Sunday, June 26, 2016

The child who thinks about fairies and believes in them
Acts like a sick god, but like a god nonetheless,
For although affirming the existence of what doesn't exist,
He knows how it is that things exist, which is by existing,
He knows that existence exists and cannot be explained,
He knows there is no reason for anything to exist,
And he knows that to exist is to occupy a point.
What he doesn't know is that thought is not a point.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Ah! They want a light that's better than the sun's!
They want meadows greener than these!
They want flowers more beautiful than these which I see!
For me this sun, these meadows and these flowers are enough.
But if they weren't enough,
What I would want is a sun more sun than the sun,
Meadows more meadows than these meadows,
Flowers more flowers than these flowers --
Everything more ideal than what it is, in the same way and same manner!
That thing over there more there than it is!
Yes, sometimes I weep for the perfect body that doesn't exist.
But the perfect body is the body that's the most body of all,
And the rest is the dreams of men,
The myopia of those who see little,
And the desire to sit felt by those who don't know how to stand.
All of Christianity is a dream of chairs.

And the soul is what doesn't appear,
The perfect soul is the one that never appears:
The soul that is made out of body,
The absolute body of things,
Existing -- absolutely real -- without shadows or errors,
The exact and entire coincidence of a thing with itself.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Outside where the trees
Are rustling to a standstill
The only thing I see
Beyond them is the ocean.

It is intensely blue,
Flashing here and there,
And in its lazy wave
There is a sleepy sighing.

But neither I nor the ocean
Sleeps on this gentle day,
And it calms while it advances,
And I don't think and I'm thinking.

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?