when did it begin?
accidentally
reaching intelligence’s cul de sac
walking away with empty pockets
haven thrown all theories away
like burnt shreds of money
now dripping after
falling into a puddle of sensation
nothing belonging to me above or below
I foresee the outcome already –
a maddening silence
staring out the window
because the birds
are pretty.
NIHILISTIC Poetry
I changed sides
of the road
walking
perhaps
to some ultimate
destination
I was wrong
it was only
another sidewalk
I had been
doing nothing
staring at letters
in books
without
knowing their meaning
the coffee got cold
I go for walks
when I get tired
of sitting.
I’d like to say
this is all true
but I only have
noise and vague memory
I have no idea
what I did
today.
NIHILISTIC Poetry
gray ground
nestling
the little curvaceous
seeking self
a methodical
appraisal of the
unintelligible
empty fields
arising
an axiomatic love
of chaos
and labyrinth
light never
ages
but its image
traverses time
the tree was spotted
as the period
at the end
of a graceful sentence
that spoke of
a timeless seed
the eyes that were
given to me
eloped with darkness
an affair
of unknown
qualities
and reverberations.
happy thirty
happy death
happy where are we
I have traveled
inside a cave
crushed inside skin
dried patches of skin
hands callous
the incurable stink of walking
over distance
dark distances
I have traveled
in dangerous caverns
falling, screaming
repeating
savagely
for thirty years
scavenging
closing in on those
scarce drips of essence
those impossible puddles of truth
inside a cave
where I begin to feel like shadow
dark layer upon dark layer
going nowhere
I already hear them singing:
happy happy thirty
happy birthday
joyous shadow
lost lost lost in time
The possession of my self
in the refraction lonely
something sees as I
the trembling skin
of bright tomato
and someone desires
to lay bare on its surface
light like reflection
of a lamp
the map of understanding
may be indifferent
to axis of human
thinking
nothing belongs to earth
and the real
billows
on the dream
of matter.
There
by the brook of your stare
I meet the sound
of your drowning,
‘alas’ so light and lasting
a word surfacing like sighs from your eyes
I make room and stand back
so you run into the invisible
curl of a mistake,
my child you’ve begotten
sadness and its truth
is more distance than those streaming
glares that leap from walls to illusions –
there
I recognize our mutual meaning
nowhere in this fog
the outline of solution
nor the source of our misery.
I have the world
like pulp
inside my fist.
The juice that drips
like concentrates
of dream.
Wait!
I refuse to describe you.
World you are in my grasp,
but I refuse to recite your
casual contents.
I have eloped with silence,
my petty pet.
I have closed my eyes.
In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.
I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.
It is all there with bubbles and stain.
My eyes are shut.
The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.
The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.
My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.
I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert
I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose
I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence
I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.
The curtain gilded by hidden source
everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth
it is underground miasma where my eyes
fall upon like castles of music;
barely touched
barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution
the memory of existing essentially empty of existence
colorless fraction of silence
floating in the stream that roams
through the anfractuosity of the event;
my toy car
mother eyes
love
o
the fuel of phenomena
distant but within sight
asunder
the constellation of the hunt
blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason
my folded heart
tucked
in the plenitude of the unknown.
Beyond Language 
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