It was a simple answer
or no solution at
all
but to get rid of
perplexity
with fire
the works in a blaze
and the path
opposite the column
of smoke
into the arms of a woman
that sleeps naked
like the shore
of the sea
in my bed.
love poetry
you.
You.
And the world
is your shadow.
You pale like
the archeology
of a voice,
of a concept.
You.
Sleeping like
a classical representation
of philosophy.
You.
And the measurement
of the universe.
You
like a visible
collection of
fictions.
You, metaphysically
and verbally a
sign.
You the threads
of an octopus.
You.
My fundamental
posited
truth.
Contemporary Poetry
carnivorous cosmology
Don’t be shy
I’ve suckled that nipple
called sky
the universal figure of smoke,
whose body I call yours
and time’s standstill has been glimpsed
in the trunks of blood
that our tongues have enacted
what then is not an instant
but creation that will swell either
like an echo or a myth
don’t pretend like you
don’t understand
this carnivorous cosmology
don’t pretend like your
intelligence was flared and pure
and bubbling like open
lawns of lava
return to me tumultuous
and with gales amongst those
fluttering eyes
and and – and turn
your cold torso
towards the permanence of
the flare
don’t be shy
I’ve conquered without
logic the theory
of your lips
this is the only day left
for us —
to spill
like assassins
the bleeding cup
of night.
Contemporary Poetry
Like everything else
Burning—the stars are burning.
Rows and rows of flame where we row
arrows were descending like hot petals of fire.
A muscle swells and the voice
speaks between curtains of blaze.
The fire is in the world
and every instant is its fuel.
Staring, standing, seeking
with star-studded pupils
one word is spoken: fire
fire that burns all the pinnacles,
the sacrifice, the holocaust of sacrificing
love, the historicity of the encounter.
Escape woman, hold on to my wings
as embers consumed in this climate
of fire.
The stars — are burning.
Like everything else
we’ve touched, sensed
and desired in the charred medium.
Even the lines of our silhouettes
are wriggling as coils of screeching oils.
Your lips will say it,
when a starving spark devours
those tiny lengths of brief candlewick,
your lips will say it
over and over again
until I will think of nothing else:
Burning—the stars are burning.
Contemporary Poetry
a new language
now that light
rather than words
is the vehicle
of reality
now that language
has ended
its journey
now that sunlight
is pregnant
with passage
I must forfeit
the concept
and be thick
with tears
life is not
happiness
but the stage
where things erupt
love is the eye
making love
to the light
of love
i know
that your face
shining like a fog
is nothing
but emptiness
that your hand
sliding down
past my navel
grabs a cock
which is shapeless
i accept
the vows
and promises
of love
in a universe
of decay
i know
my love
you are a flutter
in the vast chain of being
and i have kissed
the fleeting
mystery of a lip
i comprehend
our nudity
as a mirage
and that words
coil around us
like fumes of legend
we
arbitrary
like a sun and fate
share a millennium
of spontaneity
i know
your face
is but a passage
an instrument
for the invisible
to be formulated
let’s rub
the falsity of our skins
against the
improbability of our bliss
infinite
you
and
delirious
me
21st century poetry
distillation
the shape of your neck
wrestling with my focus
I could have smiled
and twirled a spoon
in my coffee
to taste the dimensions
of your spiraling
lips
I’ve wondered
how your body
would resist
being against a window
freezing like dew
in the dawn
all that we study
to forget
the longitude
of an instant
laughter
– yours –
dripping
from above
and there is no
sky here
let’s repose
and dissolve
like heat
ripples
from a distance
over
an unfamiliar
path.
about a girl
Since she had lost
all crystals and ponds in her eyes
I had reason to believe
that a furious cobweb
had adhered to her forehead
as a continent of thistle
rooted in the wasteland of her frivolous skin
and yet I’m sure that she was once radiant
as a mirror pointed to the sea,
that once her teeth were rays
piercing through her naturally bitter lips
transforming her semblance
from rock to clouds of summer –
Yes! I had good reason
to suppose that if she were a bed
her springs would pierce out from
the mattress to torture my sleep,
but being still a napkin
her asperity would crack
at the touch of
the first drop
of a kiss.
