We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
And so philosophy ends.
I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year
I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn
that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments
the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences
to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time
I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.
I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song
as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts
as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant
I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind
as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper
as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy
I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound
I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose
I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me
I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future
watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience
look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux
yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body
like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers
when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows
when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf
when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause
when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.
…
This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.
I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.
You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you who will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.
You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.
You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.
You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.
I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.
The raw brown
of this wood
the brown seed
of the book
the brown organ
of the smoke
I move like yellow
tint of dust
around the room
by balconies of thought
swift tactless morsel
of some body
I came to this room
I saw the wood
I conquered none
and half a pulse
traverses
without a crown
of ideas
without laurel
or course
I feel the brown
seeping into
whatever the room hides
I concentrate movement
towards a loud buzz
I call this circumstance home
and beyond it
an abyss
without a window.
Beyond Language 
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