Monday, February 24, 2014

At long last... no doubt about it...
Here it is!
Madness has definitely entered my head.

My heart exploded like a two-bit bomb,
And the shock went up my spine to my head...

Thank God that I'm crazy!
That everything I did has come back to me as garbage
And like spit in the wind has splattered all over my face!
That everything I was has gotten tangled around my feed,
Like packing cloth to pack nothing at all!
That everything I thought tickles my throat
And makes me want to vomit, although I ate nothing!
Thank God, since this, as for drunkenness,
Is a solution.

How about that, I found a solution, via my stomach!
I discovered a truth, I perceived it with my intestines!

Transcendental poetry? I've done that too!
Great lyrical raptures have already paid me a visit!
The organization of poems by general topics divided into subtopics?
That's no novelty either.
I feel like vomiting, and like vomiting my own self...
I feel a nausea such that, if I could eat the universe to throw it up into the sink, I'd eat it
With a struggle, but it would be for a good purpose.
At least it would be for a purpose.
Such as I am I have no purpose and no life...

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

But at least, from my bitterness over what I'll never be,
There remains the hasty writing of these verses,
A broken gateway to the Impossible.
But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears,
Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling
The dirty laundry that's me -- with no list -- into the stream of things,
And I stay at home, shirtless.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

I'm beginning to know myself. I don't exist.
I'm  the gap between what I'd like to be and what others have made of me,
Or half this gap, since there is also life . . .
That's me. Period.
Turn off the light, shut the door, and get rid of the slipper noise in the hallway.
Leave me alone in my room with the vast peace of myself.
It's a shoddy universe.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Between the tree and seeing it,
Where is the dream?
What bridge's arch observes God
More? . . . And I am downcast,
Not knowing if the bridge's curve
Is the horizon's . . .

Between life and what is living,
Toward what side does the river flow?
Trees with leaves laden,
Between Treeness and all this, what's the thread?
Doves in flight, is the dovecote
Ever to their right, or is it real?

God is a huge Interval,
But between what and what? . . .
Between my speech and speechlessness,
Do I exist? Who is it sees me?
I stray . . . And the dovecote up above,
Is it around the dove, or to one side?

Sunday, November 3, 2013

As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair
And see the sun shining bright on the leaves,
  I will not ask for more.
What better thing could destiny give me
Than the sensual passing of life in moments
  Of ignorance like this?
Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
  And forever not knowing, we ponder.
Foreign to us, capacious nature
Unrolls fields, opens flowers, ripens
  Fruits, and death arrives.
I'll only be right, if anyone is right,
When death at last confounds my mind
  And I no longer see,
For we cannot find and should not find
The remote and profound explanation
  For why it is we live.
Wise is the one who does not seek.
The seeker will find in all things
  The abyss, and doubt in himself.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Above the truth reign the gods,
Our science is a flawed copy
   Of the certainty with which
   They know the Universe exists.

Everything is everything,
And higher are the gods, who science
   Cannot know, but we should
   Praise them like the flowers.

Visible to our higher sight,
They're as real as flowers are real,
   And on their calm Olympus
   They are another Nature.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Whatever the case, it would have been better not to be born,
For no matter how interesting it is at every moment,
Life sometimes hurts, jades, cuts, bruises, grates,
Makes us want to scream, to jump, to wallow, to walk
Out of every house and every logic and off every balcony,
And to become savage and die among trees and things forgotten,
Among collapses and hazards and absence of tomorrows,
And all this, O life, should be something closer to what I think,
To what I think or what I feel, whatever that is.

I cross my arms on the table, I lay my head on my arms,
And I need to want to cry, but I don't know where to find the tears.
No matter how hard I try to pity myself, I don't cry,
My soul is broken under the curved finger that touches it . . .
What will become of me? What will become of me?