We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
And so philosophy ends.
History is a duel between art and time.
– Will Durant
Allow me
to carve
my strange vision
in your interior
let me turn
your feelings
into marble
shinning inside
my hidden truth
allow me to build
from your essence
the columns
to a new cathedral
where I will sit
to sing my memory
one day I hope
to be remembered
as the artisan that painted
the landscape of your soul
with the aurora of a dream
perhaps
this poem
is already a relic
of our brief encounter
crumbling on your tongue
crumbling like the rock
that was once art
but now becoming dust
for time’s wind.
I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year
I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn
that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments
the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences
to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time
I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings
how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors
wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity
observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt
have you shattered
a poem
to bathe below
the surface of the flown?
I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song
as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts
as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant
I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind
as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper
as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy
I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound
find
the springing
color
the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm
emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs
ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness
leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs
sit between
two naked fires
neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea
listen for the echo
of the beginning
and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being
may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.
I have a bubble
of music
swelling inside:
the silent walls,
the cold
structures of silence.
It is a tiny
flame of sound,
a flickering leap
upon the smooth
slabs of concrete.
I saw the snow
today fall
like an army of silent
white deaths.
And I wanted
to join its
fragile thaw.
I feel.
A minor chord
aches,
yes it resonates,
inside a minor heart.
I pressed down
decadently on
the piano keys.
The dark is draped with echo.
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey
it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape
some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness
I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels
whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound
here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.
But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips
asleep
to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around
minutes
to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to
kiss
to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old
tomorrow
Beyond Language 
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