If we become survivors
the elect few
to renew the significance
of toil and dream,
if we are the last
two Rimbauds in lands
of shadow and cave,
what message will be engraved
in the red clay of poetry,
will we bring the knife close to earth
carving steep heavens on the surface of a rock?
far
this film
phantasmagorically alive
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
of light.
Has it rained
inside the
hand
that invented
the scar of the
rock?
Are the years
colors
impressed on the soil
so silence
can remember
its age?
Is the slumber
of a rock
the miracle
of the
eyes?
Was it the gravest
mistake to design
dreams from
a pile of
sand?
I shall be of slavery
sobbing in the night
when the moon is hidden
behind a fantastic mountain
I shall be of anger
heat upon heat
glowing insanely white
alone in the dawning desert
I shall be of lies
blood gurgling above
as the stars drown
in its sea of disease
I shall be of number
when the bronze prophecy
casts the skeleton of the fields
where children remember nothing
I shall be of incense
a sound perfuming clouds
or a string wringing time
leaving the last drop to dry
it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts
it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods
it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour
a choice
forever collapsing
in the past
it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.
There will be poetry
as long as the world
swirls in mad convulsion
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is hidden truth with
dreary eyes
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is a road to the dead
silence
there will be poetry
as long as the world
covers us with the cold
skin of bitter mystery
there will be poetry
at 5am with glass o’
whiskey till the horizon
blends in with the empty sleep.
There was never a door
much less an keyhole
no answers to the secret of life
the prophets of despair
proclaimed total obscurity in life
at death everything muddled
forever
the Human
not much more than a succession of acts
performed for an audience of blind eternities
mere rustling of leaves
from the tree of desolation
no trunk to hold on to
no root to call god
so it is to be a function
consciousness
a fluke of evolution
a secondary property of the body
aiding its inconsequential survival
so it is to exist in the universe
that does not exist for the Human
an arbitrary dream with an irrational plot
in the cold ache of waiting
engulfed in lurid perceptions
awaiting the sudden “Cut –
it’s a wrap” of time
merely life… I say
merely life
so damned
brimming
so eventfully charged
with life
my darkest pleasure
to live on and on
with the callous madness
of loving
words.
there are attempts
at writing.
nothing more.
the combinations
are infinite.
yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.
I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.
two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.
I exist…
I reminisce.
Having once placed
a heavy elementary hand
over the breadth of your chest;
a divorced
pulse
from the trembling night.
Covered
knee-deep in sadness –
snowing that night.
Noiseless torment of your eyes.
A niche
with skin so
sorrowful
in that thin air.
Beyond Language 
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