language as crust

language_as_Crust

really believing
two of the greatest
musical quivers
boundlessly

I burst quite sick
into history
with how many heads
always holding symphony,
art otherwise despair

consider one literary
thing, make it your bed
and invariably perish
simultaneously with every
thing else

really believe
an absolute nature
factually accused
of producing
nothing

to be a seer
more indeed than describe
but misconstrue
into artless paralysis

walking in reality
but in truth
to bear torrential
truth

do not enter
a tree or song
but life

life, nay, breathe
into something featureless
who knows what reasons
mysterious dissolved them
as examples of this process

merely accept this object
as contour groped in darkness

possibly decades
in the making
itself a memory ago
where I promised
to write language
as crust enveloping
experience

Contemporary Poetry

the joy of Heidegger

desolation_landscape

 

Throughout itself,
ordinary nature
would no longer
be its opposite.

Truth occurs

within itself
no longer in earth

but open,
clearing, never rid of primal conflict

notice this Open

the world of paths
lighting
the self-closing
center

at bottom
intended to denote
that the essential
has rid itself
of everything
concealed.

 

(All the words, including minor phrases were extracted from page 53 of Heidegger’s essay The Origin of the Work of Art, found in the book Poetry, Language, Thought as translated by Albert Hofstadter, printed by Harper Perennial Modern Classics)

Contemporary Poetry

Travel: I wanted mystery

Shiva_elephanta_caves_mumbai

I wanted mystery.
Huge black eyes
drawn to a mystic smoke.
The electricity of the rock.
The mantra of the beast.
I wanted to be crushed
and cursed by the flames of misery.
I come to India to hunt
for the invisible possibility.
To cease traveling in a vehicle of thought-
to walk on the scorching embers of intuition.
I wanted to drown in a river and resurface
as an absolute beginner.
I came and saw the mystery.
I came to see the truth
that there is no truth,
written in the eternal language
of their sacred eyes.
I came to India to tie all the threads
of incense around my restless soul.
Here I am.

Contemporary Poetry

warmer stone

doodle art 2012

so much
to tear a song
from artery
and replace the
heart for a warmer
stone

a rivulet of memory
without ultimate value
a field where
the truth bends
as incense

when sleep
is a crumb
of eternity
an immense
solitude
in darkness

souls in flakes perhaps
sore of flight
come to alight
in strange dances of silence

what fever
by which the stars
seem like children
dim against the
thickness of the world

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

glyptotek

beard epicurus

the feet preserve their nails
but the noses have returned
to the grind,
below the throat of dome
pencils crushed to mosaic on the floor
pensive but not counting the days left-
this endless translation
of feeling to words to image to truth to play;
I’ve got a favorite seat in a museum
greek perfumes still cling to epicurus’ beard
the marble is still cool
like the pillow of the centuries,
melpomene turns with funky mullet –
somewhere I hear a trickle
as both stone and man
wait for the last crumb
and bone to rest
far beyond the tongue
of the sun.

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

nihil

nihil poetry

I fear the same stone of light that you fear. I am the bone and you are the sky. We are earth hidden within the mines of space. Darkness – like a baby – hangs from our necks. If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Pure restless surrender. I fear the pause, the allotted time. It sinks, truthfully. I know we cherish the denial of our times. Like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. The gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that same conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral.

Nothing.

Nihilistic PoEtry