.
I walked alone b/c
the streets were attempting
to be white
I’m all sorts of blues
so what a contrast that was,
when I found the open boulevard
imitating a mouth or lights
exactly like my sparkling daze-hood,
the shadows were falling everywhere
like broken pieces of love,
I could hear cars, reminding me
that I’m nothing but a drive;
I was hoping for a journey but found
myself crushing little roads of silence
blinking sadly,
remonstrating:
am i the only poet out here
tonight?
by then
i had crossed
the reason
language was tender
naive and insipid
i was beginning to write
verse
with motion
perspective
a salving madness
i began asking
for the drop
to steal
heaven
a spark in the horizon
a mission
a long-drawn laughter
after the joke of life
had been exposed
it was with all the things
we came to know
that i crossed
the sadness
at last
alone
by the emptiness
of the road.
the distance
of things from my center
together with the dripping self
language rests as a drop
on a fatal slope
or a sound in frozen space
I have hands
but they never touch
anything
I have thoughts
but they never refer
to anything
and while I feel like cancer
growing on the insides
of my own soul;
I have bled beauty
like a suicide of god
there are areas of life
inaccessible and foreign
my flesh is ghostly
my feelings barely perceived
I am like a spark
engulfed in its luminosity
and everything beyond it
staggering darkness
in that incomprehensibility
I move and dying.
If I move
then this should
not exist
I am writing
because because
never existed
I am angry
I am ecstatic
I am so many words;
yet what remains is
opposite to all
pronunciations
I am a feather
that draws in water
but leaves no
ripple behind
its art
I am existing
to experience
the rush of disappearing
to crash into existence
the roaring vehicle
of silence
cold descended
I believe in it
feel like I need it
surrounding me like icy mesocarp
preserving me small
and latent inside
like a rugged seed
of rage.
I bite their existence
like a damned fruit
I sit at their bar
built for other drunks
that didn’t come
half around the world
to sit
simply there
it is their smells
their unkempt mustaches
the long borrowed smiles
the occasional spill
I tuck away in my thoughts
their paper-thick laughs
like wasted napkins
with doodles and debts
I pluck their noise
keep its seed
their game
is my
mirror.
I begin
to
approach
you
with a scarcity
of words
a simple
symbol:
snow
contains
the entire mode
of your
being.
This is my chance
to render existence
beautiful, justify it all
this is my chance
to leave a mark
in the thicket of irrelevance
that encircles life
this is my chance to create a gem
of poetry and longing
the universe
I see
is but a sketch
an attempt
the purest game
miracle comes in between
the things that are by chance real
I love its
magic
I am touching
the soul with silence
– that art thou
stargazing the mind
this is my chance
to suffer
the wisdom of solitude
my only voice
to reach out
to
you
Bang your brain against this sentence
spill your guts so I can mummify your fucking
lie
we’re in control
only you
purely you
guess from where I come from;
studying your antics
form this
tendency to resist or challenge authority (sic)
do we ever control
the wave
that crushes us
in the
end?
the downward slide of space
bare, exposing long origins
amassing by layers
as if it were sediments of time –
and these drops on the pane
are the benevolent visit
of superfluous beauty
that I smuggle into
the vain territory
of life
I’m ready to wing a logic
a mode of airborne communication
something of this collapse
can be spied upon
from above
with skeletons
we induce the flesh
the art and the tool;
so with these rudimentary droplets
the underlayer element
begins to fume
as a fire burning on
infinity
hush…
it’s gone.
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