quotidian epic

Timeless apple

Hinted
then ripple
of white gasp
the entire orb
of inspiration

then the clouds
the sun hiding
in total light

the task is to use a daub of paint
to depict a mistake
or a river of thought
or pain eating the soul
as if it were soft bread

I sense a feeling
empty of emptiness
it is full of invisibility

the irony is
the instant is like blood
never seen but intimately wrapped
a cut an explosion a gash perhaps
and the world is all red without words

like an apple
timeless
on the table.

 

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

killing time

Killing Time

 
 
 

 

Feel the beating of the prison heart? Time deals the future as cheap junk. I’m an addict just like you. No need to run, there’s no escaping. It’s useless to be optimistic or pessimistic about it. Everybody wants to change it, but who’s ever watching it? It is a remarkable thing to be a body. A body of evidence, who knows how many millions of years of evidence. The evidence points to mediocrity. If you have ever witnessed a murder, then you must know how I feel when I witness human nature. It’s atrocious. Everything is tangled up inside, confused by language, made insipid with repetitive thoughts and drives, full of sadness if you want to hear the truth. The valiant acts of art? Muddled self-pity, if you ask me. Art is a sweet kind of poison, but it is still toxic. Life, culture, art, all of it once made me sick to the bone. I am learning to deal with it now. A feeling of disgust is merely a form of disguised utopian mentality. If existence is unbearable, we are assuming or hoping for some kind of alternative worthier reality that is being spoiled by the current state of affairs. But there isn’t any and if there is, what makes us suppose we will be the ones to solve the conundrum when so many others have failed in the course of history. We wait for our time to pass, often fixated with a future state of well-being. It’s a compulsion but it does the job. It kills time. There is just too much of it and we’re running out of ideas. Take this loathsome piece of prose or art or self-pity; whatever you call it. I’m just killing time.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

two words


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.


they are all
that needs to be said
by a poet…
 

 

 

  I exist…

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

First goddamn poem of the year

drunk new years

I’m tired or writing
the new year
or what’s left
someone said last night
that the academic
circle
of sociology and economics
was shifting
I didn’t know a thing
even after all the books
I read or bought.
All I have is a scotch
and the lazy poems
of an ex-german poet
that lived in Los Angeles
plus the
40% plus
that keeps me awake
through the long nights
of the wasted
unneeded
– such a beautiful word-
the unneeded
whispers
of the drunk
man.

Children of nowhere

Those rotten truths and the atrophy of written words

life is outside the inferno of cadaverous literature

the ever-increasing waste of past thoughts

attempting impossible resurrections

                            free the world from fossilization

allow it to burn and dismiss its ashes

our best experiences are never contained

            they roam beyond the frontiers of definition

close those covers of inky nothingness

            step into the bare unadulterated flux

                             mend with the unknown

Flee from cages of routine and metropolitan nonsense

recognize the hollow of every day

            reject the veil of prospects and careers:

                              usurpers of wonder and transformation

children of nowhere

            creators of ambiguity

exorcise the daemons of logic

                             celebrate your insanity!

 

 

 

Go back to Beyond Language

The day the universe was reborn

    
Why keep writing in linear and logical fashion?
Writing is the outgrowth of thinking.
It should reflect the features of the human mind, with its desultory and fluctuating discourse.

When the scope of the possible has been exhausted you may turn left where a gigantic mountain separates the desert from the snow. Haven’t you felt all along that lurking behind every monotonous experience an explosive energy awaits to come forth? It is as if a powerful surge of lightning remains dormant in a recondite quarter of our consciousness; behind every yawn of boredom a rapacious thunder of delight seeks an entrance into our deaf lives.
    
Follow the rain into the heart of the storm. Then you will be ready for the revival of the new, the rediscovery of surprise.  As long as there is room for the unknown, as long as red-headed ants surprise you with wonder and interrupt the tyrannical flow of thoughts — there is hope.
    
I had begun walking in search of meaning and not far down the road I stumbled across an insurmountable obstacle: mortality. All labors are in vain if they seek permanence. This did not stop me, if I should live in a world where impermanence governs every particle of matter then my actions had to resign any sort of structure, my words had to abandon order. I had to accept the chaos of uncertainty and resume the search. No longer looking for a perennial philosophy but merely for temporary wisdom. For the most profound questions I never looked in books; I was lucky to experience them in other more fundamental objects: in direct contact with the phantasmagorical landscapes of nature or the silent dark of outer space.
Sinking in rocky jaws
Patagonian mountains
Lakes as seas
near heaven’s azure
the universe reborn
million lights at night
transform every thing
     Living in constant disbelief I could but interpret life as total dream, the whole of existence appeared equally inconstant as the contents of any bizarre dream. Yet I am sure that defining the cosmos by the anthropocentric analogy of dream doesn’t come close to what is really happening — reality is much wilder and exuberant than our speculations. Here and there I found evidence to believe that the hardest task is change: inner transformation. We are never the Archimedean unmovable point around which all things change and evolve — we are similarly watery being flowing from one state to another. Allowing things to change within you, permitting things to grow and decay inside was surely difficult. Getting used to this internal impermanence requires great courage. The reward is priceless: the art of transformation had become the real art of living.
     At night things settle down. The pure transparency of water is swallowed by the black of night and slowly above a blurry streak of light convinces us of the utter strangeness of our condition. The Milky Way, our home galaxy, becomes the symbol of our astonishment.  In those prolonged moments of silence things are perceived differently, we are free to just be as rocks are silently existing at the bottom of a blue lake.
Is it so necessary to formulate our wonder and our wishes?
Immobile (time)
Serene (space)
a rock for ages
deep below
in abysmal Zen
Sometimes I refuse to endure the recurrent agony of dreaming my death. In times like those:
Deserts become too desolate
Mountains intimidating monsters
Cities caging of beasts
Oceans too restless
Home insipid
My grave a terrifying
       inferno
I can only live and die
within my despair
My daemon: despair. My savior: wonder. My meditation: inking a few random words. My sleep: sweet forgetfulness as the rock that rests unperturbed.
I have to ask, is The Search a consequence of despair, or despair a consequence of The Search?