so much
to tear a song
from artery
and replace the
heart for a warmer
stone
a rivulet of memory
without ultimate value
a field where
the truth bends
as incense
when sleep
is a crumb
of eternity
an immense
solitude
in darkness
souls in flakes perhaps
sore of flight
come to alight
in strange dances of silence
what fever
by which the stars
seem like children
dim against the
thickness of the world
the hurried streak of beauty
to walk chaotically
on open midnights
hurl hums to cosmos
like a muddled beethoven
ahhhh the freedom of finitude
to live and die instantly
within this globe of atom –
I see you
vast manifold energy
spiraling around this
meaningless soul!
I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.
Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?
They say
I should kill
myself.
I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.
But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.
. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.
I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.
They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.
I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.
I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.
I say no; I’ll write poetry.
I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception
the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag
when did I cease
to believe that
I exist
now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot
these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth
it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last
the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun
I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers
it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake
Brush.
Faceless driver.
I keep replaying,
the violent curve –
my unlighted bicycle.
Pump ; drugged with
adrenaline…
bone crack pain coward
agonize no thoughts. I keep
replaying the scene,
the simple magnet of events.
I keep coloring the blood
against the asphalt,
drawing the feeling of crushed bone.
No thoughts and my eyes
on charcoal night.
To have died, doesn’t
seem so tragic now.
Death – finally!
Under the numinous
full moon!
I’m the old
arrogant librarian
lost at sea
haven’t read a book
in seven years
since led astray
in the salty scales
of the sea,
carrying within
the eroded
treasures of antiquity
reciting to myself
Ovid and Schopenhauer
speaking, even
to the fish
like St. Anthony
about duality
and the necessity
of death
sometimes standing on
my plank
transient and ancient
while the spinal cord
of the horizon
contorts
like a living snake –
I’m certain
that I’ll salvage
the nectar of wisdom
it will redeem my sorrows
by sweeting the saline ocean
of my despair;
one day
when scorched
like an upright
brazen sword in
the surrounded waste
one day
I will let go
a single drop
of symphony
to drown in this
stubborn paradise
one day
surrendering the last
epiphany of my breath
I’ll teach humanity
that nothing
really matters.
the walls have existed
alone before I was born
in spirit molding matter
a presence alighting on our fields
against nothingness, they have existed
floating above the secret –
the walls, the reticent walls
sustaining their own weight
sustaining pale coats of paint
alone before I was born
alone after we all die
the walls of buildings
where to keep my shadows
a sojourn a refuge
a stairway into the basement – more than that
a sorrowful edge
the walls stand sloughing the horizon
the walls stand seeping the miracle
they have existed
long before I had set my eyes
on their silent countenance
long before their bricks
congealed into purposeless
limbo
lift up the glass
don’t drink
be one with the drop
under the glass
a miniature sky
swipe it with the hairs
of your arm
nostalgia from your mouth
honey on an elegant moustache
don’t laugh
your head is a surreal
boulder suspended atop a blade
be gone
stand under an oblique shadow
like a marble torso
pierced in agony
lift your fingers
five candles burning
with the oil of touch
you’ve been sleeping
while the days melt
into grotesque dozens
collect yourself
look around you
the invisible raw overtones
the cones elongated masks
perspectives as wide as yellow
despite its meaningless emptiness
I’m sure this is beauty
stagnant between two words
as it happened
yesterday,
sometime now
eventually never.
Beyond Language 
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