It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.
within the
last moment
when you lift
existence
as a weightless
fish in your hands
when the road
becomes your tail
shivering
as the endless
echo of the earth
when nothing else
shall come
and the eyes dance
as flies in the darkest air
within the last
pause of perception
when
the blood becomes
still as the shadow
on the ground;
a white butterfly
leaves your mouth
to be carried away
by the gale of
silence
I found
the shadow
carpeted with
ache
I couldn’t
leave the
island of my
skin
unable
to break and free
as a sky without
zenith, I sunk
into a low and
blue tear
then morning hung
as the erotic
fluvial voice
this mouth is a gash
that never heals
thrusting verbs as blood
in the bloating thought
I look down
to find my shape
covered in otherness
I was there
alloyed WITH
the world
like
the élan and heart
together
in immeasurable desire.
They say
I should kill
myself.
I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.
But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.
. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.
I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.
They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.
I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.
I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.
I say no; I’ll write poetry.
unable to wake
I remained
behind the ruin of a memory
a Chinese serpent
swerving in the currents
of my dormant eyelids
nothingness was a province
where an obsidian pyramid
stood against a starless night
there in bed
roving like a raving raven
within the
delicate depths of darkness
surrounded by
a deep moat –
the dark waters
of space
swallowing any ray of light
that may cross over
to my dispossessed eyes
lone
existing alone
light as perishable infancy;
heavy as a bridge above years
a statue
untying itself
from its surface
of imitation
so I squandered the imported
bullion of dreams
and with quivering fascination
became empty and
bankrupt
of image
unable to wake
I surrendered
like
a history
written on the soft
tissue of the spirit –
never to be
read.
The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.
I will sleep tonight
cargoless
adding only to my lightness
the thickening trickle of a trance
to behold the failing world
cradled by darkness
such is my noiseless faith
to whom belongs today
when it is already recollection
the eyes drown in intimate vastness
the ears dip into soft limbo
the earth and its history
recede and disappear
as does the voice
that defined them.
The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.
The sinking sound
the crest of the red suppose
the eternal system
elected a song as carriage
of its power.
Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.
The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.
Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.
These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.
The last bones to chew.
Savor them.
I’m the old
arrogant librarian
lost at sea
haven’t read a book
in seven years
since led astray
in the salty scales
of the sea,
carrying within
the eroded
treasures of antiquity
reciting to myself
Ovid and Schopenhauer
speaking, even
to the fish
like St. Anthony
about duality
and the necessity
of death
sometimes standing on
my plank
transient and ancient
while the spinal cord
of the horizon
contorts
like a living snake –
I’m certain
that I’ll salvage
the nectar of wisdom
it will redeem my sorrows
by sweeting the saline ocean
of my despair;
one day
when scorched
like an upright
brazen sword in
the surrounded waste
one day
I will let go
a single drop
of symphony
to drown in this
stubborn paradise
one day
surrendering the last
epiphany of my breath
I’ll teach humanity
that nothing
really matters.
Morning
wild tai-chi circles
hunch and then roar
two eyes open in dawn
red melancholy –
the only earth
for the heart
vermilion sun
to shine on the memory
sudden within a rock
four petals of essence
anywhere
a moth joins the horizon
curtains of light
from punctured clouds
in the expanse of sand
only one stone is fully awake
many have gathered
in syrups of time
anything could happen
while my youth is
still dying for black illusions
four hints of essence
somewhere
white sorrow
resting as sweetly
as snow
on the solitary fields
of my thought
the beautiful
wrinkled chaos
that left a scar
on the softer skin
of a black revolving rose
Beyond Language 
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