one hundred twenty-one words

abyss_above_us

Yesterday there,
could have written
a poem, a tunnel
to something greater
than what we amassed
in many units
of cyclic century

I could have, yesterday.
Created a segment of fiction
that borrows truth as tool
and made universe
a cog in a bigger dream

Yesterday, there
was only need for one hundred
twenty-one words
to serve as ligament
between the earth
and a single
human heart

I could have, yesterday.
Covered my eyes, my eyes
with pungent dust and
swallowed the interior
of a cloud. Something vague
but elementary, could have
been spoken

Yesterday there,
could have left legacy
to some mad prophecy,
I could have dropped
an ounce of voice
into the hole
that is an abyss
above us.

Contemporary Poetry

Like everything else

stars_are_burning_poem

Burning—the stars are burning.
Rows and rows of flame where we row
arrows were descending like hot petals of fire.
A muscle swells and the voice
speaks between curtains of blaze.
The fire is in the world
and every instant is its fuel.
Staring, standing, seeking
with star-studded pupils
one word is spoken: fire
fire that burns all the pinnacles,
the sacrifice, the holocaust of sacrificing
love, the historicity of the encounter.
Escape woman, hold on to my wings
as embers consumed in this climate
of fire.
The stars — are burning.
Like everything else
we’ve touched, sensed
and desired in the charred medium.
Even the lines of our silhouettes
are wriggling as coils of screeching oils.
Your lips will say it,
when a starving spark devours
those tiny lengths of brief candlewick,
your lips will say it
over and over again
until I will think of nothing else:

Burning—the stars are burning.

Contemporary Poetry

my ear

ear as journey poem
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey

it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape

some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness

I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels

whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound

here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.

 

21st century Poetry

to the unborn

child poem

You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you that 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.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

total truth

The greatest liberation
came when I dropped
the pretension to happiness.
It was freedom from category,
from hope, from knowledge,
from purpose.
I immediately recognized
that reality has no meaning,
no destination, no description.
All happiness seemed trivial in its
relation to one condition or circumstance.
I preferred truth.
I did not find it in the philosophies, religions
and sciences.
The dawn of despair set in,
total and unequivocal,
but despite the existential ache that ensued,
it brought with its gloomy light the necessary
vision to initiate in truth:
the denial of all former values.
If existence was factually beyond
the reach of words,
it could not be grasped in recorded knowledge;
it could not be explained by the logical sequence
of premises and postulates;
if it had a truth, it needed to be
immediate and self-evident.
Truth cannot be imposed onto reality,
it would distort it otherwise.
Reality is the only truth –
and to discover what it is
I had to drop all attempts to define it…

merely become aware of it
and allow its transmutations
to speak its truth.

.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

I am an egoist

Fog of Bliss

I am an egoist
the tides of the galaxies
are for my amusement alone
the backdrop of the world
is the stage for the drama
of my sadness
I have eternity as my own
reality-show
the concatenation of events
stroll before me as a parade
offered to a king…
but as a king
I still yearn for more
I look for the edge of existence
looking, as it were,
for something else
something not yet invented
lurking behind the world of things,
perhaps a mist
belonging to another reality
untouched by this world;

                a thin fog
I surmise,
                     of impossible bliss.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry