poems

the solace of being nothing

The afternoon came as an uninvited guest

in the midst of my being nothing,

the amputated pieces of sky I could see

together with the regret of two trees

     beyond the damp window

seemed like the tortured bell of noon

breaking the spell of a sleeping happiness

in the midst of my being nothing,

the possibility of daylight and tepid airs

of a world altogether alien and outside

marred the fictions of my desires:

      the slow inactivity of self

irrelevantly smiling to the amusements of time

but this light catalyzing the contours of weak objects

like a cold wave reaching the feet of my dream

in the midst of my being nothing,

the noise of what is external!

to exist no longer as a particle in the stream

but as an invisible swirl in the drift

       layers of inaudible music

as the touch of night

in the midst of my being nothing,

rooftops like the written words

        of forgotten minutes

outside, alike, trembling

in the midst of my being nothing.
 
 

 

 

A chinese poem

chinese tree poem

The street light turned red
two raindrops rest on someone’s shoulder
 

a stream of cars down the slopes of noon
I and the minutes, parts of clouds


the far-away phone rings November
these business suits still smell of rivers


shadows born from high buildings
all is peace in a busy day.

 

.

Nihilistic Poetry

A word with myself

Being Poem

I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
           I
I cannot praise beauty
      only the mysterious
I summon the elements
         of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
               – my own
who else stands here
             – a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
     the flesh of
 this Being.

Nihilistic Poetry

the last drop

Remember

when we met

by that corner of a disguise

talking with the stillness

   that is common to oil

it was an early October blizzard

that trapped us before

we’ve identified our inertia

locked in that cold

with a bottle of vodka and

        letters from Rilke

we drank the last drop

     of our nihilism

ready to die there

    or live on perpetually

with no sense at all.

Nihilist Poet

Natural Law

Suddenly, dawn
succinctly brightening
      the paradox of your eyes
my finger measuring
      the metaphor of your lips
my breath all over
      the aphorism of your neck
slow, as years
my hand goes further down
to caress timidly
      the analogy of your breasts
carefully, I excite your heartbeat
as the mischievous palm enters
      the axiom of your venter
inevitably, I draw a line south
to reach tenderly
      the plethora of your vagina
but I do not stop there
for my next desire is
      the doctrine of your legs
and further yet
between sunrise and noon
I reverently kiss
      the premise of your feet.

Contemporary Poetry

(dedicated to M. R.)
 

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

thus we die

Grow because

death is a plant

these errors are twigs

more regrets

furthering rooting

if it is too late

wreck beyond repair

souls, human or other

desire demise

no help

is available for them

for us?

we wait it out

thus we die in resignation

thus we die.

Nihilistic Poetry

Once written on 8.13.09 

A night becomes clouded
as we sometimes say
‘things happen’
abstractly, indifferently
that it is suddenly August
2009
a veil of intellectualism
is lifted
a human face looks up
mine, yours, whatever
there are clouds, ideas, philosophies
up there
we look down, you, me, whatever
barren reality
wooden window frames
dusty desks, unsharpened pencils
feeble light, organic darkness
you see the dark
it doesn’t have a name
then there is real silence
scattered coins
uncharged cell phones
a sleeping wife
that it hits you, me, what you will
it is August 13th
2009
what a feeling.

Nihilistic Poetry

numbers and illusions

The desert
the streets are made of sand
crumbling tombs, atoms
they are disintegrating
sidewalks and numbers
bleached, ambiguous
some street signs
echoes and hallucinations
this urban hell

streets turn into cities
cities into graves
graves into civilizations
worlds into multiple voids
this is not philosophy
but it tastes like it 

I, you, us
in a substance
quite unknown
still unidentified
that is the illusion of knowledge
secrets and denials
to become confessions
of the upcoming third millennia 

when you are the tip
no longer the base
you fall
fall you disappear
in quiet intangible

sleep.
Awake or not
wave upon wave
silence within silence
void delivering avoidance
what is the word
for the miracles

that keep us alive. 
 
 
 

 

 

true living

What I call true living

is found at the periphery of all modality

after a week of uninspiring tragedies

petty, yes

small unrecognizable anxieties

a tiny indulgence

like a return to a temporary home

that is true living, to say

“I am a great sufferer”

and drink the bottle

to curse the others

after a nagging narcissism

pretends to obliterate a reason

to go on breathing. 

 

That is true living

to hold tight to the street

wayfaring, intoxication

denial

a great wide hole

alive alas

at the bottom of any common asphyxia

true living

is the edge

  the final wound.

Nihilistic Poetry