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.
Life is quite explicit.
Like a fly that lands
unexpectedly
on a piece of paper.
Thought is quite intricate.
Like the Rorschach blot
a fly produces when smacked
on a piece of paper.
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.
Then he’ll realize, when the last moment comes, that he never knew what life was, that he held to a truth that was only belief, that he struggled, loved and suffered in a reality that was only illusion. He will realize that he has only known his perceptions and these have been in perpetual flux incapable of leading him to anything everlasting, definable or knowable. He will realize that life is a faint spark vaguely shivering under an approaching darkness; that it was so insubstantial that the exhaustion of sleep could erase it wholly in the deepest hours of the night and that soon an eternity of profound death will shrink it to nothing, as if it never happened.
enswathe me
with the leaf
of another name
if a violet flower
quivers like ornament
on the ephemeral rawness
of this earth
so a tiny poet
cleaves like thistledown
to the thin vastness
of the word
if it was genuine
my standing by the pond
weighing the quantity of universe
in these thoughts
if it was certitude
that clung as cascade
to the branches
of renewing blood
upon exiting the flesh
I thought unto death
to look back toward
this pallid clarity of ash
this has been important to me
to fling final words as anchor
in the hidden plethoric ;
time as billowing toward
some lambent exit
without us,
this alone is clear
all these residual things
will remain
spilled in darkness.
A rose above fury toward sea
life holy hole
I here stretch the song
of earthly length
to dwell in portrait and silk,
bushes of fire
decorate the string of minutes
like quick summits expiring
everywhere, every orient
framed in the dark charcoal
that is art of the dream,
a sky beneath violence toward star
death anchored across
thin perfumes of morning and love,
I hear strange technologies
building a mad edge,
in fog twine comets and flora
coexisting with the habits
of our blood, everywhere
every white memory
finding a violet conflagration,
to sleep united with some knot of
violin in the tremors
of the sudden heart;
that rose fuming with essence toward a copper sea.
Painting: Hammershøi, Interior, Artificial Light 1909
The realization that nothing matters, that all is in vain, is inconsequential insofar as it changes nothing. We remain living the same lives as before, if not for the exception of a newly-acquired taste for sadism that enjoys seeing everything annihilate itself.
The spider in my room continues to spin its web with precision, a meticulous mandala that is not a form of ephemeral art, but simply a skill in survival, which is in itself a form of ephemeral art.
I’ve noticed that humanity has an innate insensitivity to oblivion. It builds and labors as if there will always be human beings around to witness their own struggles and achievements. Their seriousness is a form of naïveté. No one epitomizes this naïveté better than the writer.
We can never be sure an animal acts in seriousness. It can be ferocious, alert, aggressive, intent, perseverant and devotional, but its ability to shift from intense concentration to laziness suggests that it does not really care for the outcome of its actions.
It feels me with horror and rage to hear people claim that life is profound and inexhaustible while they spend half their lives in front of a computer pretending to live life to its full potential.
If the world is unreal and the self is an illusion gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm. On the other hand, if the world is real and the self exists, gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm.
It was today
that I decided
to scratch the sky,
to turn the leaves
of the clouds,
to learn the language
of the tiny suns;
yes today I deposit
diamonds of silent voice
inside the cups of galaxies;
I want to pinch
the catastrophe of the heavens
and have all the nights
dance around my sudden life
like fierce nebulae of
nothings and everythings.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
yeah years teeth in sun
matter
piles up
dry
out there
waking
which is a breath
half air
half tear
obedient bodies die
these melodies
of tragedies
nothing more
than an idea of
awareness
this geology of memory
experience
breaks inevitable like waves
on far distant moon
unable to alter
the course
of inane atoms
the waves keep crashing
on the thinning stone
that life
half-asleep in chance.
Beyond Language 
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