far
this film
phantasmagorically alive
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
of light.
the receptor
is fire in the body
smoking as the embers
unite with shadow
over the ultimate
coat of illusion
the path of the worm
is a flight in the night
this season of suffering
when wisdom is
reaching out to the
divine
death
of the thinker
there’s only music
the ears are my feet
to dance is the fatalistic
engine of love
silence.
pause
the rock
of the sea.
There will be poetry
as long as the world
swirls in mad convulsion
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is hidden truth with
dreary eyes
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is a road to the dead
silence
there will be poetry
as long as the world
covers us with the cold
skin of bitter mystery
there will be poetry
at 5am with glass o’
whiskey till the horizon
blends in with the empty sleep.
There was never a door
much less an keyhole
no answers to the secret of life
the prophets of despair
proclaimed total obscurity in life
at death everything muddled
forever
the Human
not much more than a succession of acts
performed for an audience of blind eternities
mere rustling of leaves
from the tree of desolation
no trunk to hold on to
no root to call god
so it is to be a function
consciousness
a fluke of evolution
a secondary property of the body
aiding its inconsequential survival
so it is to exist in the universe
that does not exist for the Human
an arbitrary dream with an irrational plot
in the cold ache of waiting
engulfed in lurid perceptions
awaiting the sudden “Cut –
it’s a wrap” of time
merely life… I say
merely life
so damned
brimming
so eventfully charged
with life
my darkest pleasure
to live on and on
with the callous madness
of loving
words.
there are attempts
at writing.
nothing more.
the combinations
are infinite.
yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.
I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.
two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.
I exist…
abrupt
racing uphill
heart pumping
squirting out shells
and crusts
and monolithic diagrams
my breath is silver lining
in the outer whorl of moonlight
corridors immense
goddess growing in brain
sloughing the filament of skull
my face in hunt of tobacco
screaming, drawing out
like echoes of painful throbbing
motion for the race for the desperation
for the sharp pendulum
hovering over my neck
my traitor heart where is the end
to all this blood
carrying deadly time
in its rage
I became an observer
a type of man within the man
not in the act
rather somewhere between
the meaning and the purpose,
I see him from abroad
I am always in another land,
he often follows a plan
making haste and waste
of the hours
I don’t talk to him
he’s too busy feeling down
or doing the dishes,
I let him run
the government of duty
I see his fortress of pain
from my tiny exile
I have visions,
seeing him old
brittle like flakes of rust,
confounded
not sure of what’s to come;
I pretend
to be dreaming
and nothing more
that man
is my only friend
like a good old book
I peruse in my
wayfaring days
like a star
in the night sky
that’s been dead
for years
independent and sway
spectrum proud
a key within an hour
playground of limits
wood poetry in reality
all that mattered
I love history for it will be the bucket
in which I will leave my spit
vainly, i begin to burn
biological and all
interdependent bone, i had bones
planning to manipulate organs
in a dualistic system of time and impulse
while eternity only stares
i multiplied earthquakes
intelligence was a pleasurable pursuit
because the odds cut up
and boredom has my watch
aging never living
mind running out
to such a degree, it did not only survived
it flourished
my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond
I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity
I have to return
to the meaning
of stone
I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits
that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.
Beyond Language 
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