Delirium of Images, Sounds, Music

there are these messages
tattooed to the neurons
that I used to believe belong to me
they are everywhere, shimmering
with the electric light of souls
some call it “chi”, we are fragments
of something coherent

vibrant and creative
there are these messages
of madness for discourse
and theater, drama, philosophy
it’s the poetry in our lives
that matters, the relationships
the discovery of new languages

like mathematics, music, mandarin
like the way a new lover can awaken us
there are these messages
I often hear, in the give-and-take
between friends, family, romantic playmates
I enter and respect the foliage
of these letters, hunt them, like writing in the sun

or drinks in the shadows
so that when I am feeling a little bit empty
I can construct and deconstruct them
the fire of my passion
the names of water
when I close my eyelids
I can see the conjurations

and remember the pauses of speech
that were in effect, murmurs of poetry
the body-language of my spirit
a fleeting allegory of truer names
labels that did not disturb
the purity and symmetry of those things and people.

art credit goes to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-women-scorned-Dark-99965783

Footsteps of Silence in Me

starving for poetry, lyrical and suave
hands and lips of wind
heart of water
rhymes of eucalyptus
stanzas of rose buds
camp grounds of the infinite
studded round words of clouds

syntax of born every day anew
ruby paragraphs, I rub my eyes
the sky walks the land
and sunsets dance under this knife
starving for poetry, lyrical and sweet
what can sustain nightfall
clarity of half-open omens

words as light let loose on lost gardens
shivering for self-absorbed moments
starving for poetry, am I alone in this?
hushed fountains of beauty
edges blur, lime becomes black
memory becomes a bare white necessity
writing has made the world more dream-like

less credible, destiny seems just
a music without measurement
in time’s passing through circumstance
I see them outside of me, my life passing
within me, like an architecture of choice
but there is no choice, I am myself the circumstance
I am myself the poetry, and only silence

lines the grown with candles, only she
can extinguish all this, and then she does.

SECRET LETTERS TO DAYBREAK

My favorite font would have to be, poetry
Each letter is a gem that haunts
The very notion of memory & attachment
Dark fountain splash cursive

In the breeze of cherished fantasies
The lonely streets of personal dreams
My favorite alphabet would have to be, poetic
The poetic vocabulary, I write without

Knowing the outcome, like a kind
Of experience of entwined sounds
Or water embracing the shores
Or, disembodied soul sick of duality

Craving the original unity before
We had personalities, lovers, children
My favorite time would have to be, writing
In the middle of the night, naked

Literally and figuratively, able to be sensitive
A symbol flirting with the Absolute
A myth-making fiction of a flaming letter
These phrases of burning vowel-shaped-tombs

Where I can belong to Eternity, privately
Where everything is sculptured as it
Pleases me, and I am a part of Free-will
Like nothing else, that is the bliss of poems

The purification of the fever of forms
Where everything is mutable and dissolves
For the good of the white canvas that are
The saints, animals, laughing intangible skies

That are the wandering hours of my outlying districts
Where I run among the villagers, and plant signs
And move in the dark, and speak with you always
Yet there is no light here for the luster of your eyes.

Art Credits goes to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Daybreak-453040055

Nuptial Silence-Transparency

My body hears the body of my wife
She is pure spirit where music is real
She is the silence of an idea
That floats, flutters, lands in mind
Nirvana as Samasara, Samsara as Dharma

I draw these letters in to me
Like lost ghosts, left-over dreams
The pollen that blows them into me
I take as my interior flowers
My body feels their fragrance against

My lips and nose, I am their sunlight
Their water below, we are merged
Connected, embracing like a quiet well
The bucket of my vocabulary
Is simple, as a moment with a hummingbird

An exclamation without a nod or a reply
A sweet wind from all compass points
The light and dust when stars have burnt-out
My neurons whisper the poems of the present
Like a tortured river that cannot stop

A floodgate that is always on
A silence that is chiseled by God for God alone
Like an intricate erotic watch of time.

Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Nuptial-66055316

Notes of Midday Meeting with Water

A poet’s milk & bread is invisible
A writer’s images are never finished

We gaze without worldly rewards
Like a monk, our meditation is the pen

Where knowing is no different from dreaming
With friends, like final dialogues

Or the conjunction of stars nobody cares about
Distances between our names, and the thing

Are abolished, we require strong philosophies
To continue, without realistic fantasies

Strong solar songs that aren’t diminished
By lovers leaving us, or the rent being late

When history sleeps, we remember
Here with creative love, a few things suffice

Hermits to a thorny corrupt planet
We make do with anemic hope buried

Beneath manuscripts of our feverish alchemy
The relations which govern hymn and speech

We unearth with curved-word and sacred vows
To ourselves, to all our conscience-mirror that liquifies

The spirit process of our melting
Until we taste the very Resurrection
Of ourselves silent, in what we do, what we create.

Photography attributed to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/water-16649646

Light Builds Temples on the Sea with Mere Words

In my animal belly, into the belly of time
I swear prophecies, and make melodies out of
Melancholy, I avenge God and poor fathers
With armed lyrics, assault on secrets
With fingernails, frantic for a Divinity
Lost in language, in sanskrit manuscripts
In Mandarin idioms, I hunt for these idols

Behind words, in between nouns
In the devotional songs of women unremembered
I beg the many beings that meet in a word
The worlds that cover narratives
The brink of nothing that the writer must uncover
In my biological neurons, into the future where history

Is lost forever, at that point of extinction
I am gifted the existential proper nouns
The streaking supermind verbs that fulfill
The eruption of white music, this spring-water
Hymns among the ruins, sentences to represent
The suffering of sentience, these momentary truths

Mimicked forever by broken statues gnawed by light
And beings, partial and hungry-eyed
I stretch my senses to hundreds of millions of living planets
I hear their call, heavy with the minutes of
Politics, mating, wealth-accumulation and self-discovery
Eternity’s brimming cup of art, sex, sun-shivering love.

Photo Courtesy: http://birthday29.deviantart.com/art/–468529981

Poetry Deserves to be your Dream

Somewhere a solitary prisoner, like me
Begins to create the words of new dialogue
To appease some slice of soul
And if I no longer exist, you do

By doing what you love, writing
These citizens in private flight
A ritual of fire, guitar, tablecloth
Poetry is the easiest thing

It writes itself, like mouthfuls of sunlight
The poem creates a loving order
Executing words for fields of poetic justice
There is no room for nostalgia

Creation is a slave to change
Everything must yield to new worlds
And you know it as well as I do:
Every poem is fulfilled at the poet’s expense

Fountains of transparency, nothing like music
Will speak through my mouth, only
A sensitive center of a counter-point of blood
Where history woke to move, poetry came into being.

Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Aqualegia-468477784

SONG DAWNS THE TURRETS OF YOUR MIND

Words, towards a poem
I have profited from them, quarter-hour wrenched
From these hands, survivors of poverty
Enter and exit, hope
On the corridors of Earth
From the charred tree of language
From noplace to now-here
Lost, between the good mornings and goodnights
Words, as an umbilical cord with faith
They are all made-up, I know it
Bibles, sutras, mantras, poems and history
Faceless divinities, abstractions
In the mineral belly of imaginations
The Modern poet must dare futility
To find a way out: the poem
To speak for the sake of speaking
In tongues desperate and incredulous
Hours of the somersault, myth, savior
So I spill these phrases, syllables, stars
That turn to a fixed center on paper, screen, eyes
Indelible letters that no one can dictate
Until I ignite and burn this dreamy gold to nothing
This is how poetry exists, how love exists.