buried
in red
illusion
in the anthropomorphism
of ginger youth
in the great convulsion of beauty
affliction mirror fountain and edge
in dense mist of light
waiting for events
to dissolve
in
truest
red illusion
a hum
emerging
like hot laughter
from the frozen
fields of ego
I begin to salivate
with the thought of dedicating
an entire life to poetry,
a voracious appetite to eat
the great voids of nature and spirit;
that while indigent
I can still satiate mi hunger
with the stillness of the mountains
and the spring of the sky
that runs sweet
night and day.
If there were something
to unify
I’d build a bridge
between partial reality
and the wholeness of nirvana;
had there been
something to rescue
I’d make an ark
from the planks of essence,
letting in, one by one, the species
of the invisible –
if there were something
with purpose
I’d carry it on my shoulders
till I could set it free
in a new meadow of illusion; –
if only there
were there something
other than me
around here.
what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –
no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.
I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.
I have the world
like pulp
inside my fist.
The juice that drips
like concentrates
of dream.
Wait!
I refuse to describe you.
World you are in my grasp,
but I refuse to recite your
casual contents.
I have eloped with silence,
my petty pet.
I have closed my eyes.
In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.
I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.
It is all there with bubbles and stain.
My eyes are shut.
The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.
The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.
My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.
From the phantom tables
and vanished walls
a cloud of light
and thunder of shadow
the foundation is lost .
I still glimpse an inkling of
cold geometry and
wooden truth;
but the glue of substance
drips like echoes of brevity. . .
I witness
and no longer
participate.
What collocation of beginnings
side by side in the sky
looking through window
at a fiery gas and ox flame
woven in lurid clouds,
the unit of beginning
3 seconds of origin
awoken in the mist –
then return to the tunnel
of thought, drug and routine
as a dark spiral without
exit.
Follow the designs
of the fruit fly course
and swallow the silver abyss
of the month, like a pocket of lungs
in the tissue of paperwork,
the wrong eschatology
roaming freely in the
painless nurture
of nature – there
flapping endlessly
in a wind of glimpse.
Beyond Language 
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