it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts
it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods
it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour
a choice
forever collapsing
in the past
it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.
so damned
brimming
so eventfully charged
with life
my darkest pleasure
to live on and on
with the callous madness
of loving
words.
smoke touches brain
neurosis and all
have you seen it curl
like neurons thinking of clouds –
yes clouds are always in my mind
life is so barren of poetry
that the only word
that saves me is
CLOUD
a single
puff of shredded tobacco
cold in the lungs
a wild uproar of vapor
in the skyline of
awareness
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
I kept
the elements tightly
together
coated by the universe
of my skin,
in there I live too
throwing in the fire
the logs of life,
waiting for the blaze
to engulf all nature
and allow me a glimpse
of some bliss
at the other end
of
living.
finality
run by a strength
gathering in every bouquet of fire
that my lungs take in
in the crushed earth of my heart
with the noisy smoke of the blood
running stronger still
digesting the night as the sweetest charcoal
drunk with fire, hot demise
swimming in the lurid steam of desire
making love under the encroaching moon of suffering
the hand sloughing the disease of touch
the temptation to feel,
my goodness,
the strength that has gathered
spewing boulders as wild bullets of despair
impossible to even begin telling
about the layers and the failed anchors,
such force
is a miracle of the body
an outcome of the rocks and veins
a mistake of the mind;
finally
nothing can be revoked
I have tread many countries
but the distances that
have furrowed
my brow
have been traveled
along the course of a spiral
leading my wandering thought
I am intent on killing the air
merely by breathing in it
rending asunder
the many horizons
that lead us back
to this
moment
I have placed an ear
on the gravid belly of sadness
a heartbeat of melancholy
has spawned in me
eyes
a finger has severed
the surface of the water
the cold ripple
is my only
faith
I cracked open my skull
slid my hand
in its cup
by the raw emptiness
of this touch
I was delivered
something set me loose
abrupt and cryptic
sailing in a medium
that infuriates me
headway headway
progress is like a precipice
i knew about the rocks
long before my pessimism
took over
corroding the oars
my bores
counted like stars
yawning as naturally as breathing
boat body bodhisattva
drowning in the air
sinking in the blood
world me (mindless) me world
nothing is so big and cavernous
so ingrained
in occult emptiness
within the rising steam
of hot silence
the anchor
the destiny
simultaneously my hunger
the greasy milk of the sea
fattening the grand course of solitude
scraping against the seabed
slowing the haste
the waste
a motion brave and stupid
pushing me like a vessel
of filament
farther further away
from the goal of existence:
stillness
I have to get away
from poetry
need to stop
focusing on the
details and the needlework
of perception
need to live the gross
average
collision course life
of the
rest
need to rediscover
minutes
as meaningless
traps
need to make routine
again an instinctive
straightjacket
need to somehow
buy a house
and stock it up
with liquor
need to begin
worrying
about that silly
little race
that goes by
the name
of
happiness.
It feels good
not being an artist
no language to impress
philosophical thoughts on cheese
a bit guilty of the next beer
depleting bank account
it feels good
to walk on snow
so crisp and pure
drinking the next beer
getting drunk
and all the rest
it feels good
to see the snow
fall
my cold breath
dunking beers
and all the rest
if feels good
to have left Berlin
now just a town drunk
not even a
punk
Beyond Language 
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