Ethereal barabingbaraboom
I scream out joyfully for
not having aged a day
this awareness-of-time
of mine
I am the existence of the memory
and if eternity is the hunter
I’ve been deadmeat
forever.
dead meat
poem
cave of shadows
Having crossed the street
leaving behind vapor or vastness
the bulb shines on the pavement
a flat spangled instant
this road to a friend
my friend
whose skin of earth
tightens a delta by the edge of an eye
I see the determination of a tear
gliding by the cheek ,
so early a thought
before it becomes fire,
before the verb
flees as storm.
I remember everything in silence,
like flashes of a dance
inside the cave of shadows.
My friend whose skin of earth
coalesced into the Nile’s delta
we saw the tear fall to earth
like one imperfect meaning
falling into silence.
greyhour
to have known the lazy mote
short quivering dust drawing
letters fruits and tongues on invisible air
when these strangers, lovers
and broken loves waiting for the
train see the speck restless,
there and then, the trance of the path
whose swirl is as elementary
ancient as the nakedness of the sky
a speck who deserves as many words
thoughts and aches
as those we touch and hurt
a mote debonair in air
finds its rest gracefully
like drop of grey symphony
at the base of our feet
withdrawal
If a closed
pair of eyes where
I could crowd
the effusiveness of 16
hours spent in doubt
and awe,
if I could stitch the
wonderful cloud
of perception behind
the dark mirror
of sleep,
if a coarse
hum of cars could
kindle the low brass
handsome innocence
of the thunder,
if the cocks collide
at hilarious dawns
in darkness the pupils
empty of light
to be cups brimming
with the honey of sense,
if the boulders of the eyes
spewed by the dreamer
land far away
in raw fields of
bliss
a new language
now that light
rather than words
is the vehicle
of reality
now that language
has ended
its journey
now that sunlight
is pregnant
with passage
I must forfeit
the concept
and be thick
with tears
life is not
happiness
but the stage
where things erupt
love is the eye
making love
to the light
glyptotek
the feet preserve their nails
but the noses have returned
to the grind,
below the throat of dome
pencils crushed to mosaic on the floor
pensive but not counting the days left-
this endless translation
of feeling to words to image to truth to play;
I’ve got a favorite seat in a museum
greek perfumes still cling to epicurus’ beard
the marble is still cool
like the pillow of the centuries,
melpomene turns with funky mullet –
somewhere I hear a trickle
as both stone and man
wait for the last crumb
and bone to rest
far beyond the tongue
of the sun.
Absurd Poetry
surface
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?
Nihilistic Poetry
moonlessness
There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.
AbSURd PoEtry
Coincidence of Opposites
to stare at her
for hours
while her shadow begins
to curl like trunks of smoke
on the wooden floor
to escape the heavy
brief pale
gaze of
strangers
to be close to her
as close tangled
irreversible
as hours are to years
to hear her voice
like the hieroglyph
of a flower
carved into the
speech of rocks
to touch her eyes
when the walls of the world
become calm timorous
mirrors
to face each other
and collide like antonyms
in the swelling unity
of love
the poet
The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.
Beyond Language 
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