poem

fifth floor

fifth_floor

I decided to live on a fifth floor

because I enjoy viewing things from

afar

most afternoons

I watch down

on the swaying of the city

the moody strangers              

the angry cars

a fifth floor is a nest

seated on the branch

of a decaying tree

sunsets are my favorite

when the ooze of night

drips over the frightened lampposts

quickly the children of the day

retreat to their smaller caves

on a fifth floor

there is not much to do

but watch the ambiguous expressions

of pedestrians

and listen to the tired screams

of ambulances

while the cool autumn air

sinks

between the concrete-walled

canyon

I moved to a fifth floor

so I could have thoughts

like these

and to never

become

one of them.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

unuttered world


The sky: my desperate dispersion
an expansion creeping slowly in
the autumn fields of my lost war
manifest the gesture that condemns me
to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed
                      saints and mystics
heavy with the saddle of onrushing years
seeping the dripping paint
like the dance of mechanical yesterdays
the grave of my birth and burying
thus a multitude of poems – astray
halfway
detached from the events of time
isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception
sky, fragment of other lives
or why November and dying
that last sullen word behind chaos
a return
a miniature spot
whose own language
cannot participate in its description
thus the sky and the lesser me
thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.

 

 
Nihilistic Poetry

Wrong gone

Come

swing like a pendulum

then fall

squash me like an ant

dead, beat, microorganism

could all the volumes of metaphysics

misconstrue this fact?

let it out

you are the entire nothingness

that ever was

you are everything… that’s gone

wrong.

on magic

By the proximity

      of endless spirals

spiraling dimensions

firmly situated in front

of the faces and worries

as if by magic

but magic so fiercely unwanted

    it is looked upon as

            ordinary occurrences

so without objection

the red flame of wine

sinks and stays at the bottom

encapsulated by the glass

yet its fire is irrepressible

too powerful minuteness

seeded in all things that

          transform us

magic, unheeded magic

magical cores burdened – with reality

together with the ungraspable circumstance 

           of happiness

containing not identifiable things

rather emerging like a gigantic bubble

at the center of a monotonous lake

more and more is given

more and more resides

I extend my grasp to any one spiral

      to the suddenness of it all

there are magical births here

          trembling with infinite abundance.

Nihilistic Poetry

Stop

Stop.

 

Please stop.

 

Leave whatever you are doing right now,

 

and do me a favor.

 

Look out outside your window

 

(I truly hope you have a window)

 

to some small gilded leaf in the sun.

 

Stare at it,

 

there’s nothing romantic,

 

poetic or beautiful

 

about that leaf.

It is just there

 

motionless or

 

swinging with the wind

 

it is just there

 

almost too fragile

 

almost too irrelevant

 

but it is there.

 

It is drunk with something

 

it has something we don’t.

 

It is not brighter or duller than us

 

but it has more depth

 

than our little lives.

Nihilistic Poetry

Trapped in today

 

Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light

      since these words are still in the air we breathe

nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today

                 nobody has measured the necessity of crying

to be sick and living 

       asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion

the taste is in my mouth:

      progress has vomited a sickly herd.

A nameless world

 

 

At the start of a new poem

 the world is born again

as if I have never written a word about it

    and was experiencing it for the first time

these trees are not trees

   this sky is no sky

I still don’t have a name;

    I see a spark

and try to name it,

    then it’s gone

and all I have left

   is a bunch of useless words.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

tear of nothingness

This a breeze

a puff of blur

a word too fragile

another troubling gasp

 

outside, the tender world

a tissue I would caress

but this fear of breaking

what is ready to crumble

stops me, so I climb

the tallest dumpster

and watch these children despair

 

Every man is an ant

or a walking trapezoid

I can’t keep quiet

the medicine of sound

it comes now as prophesizing twilights

 

I admit, that licking a wound

is another form of poem

and to walk is to flee a little

and to be alone is to create a river

 

I don’t write a single word to convince

         but to cry

            a tear of nothingness

a too-late warning

 

that we are slowly disappearing

and we never knew why

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