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
There was only a narrow slit
left between these eyes,
to survive and nowhere else?
the prospect was a sort of madness
somewhere in that peninsular solitude
my lands would become addicted to dreams
with half-shut eyes, looking out
attempting
as vaguely as objects are
or the motes of continuance;
these visions were freed as wealth
in sinister currency,
the mind is sleep
these eyes drugs
hello
expanding monuments
with the last man
sober in your
granite
resembling
an arching
thick empty
emptiness
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
I have begun to lean forward my head
the stupor, yes
but maybe,
an imminent plunge
into the absurd battle,
where little has control
often incoherent
incomplete
but ever
transforming.
by then
i had crossed
the reason
language was tender
naive and insipid
i was beginning to write
verse
with motion
perspective
a salving madness
i began asking
for the drop
to steal
heaven
a spark in the horizon
a mission
a long-drawn laughter
after the joke of life
had been exposed
it was with all the things
we came to know
that i crossed
the sadness
at last
alone
by the emptiness
of the road.
If I could do something
with this mess inside
do something similar to what snow
does to the argentine sky
constellating it with the falling
flakes of a weeping
chaos
I would be swarming
with zigzags of pleasure
and pain
collapsing under the weight
of
chance
then whatever remains
would melt
find the lowest cavity
of my dirty soul
and stagnate,
quietly
so quietly
dying
down
there.
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
It keeps me warm
threads and threads
a wonderful composition
to keep me warm;
I bought it and now it keeps me warm
it has fortified my skin,
I am a modern bear.
I walk with my coat
the streets are windy
but the coat hangs on
it falls naturally on my shoulders,
I am its underlying foundation,
therefore I must exist under it.
I am hungry
contractions and blurring agonies,
I am okay
but I must touch food soon,
then swallow it
and then it becomes me
I become it:
we must both exist at some point.
The bicycle has wheels
they roll on a surface,
a hard one,
I am fast; to be fast
there is weight, force
I am a force in motion.
I see the bakery
full of smells and heat
many folk are in there
bread is being sold,
I have some money:
I must be at the right place.
I park my bicycle,
rationally, I am locking it
removing the key from the lock
the bike sways and wants to fall,
I catch it because it should not fall;
they are not supposed to fall –
a car glides behind me –
why would we let bikes fall to the ground,
what would happen, who would I become
if I had permitted this bike to fall;
what kind of man would I have become.
Mouth is watery
mushy croissant in my savory mouth
this pulp goes down my throat,
it falls,
this is allowed fall.
I leave the bike –
cannot deal with questions right now –
walking is natural, effortless
step, step, step, step, step, step
kind of percussion,
I must be an artist.
I went astray,
is this the north of the south
or the west of the east,
this place is relative to something
I know that much.
They are talking about shoes
shoes are valuable
they are like hard feet for hard surfaces,
these girls use their hands when they speak:
hands must also be part of language.
I must return, somehow
because if I remain lost too long
I might not be me anymore;
with so many new sights
I might disappear in these perceptions.
TO DOWNTOWN,
there it is, an arrow
pointing to my universe;
back there I can be caressed again
by the same old things I know:
we exist side by side.
Step, step, step, step
this is my home, my street, my block
my mailbox has a name
the floors have numbers
the door has a lock and I possess its key
and I pretty certain that I keep track
of who I really am.
I’ve come close
to developing incurable nausea
biting the world so often
it’s starting to swarm like primordial chaos’s pulp
lingering in my mouth
it proliferates in my stomach
constant genesis out my ass
yet
the feeling is still there
I’ve had too much of it
I need a new distraction
perhaps
ex nihilo
I can invent a death
so pristine
it returns to life
its facet of dream.
Beyond Language 
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