Don’t know how to drive.
Can’t even park
into huge chasms
of disquietude.
How can I comb
the hair of my
marble personality
under
the incredible wobble
of the universal flux –
my feet are spaghetti
and the air around
one gigantic block
of solid
impossibility.
I can’t breathe,
my incomplete dreams
have begun unfurling
in an inexplicable atmosphere
of suffering.
You, flesh and bone,
gas and scars
of phenomena.
My hand slides down your ranges
into the pockets of pleasure,
the possibility of birth and gargantuan
orgasm.
The winding road of decisions
and the soporiferous wind blowing
of distant causes.
The trees have danced,
reenacting the groove of colliding
cosmic bulges in the rhythm
of passing gusts.
We do the same?
In silent gaze, creating
the torture of possibility
with endless and mapping thoughts?
You and winged beasts
from dawn. Red and innocent –
open mouth and chants
from the sky… where
we belong as tinges
of intangible.
The sadness of the suit –
hung
the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.
Has the raucous broth of
mad existence
in the twinkle ruin
of your perception?
Has the incense of repetition
shoal the antipodes of speech
in the colliding spiral
of absurdity?
Has the impervious rant
emerging like a Zen of clouds
immolate round and sound
as reason of the ephemeral?
Has the curve of light
lost in mind
like the rolling dimension
of unknowingness?
Answer me!
run
your naked
ditch
shiny hurt
on the stool
of ass
mission of fingers
making murder
in my eyelashes
of grieving
love’s cake,
eat now
or be eaten
by the insect
with deathly stomach
my aims
of dying
like a loose
hair
falling somewhere
when in a jerk
you
hop off
the
dream.
I have chosen an exit
my finger is already in the sky
drawing up the clouds
they are dead with time
my music is blood running wild
I transient leap back and forth
the speed of pregnant vision
why is now a candied sound in my mouth
dissolving as a tongue of vapor
I laughed and cried
the tears come from above
they will plunge hard into the soil
of my mad domain.
age
a film of thaw
rosy tender flesh
your perfect target
agonic wine deadly aim
by the non-appearance closer
logical surrender instance of essence
point drop angular arpeggio by the moon
eye eye
oh
human
form around the cellar
by side raised younger
lost in the sympathy of quivers
tingling by the mindwake of emptiness.
This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land
I’m biting off nails
spitting out tails
wagging at the dog
to wring out the fog
my emotion a sort of doppelganger
adrenaline in my poems when anger
is fire of the beast
I’m drinking out of your breast
like sex in the hands of God
isn’t it a century too goddamn odd
when things have no set end
and we’re always mixing a blend
of the most undrinkable guesses
my guess is that we’re like cocktail dresses
ready to be taken off
and then the real fun goes on
the oblique shadow of the skyscraper
waiting for sun to guide the dance
what a waste of wastepaper
this was my chance
to be
me
eating pieces of myself
while the day annihilates itself.
Beyond Language 
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