us

postmodern_poem

They told me to squeeze
structure
into home
and open windows
to air out essence
see I have been obedient
shedding coats of laughter
like films of light over
a miracle of corner,
and this thing
consciousness is hanging
like dust

in the atmosphere
but we’ve
made arrangements

and passion is hard
like furniture,

mahogany and steel
like dream and real

together bound
in braid

somewhere near
the end of this

and the world
tiny pretty thing

climbs into the air
like a moth

to disappear
over the object
and become invisible
like the rest of

us.

Contemporary Poetry

Unlikely and nevertheless

modern_poem

A flower is
a knot of chiaroscuro
enlightenment entangled in a coil,
finely spread seasons of spirals,
long mournful curves
chained to moment or cycles,
it is sense in a state of song,
desire dense in dew,
a phase suspended in façade
electricity distilled in feature
a flower
is essentially unknown
some element
in petal passion perfume.

 

 

21st century Poetry

Miserere mei, Deus

poetry_of_solitude

You sit
by the bus stop
and study the event
it’s a place
where you’ve cycled
innumerably     a place
where you sit
and watch the light
dissolve in the liquid
of your eye
you’re there because
you don’t know where to be
you’re there because
you’d like to witness
the event
and you see things happening
once and units of behavior
he was speaking to me
through a cloud of thought
through a wind of misery
through a vapor of memory
through a rain of laughter
he was another
man far away from everything
another or other man
another star failing in the dark
another strand of conscious throe
a man from denmark
in the glow of streetlight
toasting and talking spanish
transmitting his monad of sadness
and everything being faraway
like a flash above
our private picture of
solitude.

21st century Poetry

 

they’ll know what to do

weird_poetry-blog

 

help
poets
my voice
a big blot or blob or block of black
terror
is stuck
like a burning whisper

in my throat
the rust
leaves a bitter
shadow
in the melody
of the silence

and sleep
the narrative of time
condensed
like magic
in the empty fire
of death

dust with
elegance
like the echoes
in a dream

Contemporary Poetry

against the intellect

astronomy_poetry

In the pissoir I am a man.
(look above)
some sort of distant collision,
where totalities remain crumbs
see those tiny galaxies
crushing their bones
without emotion in a faraway
dissolution of waves.
I am a man leaving the certainty
of proud world.
I thought I knew the world
when shapes were its body
and chaos its breath.
But even that is a view.
The violence of the mass exists
like pink throbbing in the
dynamite of perception.
I leave the toilet and confront
a scroll of measures and a bunch
of mirrors masking the smoke –
at the core nothing is known.
The sky – like a word –
turns black.
And there’s silence,
like a shadow,
following me home.

Contemporary Poetry

I leave earth

earth_above_me

I leave land tonight.
Hawk to haw.
Tonight, I’ve landed.

Nothing but sound
that bleeds into the
night. Like vital ripple,
along the edges
of wind.

I leave.
Like simple army.
In eight or 8.

Afraid.
Of the air and the
antrum of galaxy.

I leave the earth
bruised with memory,
I cleave to dust
that is heavier
than the
truth.

I leave already
the toy of this
dance.

I leave paradise,
like a land above
neither.

My shudders.
I’ve selected the flowers
that collide and the weak
islands that are seen.

I must leave the leaves.

Like the people that love.

I must sail a modern flame of palms,
and act like a massacre of morality.

If pulley is confounded with plague
and the sky like a scream of a drunken
why.

I leave, grotto and volcano
and life as hour and dream.

I daaa.
an da.

I leave the earth of mirror
and marrow.

I rhyme a depth like
a prisoner of laugh.

I leave and tonight.
Sense and behold.

My mother, all alone,
against the door.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

language as crust

language_as_Crust

really believing
two of the greatest
musical quivers
boundlessly

I burst quite sick
into history
with how many heads
always holding symphony,
art otherwise despair

consider one literary
thing, make it your bed
and invariably perish
simultaneously with every
thing else

really believe
an absolute nature
factually accused
of producing
nothing

to be a seer
more indeed than describe
but misconstrue
into artless paralysis

walking in reality
but in truth
to bear torrential
truth

do not enter
a tree or song
but life

life, nay, breathe
into something featureless
who knows what reasons
mysterious dissolved them
as examples of this process

merely accept this object
as contour groped in darkness

possibly decades
in the making
itself a memory ago
where I promised
to write language
as crust enveloping
experience

Contemporary Poetry

through artery

deeper_soul

To peek within,
through artery,
like spying through
a window into a room
with two armchairs
and a book of chemistry.

To capture within
the vaulted length,
the sinuosity of entrails
like a mountain range
that forces trees up toward the sky
with perched birds inside them
looking down toward the earth
for the head of a worm.

To glance within
through dilated ache,
while standing outside a café
in front of a mob that clothe
with invisible meaning
the earth and pretend its
burning bone will survive
the excitement of light
as crystal memory
in the pockets of their hearts.

To visualize within,
through hot telescope,
the distance of our truths,
like studying the clusters
of emptiness inside
an amoeba of hope.

To see within,
through the gate of the mouth,
a deeper hole that is glutted with silence,
like a threshold that opens up
not to soul
but to something even more
lost.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry