A man walks into the store and buys a pack of smokes.
You see him leave and get into his car. Drives home and smokes one.
You’ll never see the man ever again. That’s how it goes.
But the next day you realize;
He was a man that once had a cat.
He had a theory about the universe,
and a tear that sat like an effigy
in the cubicle of his sad brown eye.
One day you will be in bed, tangled in images, withdrawn from the magic and measurement of the senses. Open hands to drop dewdrops like specks of speculation, falling to fade as fumes beyond fugacious annual fall. All will be idea, analysis of life, as light entering ice. Hours’ vessel without oars, after certain centuries: fire made voice vaulted as fern clung like veins in all directions of silence. What knowledge smelting edges and walls wide as eyes. An act without flesh, only theory inventing thirst for pure blue breath, beauty bordering fragment and firmament broadening blood. Raise fogs with pulleys and lower dawn from a chain. The fabric of façades is yours. Abandon the boundaries of body and dip densely into the center depth. Everything waits for your there.
Yesterday there,
could have written
a poem, a tunnel
to something greater
than what we amassed
in many units
of cyclic century
I could have, yesterday.
Created a segment of fiction
that borrows truth as tool
and made universe
a cog in a bigger dream
Yesterday, there
was only need for one hundred
twenty-one words
to serve as ligament
between the earth
and a single
human heart
I could have, yesterday.
Covered my eyes, my eyes
with pungent dust and
swallowed the interior
of a cloud. Something vague
but elementary, could have
been spoken
Yesterday there,
could have left legacy
to some mad prophecy,
I could have dropped
an ounce of voice
into the hole
that is an abyss
above us.
I can tell you where I’m going, because I’ve been wrestling with remembrance toward the soft constellation and I scream in a loud abstraction: I aim beyond the tedium of destinations and I will tell you. Migrating like ink into the empty apartment, and the warmth of the sun sinks into my bloated pool of blood. The craftsmanship of carving windows onto the pale walls of silence. My voyage is a concentration of shadows amplifying the dominion of dust. The dialect is a purification of vision, to observe the structures that remain hidden behind the brightness of fear. This is where I’m going, dragging behind me the image of the ocean. Because I’ve lifted up the endless darkness that pulsated like an essence on the surface of the world. There is where I’m going, toward the equilibrium of the mirror, in a gigantic leap within.
Our existence is an exercise in fiction.
And it’s through a perversion of this art
that fiction becomes simulation of reality,
thus problematic.
The task is to comprehend
the problem without attempting
to provide a solution for it.
The greatest actors convey
an understanding of the problem
and are applauded as heroic
because they continue thriving
in contradiction with the unsolvable
(fictitiously real) problem.
This is theater of the mind
and valiant acts have been written
with the futility of blood.
The tragic hero’s only
certainty is his ineffective success
and our only consolation is his
acceptance of suffering.
This is our pathos.
The tragic man makes the problem
his only audience.
He must feign suffering until its pain
becomes as real as the simulation of the problem.
He then says that the salvation is unattainable,
that freedom is nothing more than
the purest state of fiction.
And in the irony of his language, he’s dead right.
There must be beasts
that crawl like moons
behind the city buildings
I stare at their fumes
that spiral toward solitude
and the streets like swollen
veins struggling against
the violence of light
I have not spied them enough
nor have I done fair scholarship
to deduce their silences
I am more of a theologian
deducing with furious axioms
their temptation to laugh
and recording the syllogism
of wings that chisel
the silk of decay
they are beasts of atmosphere
and dawn and the noise of eclipses
and in one ambitious hallucination
we coexist with their rosy disasters
who are they, the monsters
these vehicles of modern destiny?
I cannot answer.
There is no final system.
The roads are covered with
the round tears of the desert.
The news has not reached paradise.
we are here to stay – on earth, at noon –
with our blue and sentimental beasts;
whatever savage offspring of our dreams.
The self is a function of life.
Every aspect
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is
outside it,
nothing
belongs to something
other than itself.
Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
word
) of what nature
is doing.
My ego
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not
confront or exchange
with any external.
All my memories, actions,
thoughts, insights,
responsibilities, etcetera,
do not belong to
me.
They are all part
of that function
that life
is portraying
through a living organism.
The experience
of being-hood is a sort of modulation of life itself.
There is no center or
self that engages with life.
Rather life is engaged with nature.
In other words,
I’ve never experienced
anything.
One could say,
I am the illusion
of being a drop of water
inside a totality
that is itself all water.
The IT has been doing ITSELF.
Nothing belongs to me per se.
Even this instant,
these words, these attempts
to define what’s happening
are not me nor belonging to me,
but aspects of what life
or, sub specie aeternitatis,
what nature does.
Life is, a Spinozan could say,
a mode in nature. I’m inclined to say
there is no one
perceiving this, life itself
is busying itself with life-stuff,
nature-stuff, thought-stuff,
society-stuff, and so on.
There is no me
in all of this.
There is only a recurring
sensation that life – the
experiences that compose our definition of life –
belong to me.
But that sensation
is itself an impression like any other.
Can death be overcome?
Only a thought
that suggests that “I will die” exists,
but not the actual death of the self
– because there is no self.
I want to write
clear and distinct ideas
expressing how life
is a short sojourn
in an unclear and
indistinct domain
that my philosophy
become the instant
when words ricochet off
the build of reality
to expose the futility
of the understanding
and dilate the aperture
through which silence
sinks
I want to make sure
that the veracity
of my principles
is unverifiable
that the meaning
of my verse
emerges as
a blur of music
I want to leave
the cloud of phenomena
to become a single
dab of mist
throbbing in the
chaotic extent.
By understanding the fundamentals of ambiguity the technologist of the obscure harnesses the power to create suitable artifacts (not to be confused with anti-facts) that encrypt the purity of communication into a meshwork of impenetrable significations. This technology, having being exploited by philosophers for ages, has surreptitiously leaked out and fallen into the hands of the architects, engineers and builders of unearthly images and unintelligible utterances, a group of formidable sophists that work relentlessly in the advancement of their art. Commonly grouped together under the heading of ‘Poets’, these deserters of lucidity utilize a wide array of techniques to camouflage their superficiality and produce, to all appearances, objects of intelligence. Their methods include the avoidance of the vernacular, the exploitation of the thesaurus, and the occasional usage of logatomes. This alchemy of language can reach such degree of high abstraction that the reader can momentarily forget the existence of the earth. Such manipulation of perception, while not yet proven to be lethal, can lead to a long-lasting veneration for the incomprehensible. While there might be some value in fiddling with obscurity, it is highly unlikely that straightforward communication will ever be supplanted by the monstrous impenetrability of the ambiguous.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Lilililililililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiili
if nothing had been
taught
green dirt pillow sun hidden source
I die
my love
my element
.
the taste of
reason
return as the red
towards the tasteless earth
how long can
the long understanding
last?
I die in 7 minutes
or 7 decades
for how long must I
invent the existence?
I must cry
because of all
these layers
of years
all these skins
that died
to become
thoughts.
Beyond Language 
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