, she said.

Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings

like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.

Contemporary Poetry

Q&A

Poetry_for_children

Father what is bigger than the moon?
The earth my child.
Why?
Because if the earth were an empty bird’s nest,
it could fit several moons inside.

What’s bigger than the earth?
A sun my child.
Why?
Because if a sun were an orange
then the earth’d be a tiny crumb of bread.
If you were starving, which one would you pick?

What’s bigger than a sun?
A galaxy my child.
Why?
Because if a sun were a bee,
a galaxy would be a swarm of bees
flying in hypnotic circles, ellipses
and parabolas around their hive.

What’s bigger than a galaxy?
Human thought my child.
Why?
Because thought is like a net
that can catch all the bees in the universe
and put them in a jar and study their
colors, structure, venom, instincts,
language, and habits.

What’s bigger than human thought?
Emptiness my child.
Why?
Because thought is like a tiny bubble in the vast
sea of nothingness that surrounds us, leaving
little more than a local ripple on the surface
once it expires.

What’s bigger than emptiness?
Mystery my child.
Why?
Because mystery is the quality that all things
share in their being or nonbeing.

What’s bigger than mystery?
You my child… you.

- dedicated to my unborn daughter

Contemporary Poetry

Phantasmagoria

stomach_of_the_sun_poem

He stopped the drugs
to console himself
with the open
lengths of countries
and the silver
fever of mountains
and when he left home
to return to thick everything
and books galloping shadows
fiery in the minute of knowledge,
in the day of life, through the wind
to a place where history
is built with azures
heavy in the hand
because to be born
here I am
like a quartz
inside the stomach
of the sun.

Contemporary Poetry

They

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.

 

21st_century_poetry_blog

21st century Poetry

the origin of birth

poetry_of_origin

 

If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.

 

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

This is not an experiment.

postmodern_poem_about_mortality

This is not an experiment.

This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
inhaling sweet
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.

But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.

 

Contemporary Poetry

ultracold

car_speed_india

 

Relieved bowels
before pain is áh vowel,
consumed
me ended. Death
is a petty leaf, to sleep beneath
a pretty earth. What word will last
and last
oracle come past
my lips
when I’m almost stiff
and conclusive gasp. ‘A
Spanish mutter or aspect
while curling and reaching
for aspirin,
could be a joke and I laugh
blue with smoke blurring
the vision
of what existence
once
was but no more mission
but rest
but forgetfulness
but lo and behold
I shall say, it is time! me
becoming ultra-cold.

Contemporary Poetry