motion

underneath

Secret of Life

I woke up today reading
the Secret of Life
the stairway was the same
but the streets, oh the streets
they were building blocks of awe
molecular lumps alive with the wind
processes in motion
          like trees in a storm
every face was a map
charting the layers of the universe
scenes changed as propelled by engines of time
orchestration by a slow chaos
everything interconnected by invisible spokes
         why o why
must days like these
come to an end
tomorrow I must wake up
and open the first pages of
the Gates of Unknowing.

 

Modern Poetry

the way of the poet

21st Century Poetry

I call this
my turning hour
the imperceptible motion
from a fifty-nine
to a double-zero
I live this instant
in the streets
the cold cave of Europe
here, I wander aimlessly
I wonder incessantly
my stomach is turning too
hungry and drunk
let’s rock and roll
in the zeitgeist
that no history
will ever
record.

 


21st Century Poetry

Bamboo

 Even though it is immeasurable
       My prison is still tight as skin
but my horizons wide as silences

Although it is incomprehensible
       The moment is clear as pain
but the mountain inside cold as ash

Since I have known only one
       Many drops fall as from bloodshed
but the fragile division was born as orphan

Nonetheless I was lover of the loneliest desert
       Counting the walls that serve as mistakes
but swallowed all the scriptures that read as noise

Thus, metaphorical speaking aside
       The clouds raised thoughts as mothers
but motion now seems so still as bamboo

 

Return to Beyond Language

Isolation

 

 

Isolation.

Breathtaking isolating metaphysical estrangement. I am the voice of a prison, an oasis of consciousness locked up in a bottle that is floating on an ocean of beautiful nothingness. There is nothing but myself. But “myself” isn’t human. Consciousness is the moment of absolute silence before sneezing. We are the void that is never heard, we are the undercurrent of a stream that can never rise to the surface; we are motion without name. The unreality of it is not a punishment – it is a promise that nothing – nothing can condemn us to eternal misery. Every pain is a thorn, every joy is a petal: but there is no rose to eternalize them. Life is a dream that will never surrender the mist of its illusion.

We are a particle in that dancing mist,

                         flashing in the light of time,

                                   vanishing in the darkness of boundless sleep.

Wonder Eye

Could we motion our awe
present it hourly along our way
Could we breathe in astonishment
the minutes streaming by
As the moon today is half-dipped
in the layers of blue crisp sky
We must throw away legions,
innumerable attempts,
since it is mostly rare
that we define existence
             by wonder
If we could raise our eyes
as frequently we raise our cups
the impenetrable azure
or the eternal dark
may become one day
             our source of belonging