Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree
in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork
the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds
the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge
in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.
With a weightless sky in my eye
I drown in arabesque
can I blame the world
for appearing to be so real?
while walking in silence
I observed the solidity
the light calmly on the mundane;
something unfolding I called it wholeness
occult like a spirit
clever and persistent
behind the visible path that I take,
locality and image
are still my playthings
and yet something calls
like a spell to jump
into the final
unknown.
What I ask of you
is to invent a reason
something of a shade
like a morsel of labyrinth,
to shed a tear
like a long branch of truth,
a solitude that has the figure
of a stranger followed by smoke,
something that I need is so elemental
like the way you tear away the wings
faithless in the heights,
what I ask is for you to turn around
bright, tangible and ancient
peeling naked our sense,
it is not hope that I seek
but in infallible squalor
to touch your name.
far
this film
phantasmagorically alive
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
of light.
a furious dream of the human
spirit bourgeoning out of control
we are of dew ephemeral
blades of song touching oblivion of grass
textures of meaning
in a masquerade of folly
wistfully crowing the surface
little drops of being
little shrouded animals
of extinction and myth
nothing
becoming
nothing
above
nothing
inside
nothing
for
nothing
there are attempts
at writing.
nothing more.
the combinations
are infinite.
yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.
I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.
two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.
I exist…
smoke touches brain
neurosis and all
have you seen it curl
like neurons thinking of clouds –
yes clouds are always in my mind
life is so barren of poetry
that the only word
that saves me is
CLOUD
a single
puff of shredded tobacco
cold in the lungs
a wild uproar of vapor
in the skyline of
awareness
abrupt
racing uphill
heart pumping
squirting out shells
and crusts
and monolithic diagrams
my breath is silver lining
in the outer whorl of moonlight
corridors immense
goddess growing in brain
sloughing the filament of skull
my face in hunt of tobacco
screaming, drawing out
like echoes of painful throbbing
motion for the race for the desperation
for the sharp pendulum
hovering over my neck
my traitor heart where is the end
to all this blood
carrying deadly time
in its rage
I became an observer
a type of man within the man
not in the act
rather somewhere between
the meaning and the purpose,
I see him from abroad
I am always in another land,
he often follows a plan
making haste and waste
of the hours
I don’t talk to him
he’s too busy feeling down
or doing the dishes,
I let him run
the government of duty
I see his fortress of pain
from my tiny exile
I have visions,
seeing him old
brittle like flakes of rust,
confounded
not sure of what’s to come;
I pretend
to be dreaming
and nothing more
that man
is my only friend
like a good old book
I peruse in my
wayfaring days
like a star
in the night sky
that’s been dead
for years
There was only a narrow slit
left between these eyes,
to survive and nowhere else?
the prospect was a sort of madness
somewhere in that peninsular solitude
my lands would become addicted to dreams
with half-shut eyes, looking out
attempting
as vaguely as objects are
or the motes of continuance;
these visions were freed as wealth
in sinister currency,
the mind is sleep
these eyes drugs
hello
expanding monuments
with the last man
sober in your
granite
resembling
an arching
thick empty
emptiness
Beyond Language 
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