Meet
me
ageless
in
the
streets
we’ll
be bums
smoking
and
in flux
I don’t care
what the
price is
to
be
pure
as a
cigarette butt
burning out
in your
primordial
fingers
meet
me
to
announce a new
temple
for the
boundless:
a park bench
and empty beer
cans
at our
feet.
It’s
all
black
and it is
spinning
the creature
is trembling
in the nook
of an illusion
shunning away
from the blaze
of stimulus
distrustful
of the cause
and the effect
we are the contraction
shriveling
to a singular
point of
fear
the shape of your neck
wrestling with my focus
I could have smiled
and twirled a spoon
in my coffee
to taste the dimensions
of your spiraling
lips
I’ve wondered
how your body
would resist
being against a window
freezing like dew
in the dawn
all that we study
to forget
the longitude
of an instant
laughter
– yours –
dripping
from above
and there is no
sky here
let’s repose
and dissolve
like heat
ripples
from a distance
over
an unfamiliar
path.
what
was
it
this
fable
of deformities
life
when all
thought
is of the size
of a grain
of rice
and you shave
to feel the snow
on your cheeks
clueless
of how you
indefatigably
will love
the next
occurrence
in this
fable
of ideal
encounters
with something
real.
NIHILISTIC Poetry
I cannot wait
to be in your teeth
ripped apart
in black disguise
by your plotted fangs
and crushing grand schemes
I can’t wait
to be flotsam
that nobody finds
in your sea of control
rotten planks
sinking into an insignificant
quiet disappearance
I cannot wait
a minute longer
to be fake rice
in your fields of expansion
never becoming
more than a spot
of white nothingness
amidst your supreme
everything .
A day’s surface
its skin of smoke
ASTRAY
The world escapes
flickering like
a stream of thought
A glaring red instant
Remains
as the incomprehensible
dream of
e
m
p
t
i
n
e
s
s
.
The petal has rivers
long opulent light against the breast
solely swirls in silent colors
my skin upon the sky’s skin –
certainties are wrestling
over collapsing possibilities
the leap has a tinge of sorrow
the chain rattles
a river of petals
aging
on an empty
course to bliss.
.
No matter
what I write
this will never bear a name
all creation falls through
the empty sky
always falling
no hands here
to catch and retain
anything
no matter what
my memory is always empty
it has no truth
no one is here
to witness anything
the mind is uninhabited
and uncharted
a rock fell asleep
and this is its dream.
What I employ
is not language
but the vivid shade
of movement and instinct
I have to be asleep
murmuring like a wide surface
of sea froth
twilight before the birth of pain;
my eyes expiring like new moons
in the obscure tingling of selfhood
only then
in that reflection
the hairs of the galaxies
sway like dark music,
the pupils expand
in one big womb of memory;
I remember
the place where the soul
used to be.
what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –
no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.
Beyond Language 
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