I don’t talk much
what’s going to happen
probably doesn’t
that my silence
travels here
nowhere else
unshuffled words
my ideas circle
like moths
about a light
inconsequence
too bad
I aborted eternity
for
this spurious
paradox
of
life.
Nihilistic Poetry
the machines +
he echoes
and to live
dangerously
with this slow beard
amidst hallucinations of normality
the decadence of my
Nietzschean years
no role model:
Kurt is long gone
dead by angst
we still live on
the poet of opium
in a brothel
licking her sweetness
beauty the contradiction
of his verse
the poet needs his decadence
refutal of his commitment
the lie
the mistake
the disaster
mistrust of the divine
impotence of sublimity
my life is decay
in your hands.
Nihilistic Poetry
So this is my
bloodless combat
a fight to death
when I have no flag
behind me to endorse
to glorify
I can sneak up behind time
strangle her
only later to be
grieving that nothing ever happens
I may surround all of matter
near midnight
obliterate it in one bright flash of idealism
only later to regret
that the mind is equally senseless
and then all the personal things
work grudges, love fractures, intoxication cravings, unspoken family sorrows
all those tanks, Morse codes, handheld grenades, isolated trenches
that I must overcome, decipher, throw away, endure
when I still don’t have a flag of purpose
to endorse
to glorify
should the inconceivable happen:
victory
to what homeland should I return
if this war
suddenly comes to an end?
I try
to surpass existence
I fail
I simply: exist
I feel myself in the world
I am in it
yet I spend most of my time
dreaming
that I am not
I don’t deny that there
is something
my only yearning
is that I cease being
part of it
There are things
best left unsaid
lest the great sphinx
of the open mystery
laughs
at my foolishness
she knows
ultimately, life
is like the open sky
and words
are clouds I hold on to
to break my
fall.
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.
Failure
was the ace up my sleeve
my get out of jail free card
my existential loophole
having failed
I was out of the race
competing only with the skies
my midget adversary – ambition
too afraid to follow me into the wilderness of the wild
I am free
to make any nook on this earth a cumulous heaven
make a straw bed for my sleep-drunken poems
on any day of my open-ended agenda
to make a living on the question:
is this all real?
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.
Beyond Language 
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