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

passages of interpretation

passage_21st-century-poetry

To be a bed
where two flies procreate
a scoop of nailed flight
to be a hiding of swirls
and heavy wax hairs
alpine view here with the roar of a minute
to be born of sperm and fact
trapped between two breasts of dirty fruit
feeding from black poisonous miracles
to be fallacies of waste
to have animals over you scavenge for dumb teeth
to be a gulf of chewed respirations
aging dawn of wings
crashing against oceanic mirrors
to be a bed of cactus
where virgins report to god
and sacrifice their blood to color
the brick walls of love
to be all the circles of anatomy
but not the equations of multitudes
the guilty resin of interpenetration
to be a savant sleeping under
hoards of cannibalistic dreams.

Poetry2011

chance

Window of Love

This is my chance
to render existence
beautiful, justify it all
this is my chance
to leave a mark
in the thicket of irrelevance
that encircles life
this is my chance to create a gem
of poetry and longing

the universe
I see
is but a sketch
an attempt
the purest game

miracle comes in between
the things that are by chance real
I love its
magic

I am touching
the soul with silence
– that art thou
stargazing the mind

this is my chance
to suffer
the wisdom of solitude

my only voice
to reach out
to
you

 

Modern Poetry Blog

aduren lineage

I touch the moment by its hectic word,
without imitation, from bursts and bursts
I come in unintentionally.

By name, by function by friendship
I invent this place;
I don’t have gifts of sky or lantern,
I don’t fathom an exit.

Entities and noise musically erase my eyes,
a cold sheet of water, no more days
possessions by an instant.

I intend to own an ocean
wet by the iron that hurts
a depth of gunfire.

I live by tendencies, the tender spots
placing what’s left of me on this bench
I sit: time begins

Why assert when doubt freely listens in
don’t ask why I fell into this stateless love
imagine that I have just begun.

Nihilistic Poetry

a personal account

Bloodless war

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?

 

 

Modern Poetry

it’s not always easy

Eyes Greatest Revolution

The iris
expands
way beyond
the circumference of light itself
that stare you give me
makes my skin
rockhard reptilian
immersion is your talent
deluge as dissatisfaction
till I drown from inertia
your heart is a fish
in the reddest sea
my bait is saline love
your iris is a flying saucer
abducting my hope
nothingness is two feet away
but I’m afraid to look
in this sad world of ours
eyes should have been
history’s greatest revolution.

 

 

modern poetry

to another vision

Burn to crumbs

to infernal to love to

agony to evaporation

to rebirth to a thousand human

screams to another

to another vision

to another of all possible worlds

burn with anger

dare to bring collapse

collective shield of cowardice

be alone to be silent

to restart to reformulate

to negate all to remake all

from alas to alas

perish world by world

planet after planet

sun to sun

ignite! ignite!

ignoble race, ignite!

to hate to love again

to die to be reborn

ignite immortal missioners

to purge heights and abysses

unite in the fire

ignite in invisible apotheosis

from plight to undreamt of

life…                                        begin!

My mirror

What was it that you said?

  am I still not inaccessibly alone

imagining hordes of men and women

   conjuring movements of civilizations

as the smoky characters of a dream

     as the twisted story of a hallucination

is that your echo by the candlelight?
 

   how can a voice enter this airless chamber

in the skintight solitude of my nullity

corner

    my acute angle

 a point without length, without breadth, without breath

           breathe, did you say?

where comes that voice

     the invisible companion

             hidden behind layers of insensitivity

how can something delicate survive

       near my poisonous skin…
 

am I still not alone

    dreaming worlds and stars

are you there, 

     my mirror, my love?

Nihilistic Poetry

Corner’s spiral

 

 

Come trace each spiral’s end

the emptiness of every word

fullness of rippling chords

wondering, strange wondering

                      those that once were

where has the smoke of their pipes

          traveled?

To them we were distant dream’s child

a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—

serene nocturnal sounds

Gathering ink droplets

      over prayer’s whisper

and the fall, rushing leap

bottom deep darkness into

deep immensity’s embrace

Violin growth of love

the stream naturally light

flight upon mountainous sleep

crossing threads of cycles and returning

Entering moment’s origin

returning every minute

                       arriving over and over again.

Liberation

Free wanderers of the spirit, you astronauts in the lost space of indecision, all of us that have noticed and condemned the irrationality of our age, yes, you passionate survivor that in the mist of these nonsensical years battle through the current of conformity in search of a justification, a raison d’etre, a simple satisfaction that will overshadow the ever-lasting presence of frustration.
 
We are the inheritors of a struggle that has pervaded all of history. Our efforts so essential in the field of human potential must never come to an end. In these complex societies that require even more complex solutions to cure the collective madness, our perseverance must not wane. Even if most attempts to heal the wound of civilization have failed throughout history, the spirit of the rebel will live on as a child of that irrepressible force that commands human existence: an energy that will ask of us to emancipate man from his self-imposed shackles.
 
Our mistrust in human conventions, ideologies, and reforms should not stop our search for an immediate liberation, a source of enlightenment, a spring of contentment. In peeling off all boundaries we still have a chance of finding a secret treasure in nature, beauty, art, brotherhood, work, love, poetry, even in the darkness of suffering or the maniacal passion of a philosopher, somewhere within these and all inspiring things we may stumble across a beautiful sensation of peace, a harmonious agreement with what is most essential in life.
 
But what is the most essential?
 
This each wondering mind must seek but I am sure that with sufficient honesty and perseverance we can find that basic need and satisfy it sanely. Then we may watch our torments wither away and vanish as our reality elevates itself into a more exciting and promising realm.
 
Allow this vision to settle in:
 
Long, unanimous cries and shouts into the open sky, not from another fascist’s Holocaust but from an inexplicable mad ecstasy, the long-awaited contact with pure joy.