Life as an unfinished page


68

Memory is indeed
the mind’s own theater
we imagine what is real
To us like momentary savor

but the truth is
our mouth and mind
are citadels of cells
who enjoy to err a bit

for miraculous first bread
and ravishing ornament to sense
meetings and departures stick out
like unsteady castles of subjectivity

and meaning is never easily found
in a fallen debris of time’s broken words
symbols, images, and words
they cannot ripen, cannot finally fulfill?

existence then becomes simulation
living a routine of choice and not-choice
I’m moving through my own corridors
of self and do the same thing

only to maintain a sense of security
but the truth is, I am scared
anger is my fears externalized
fear is my anger internalized

and I don’t mean to be a
chemical resurrection, but what if
biology is all I am today?
a mineral celebration of survival

who can only thrive truly
in this theater I create.

I too, am a pause


78

Hanging over pauses
I left language silent
Vanishing like stardust\

A brief vertigo of between
Thought and feeling
A little will of innocence
Running wild like insubstantial
Aesthetics of apparitions neither\

Truly named or published, simply
Verse, left to grow by itself
Secret gardens of untouched clarity\

Forever still in the words between
Messages, in the stanzas
Left clear of actual substance
A voice of alphabets forever drawing
Near, yet ringing from some far off
Distant place, a word-salad\

Of weightless hours of lyrical birth
Transparent for the silence
Of moments empty and sweet\

That could have been filled with anything
Remote and near, poetry dug
Like channels of the fountain of youth
Where circular afternoons prey
In the pretty tributes of eternal mind

The spiritual leftovers of past lives
Spilling over in elusive stars that write
About the light of enormous night
And how theatre became destiny.

Resurrection ritual


58

I search without finding
I write alone
more in love with the Universe

everyday I am alive
I walk through thought
until my shadow is a darkened garden
I walk though suffering
until I bear the pain of all creatures

empathy is my last sanctuary
I feel without ending
I write alone

I am as a crystal willow
A pine tree of water
A sky of unhurried spring
Clouds reflected in the river
Imminent joy pressed me to the

Sun’s invariable wilderness
I search without finding
I write of the luxury of existence

Her bare nude body of burning and singing
the world is a transparent atom
the splendour of a bird
the brightness of a flower
I reached the end of all reflections

A domain of salt, gold, moons
And forests rain in my imagination
I search without finding

pregnant with all the beauty I have witnessed
I travel along the edges of oceans
I search for an instant alive as a bird
aware as a leaf licked by the wind
in love with the tiger color of autumn.

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Letter to final interpretation


30

Like our bodies imprint
Not a sign of how we rejoiced
In the seasons of our youth will remain

The sand will straighten itself
The wind will not comb our hair
Time will not sit still for us
Dates will no longer exist
Our soul will be lost in energy

ii

Nature will rebuild and
The world will close behind us
Aware only of its self-centered drama

The languages our heart knew
Will not be sung in any dreams
The faces we once cherished
Will no longer exist, exactly so
None will help me, for I will be dead

iii

Though did I help the world
That gave me learning grounds?
As the centuries drink the amputated

Routines of generations
We even flew a little, in our prime
Had some rare ideas
Experienced ourselves more fully?
We loved with the wings of everything

iv

As far as I’m concerned
It was enough to be
Dismantled so easily by age

Decline was a precise surgeon
The engineer in my genes
Knew of angels before sunrise
Though in the anonymous paths I tread
I only felt a whiteness above covet me

As if I watched myself knowing

Brevity, mortality, impermanence
So aware of each moment slipping
Until I knew the name of divinity
And it was, already time to let go.

Romantic Autism


53
Today I am a tourist
In romance, her swaying hair
Across my lap
She showed me this long night
And I bit into it

Laughing loudly and aroused
Not for sensation, but for feeling
She showed me the stages of joy

We folded our lives
As we folded laundry together
Ate our meals in complete comfort
The interior of thirsty years
Of suffering, made worth it

In a few months of purest joy
Loving her was like a Jewish legacy
Of an expression of American hope

I could hope I belonged
But romance usually had a way of
Burning my letters at a bonfire
For a muse I couldn’t have
So much color, so much sadness

So many postcards from
The women I believed I loved
Thus I remember your face everywhere

Like a poet infatuated
With the idea of love
Who has some difficulty
Recognising her at “face level”

The Spiritual Body of a Poem


62

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.

61

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59

The White Sunset


36

Standing on the tiptoe
of my universe
I found I had

Nothing but love to offer
While the nature of
Anonymous cruel indifference
Can seem unnameably cold
I admired the ability of it

To make us feel free
Insolent as my fate had been
Greener than the word May

The mast of these afternoons
Only beggared for moderation
And that enraptured simplicity
From which I came
That was enough, and so were

The rest of the years that I was given
at the asylum of the eucalypti
I would rest, and it would be
Wondrous and christening
Like a white sunset.

the tide of being


22

Before the big bang there was
only unity, the unspeakable origin
then uncertain light

created confusion in movement
life has always been
a dream divided
reproduction, independence
and the blood that unites us still

water, trees, fuel
the heat of our skin
we can remember

the forgotten syllables of
origins, even if we didn’t exist
the code is in our soul
to see the world with
spiritual eyes, calm as

unreachable centuries, billions
of years here or there
traveling in galaxies

as far as objectivity can travel
matter and energy interlaced
hands, female and male
in my heart I am never lost
though in my head I have yet

to find the reason for all this
touching the world with my eyes
I am foreigner and
I am familiar, but not truly known.

Starlike Pedestrians


55

The future is intangible
each world leaps ahead of thought
we cannot keep up
ahead of sound
ahead of the night

this world’s lips
kiss ideas not ready to be born
but their time will come
the scarlet tattoo of centuries
like Mars, and new Earths

nothing can prevent survival
not red stars, not pandemics
The future is a prophetic beggar
not asking us if we are alright
but asking if we are willing to risk

to move to a more prosperous town
can change our destiny
to move to a further star
can change our descendants
irrevocably, splinter colonies

choice becomes lineage
fate becomes legacy
destiny becomes the bridge we had to burn
to save the forest

Visions opened after a Human Lifetime


54

No and Yes
We’ve seen it all, this duality
The mind, body

The two syllables of love
If the world is real
We will have died
If the world is unreal
We will have lived

It’s the cleft between
All beginnings, and all ends
The male and female part of us

That speaks through all significant others
Talking about to us
What does it say?
Words are unreal
Experience evaporates

Silence rests all speech
Smiles foretell all energy
The exchange that does not end

With a you, or with a me
Unreality of form
Turning into spirit
Reality of spirit
Spilling into space-time

No and Yes
Free finally of
Exclamations, pauses and questions

Free to dizzily wander
The whirlwind and the flow
Fluid like there is no tomorrow
In the plaza of the mind
What is indeed possible?

Language like water
Between your breasts
Thrives for symbols

Objects & apparitions
Wood and stone
So much to commit to conversation
And so much a silent dialogue.

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The four points of the compass meet in the future


94

A final shadow closes my eyes
Unchaining my soul in a mortal hour
But beauty will never die

Life will spread from star to star
Like a magical pollen, and I will whisper
Poems for immortal hours
Descendants carry God in their hearts

Just the goodness of nature
Memory of love, war, swimming flame
Of seasons, struggle, sacrifice

Burning into the future with a will
For creation, for renewal, for innovation
Your body is in the memory of my bones
But these bones will be washed into the water

Like dust, as will yours, but progress
Is a melody of sunshadow layered
From mind to mind until consciousness

As in the whiteness of still water
Carries forth flowers that never forget
A respiration of intelligence
A light of quantum conversation that

Is answered by galactic eyes
Evolution stripping the futility
Of her limitation of symbol

Her immaturity of imagination
The goal being a written silence that sings
A tongue of rain, a sign of the reverse of life
A big-bang of terraces at dawn
A lonely place where we all meet.

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But It will not leave the memory


85

The cold lips of the night
Kiss you in Rome, brighten me
In Montreal, where I am today

The column of last grief
The vaporous thought that lingers
A while floating into the cosmos
There is no reason behind errors
Only destiny, time’s loving

Her knowing oneself alive
How to know oneself living
How to forget one’s own knowing

The half-open eyelids of day
Thirst in solitude for divinity
A kind of transparency of hope
That no death can sever
Only dawns bandage the dark

But the wounds that made our heart fresh
Are as easily bled as eyes opened
I open my eyes, to you, to the universe
It’s the same world of repetition
But something inside of me has changed.

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I exist in a room abandoned by language


27

I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields

Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent

Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound

To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams

The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one

Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.

Last Slope of Summer


21

There is a stillness that catches me
In middle of the last hours of Summer
Catching me from the inside

Adrift, in the memory of haunted
Centuries that are no more
I hear low voices in the horizon
Chanting syllables of dust
Nothing moves but Autumn’s approach

Time is lethargic and artificial
I can feel the low sky vibrate
Inside my heart, each hour feeling

Larger, more spacious and more fleeting
In an acceleration where memory
Is lost in a whirlwind of sensations
And I promiscuously must harden myself
To survive these faceless moments

I have unlived today’s suffering
Until I escaped memory itself
And the idea that I was conquered by
Mortal hours that had no light to return.

I climb the corridors of stars


20

I’ve felt the sunstone on my face
from rivers of ancient poetry
tall architecture of cold stone
the calming course of time that runs
full circle, like an enchanted realm
of a single presence surging the waves
the trees how they move in the wind
and crystal fields of butterflies
fragments of mineral, oxygen, pollen, fruit
I travel the body of nature, the only
body or soul I have ever known
beneath a yellow star, haunted
by the beauty of our parallel rites
the reign of spring green that knows
no decline, the synergy of oracles
that chant in the night, or how
the hummingbird burns, for the flames
past the altar, over the dreams
where a skirt of pure water waits
on the lap of the last sunstones
diamonds, rubies, emeralds
until I travel the length of rivers
back to my home, transported
from water to water, light to light
star to star, forever healed where all
is revealed, in mountains, in forests
in the stillness of a single total being.

Touch


19

My hands
Serenade your cheeks with a lifetime
Of devotion that never wavered
Saving each other, we were touched
Immortally, like souls the same
Frequency, my hands
Opening the curtains of your secrecy
Like butter, to cloud your nudity with
Cooling rain, your lips with
The kisses that we invent to sanction
Our years together, which drip
With the water of our mortality
Our bodies are spiritual vessels
There is no doubt, our faith
Invested marriage for working together
Each hour we spent on each other
Came back in ways we couldn’t even imagine.

Freedom


18

The architecture of silence stretches
across whispers of escaped souls
I get up blindly to pray for internal rapture

in the blood-brain barrier
everything is dark, there is no exit
only the variables of lives and lifetimes
the routines of existence slowly
debating semantics, labels, information

processing, an endless churning
of how to become more intelligent collectively
the architecture of water is this

that life perpetuates itself and evolves
so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible
how long will it take the streets
to lead to the stars, for the cities to hover
under water in the depths of oceans?

we’ll have to see how the mechanical birds
how they find beings just like us
or how artificial intelligence may be

our descendants, our ways seems so
cruel and old and painfully repetitive.

Forever Arriving


The world changes
While we are stuck
Looking at each other
Lost in a sympathy of meeting

If two look out into space together
Are they then transported
As far as eyes have seen?
In some bright blindness of the stars?

To love is it to undress our names
To no longer be people but
Purely, male and female
Two mirrors of forms

Drunk in the plaza of biology
To turn eternity into empty hours
Ferocious memories of being a couple
Minutes in beloved prisons
That’s how the world changes.

Descendant Divinity


17

Time with no help from us
Has placed you exactly where
You need to be, for no two moments

Are ever alike, or have the same quality
Of yesterday or tomorrow, today is
The silence on the snow
A visitor in your mind
Of alien truths that are not so foreign

ii

Space is a sleeping woman
Full of luxuries and stars
Love is the wandering pollen

That is invented day after day
We are all like nomads half sleeping
That haven’t quite accepted
Their place in the design
The story that is like a shared myth

iii

A narrative until the world ends
But worlds are born and die every day
Invisible to our eyes, but our hearts

Are spread thin like the darkness of history
The history that is the future
And the love that is simultaneously
All our ancestors, and all our descendants.

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Screen Shot 09-05-14 at 07.39 PM

Celebration


Waltz of the polar lights

Listen to me as I listen to the rain
Listen to me as one listens to the footsteps
Of the sun outshining other suns
Without listening or looking but being

With eyes open inward, at divinity
Where divinity is everywhere
And nature is a dynasty of divine everything
With all five senses awake and

Crown and thunder and golden bird
Magically in tune with the inner language
Of empathy and pure identification
That I am you and you are a part of me

A light footstep of syllables that never ends
One continuous language, one love transferring life
From body to body, time to time
Until air and water, words and matter

All live on like this moment of memory
With somebody remembering what was once
But a clamour of history, a spark at the edge
Of a universe, teaming with so many forms of life.

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