futile breath

field of futility

They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

killing the air

Photography Poetry

I have tread many countries
but the distances that
have furrowed
my brow
have been traveled
along the course of a spiral
leading my wandering thought

I am intent on killing the air
merely by breathing in it
rending asunder
the many horizons
that lead us back
to this
moment

I have placed an ear
on the gravid belly of sadness
a heartbeat of melancholy
has spawned in me
eyes

a finger has severed
the surface of the water
the cold ripple
is my only
faith

I cracked open my skull
slid my hand
in its cup
by the raw emptiness
of this touch

I was delivered

 

 

poetry blog

playthings

oh in what manner
I touch
these playthings of the
soul
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
eliciting shapes
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
of creation
twisting and turning
emerging
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
of my
sadness?

 

 

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry

the 21st century

21st century poetry

the city
is
sun-spotted
the whale’s
eye
is full of sadness
brings to mind
the friend
inside the mirror
we only go to
the rooms
dense with smoke
I don’t wish
to bring this word
to the fore
but it seems
like we are
chasing obliteration
touching the chords
that sound of
rebellion
one though
that has given up
on plans
a seated moon
on three stars
a revolver with six
bullets
but no
trigger.

contemporary poetry

Heavy Steps

Old and brittle man
walking alone, hands behind back
dragging his feet, stooping his head
as the town of Itacaré swam
in melodies of reggae, seasons of breeze
Poor old man, stumbling amongst thoughts
entreating pain to numb his soul
so as to never suffer harshly
from the whip of regret —
Why does sadness allow me to forgive you;
come here old man
sit by my side, listen to the stars
there are still things your pain
                     will never mar

The old man on the bus

 

His gaze was dismal. His face pale and furrowed by his old skin. And those eyes… almost inert yet burning with sadness as if they were looking straight into empty meaninglessness. What happened to him? Had he found irrevocable proof that the universe has no purpose, had he understood the absolute nonsense of existence? His face was like an ancient ape, the first animal in the history of the universe to become aware of mortality – the original simian that understood:

 

I AM

but I must die one day”

Oh poor old man!

Those eyes scanning the infinite indifference of the civilized world. Somewhere in the glimmering of his left eye I read his thoughts.

 

They were thoughts of a hopeful pessimist:

 

My life in shadows.
My life in this modern world
Splendid technological forms unfurled
Nobody knows the monster that’s been created
But who will listen to my voice recluse and alienated
If only we could invent a new auspicious religion
To bury our fears and escape ever-lasting oblivion

 

 

The old man stood up and got off the bus and sat by a tree. And then we rode off into other streets, other corners.