Jet stream of time
squirting months
momentarily too late
to do anything
that will save the moment
history has me by the skin
I am all biodegradable
compost for the unknown
developing
appetite for the instant
that will last for centuries
the idiot
as I am
seeing time
as a machine
industrialized for more
there is fluidity
in this duration
that spreads like a flood
over the coastlines
of my
isolated sojourn.
I am caught
inside the instant
of capture
my life a
photograph
in your unphotogenic hands
I am waiting
for the broadcasting
of shadows
in my primetime doubts
a ringtone of astrology
guiding me into my sins
I am needing
autoplay in my decisions
long playlists of pseudotruths
in my routine as an
answering
machine
that has
no
answers.
nihilistic poetry
When I wake
the day
is
a wide-open eye
I had a god
under my fingernail
but onychomycosis
got to him one day
I am a connoisseur
of nothing relevant
by night
my
vessels
are empty champagne bottles
waiting to be full
I drink red, white, pink, yellow, black, eerie
wine
still looking for a fermented god
that even a nihilist wino can love
still looking for the wretched divinity
that will close the eye
of
tomorrow.
I’m all black ink
an exile sketch
varicose vein in the night
scents and trends
lead me to your derelict niches
porcupines of light piercing the dance floor
a thousand shiny faces of techno
human tentacles
up in the air
exit
two stars
over my astray skull
if I could sculpt
this eccentricity
into
art.
I was born
starving
and the world
could only muster up
a colorless blanket
of Time
in which it wrapped me
…while I’m slowly
fainting
in its folds.
a stream of cars down the slopes of noon
I and the minutes, parts of clouds
the far-away phone rings November
these business suits still smell of rivers
shadows born from high buildings
all is peace in a busy day.
.
I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
I
I cannot praise beauty
only the mysterious
I summon the elements
of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
– my own
who else stands here
– a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
the flesh of
this Being.
Remember
when we met
by that corner of a disguise
talking with the stillness
that is common to oil
it was an early October blizzard
that trapped us before
we’ve identified our inertia
locked in that cold
with a bottle of vodka and
letters from Rilke
we drank the last drop
of our nihilism
ready to die there
or live on perpetually
with no sense at all.
I decided to live on a fifth floor
because I enjoy viewing things from
afar
most afternoons
I watch down
on the swaying of the city
the moody strangers
the angry cars
a fifth floor is a nest
seated on the branch
of a decaying tree
sunsets are my favorite
when the ooze of night
drips over the frightened lampposts
quickly the children of the day
retreat to their smaller caves
on a fifth floor
there is not much to do
but watch the ambiguous expressions
of pedestrians
and listen to the tired screams
of ambulances
while the cool autumn air
sinks
between the concrete-walled
canyon
I moved to a fifth floor
so I could have thoughts
like these
and to never
become
one of them.
Beyond Language 
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