The ghost writers


17

Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Salzburg-s-unicorn-499959719

But as for me, the smell of books
Is perhaps enough, my bride
The gracious literature

Who does not threaten to leave
Or say I do not make enough gold
The holy emblem of this art

Whose pen is its own reward
A kind of artistic altruism
That plunges itself without restraint

On a canvas, spelling “freedom”
Over and over until
My heart might warm divinity

From the cold world’s touch
But ah, the libraries are lonely places
And the authors must fight

Lofty ghosts, that swim in the brain
For to write is to sacrifice, I know
It well, so find delight, go

In cheaper things, more easy investments
For this is a passion not for the meek
And this is a love that is not
As fickle as the illiterate barbarians out there.

The seeds of poetry


11

The seeds of poetry

I write with the lips
of eternity, the passage
of naked centuries move in me
history’s whole body
expresses itself in my writing
the incandescent center
Of soul in language
Of literature on the brink

Hungering for incarnations
I wait for the arrival of
Transcendence in metaphor
The sublime traction of syntax
Paragraphs heavy as trees
With golden birds, cursive
Mischief, glyphs of mandarin and Korean

The fragile bride of words
Is in my hands, I’m a beggar
Of flowers and pauses
And green humming vitality
In verse, I am the wandering roots
Of linguistic music hoping
For the stars, petrified of the silence

I hold so dear and sacred
In-between poems, the excavated
Galleries of legends and symbols
The myths I live in fill me
But they do not fulfill me
Not like the carbonized drift of
Free-verse, not like the vagabond
Architectures of poem-magic.

The Pleasure of Poetry II


4

What is poetry?
Poetry is a painting
That requires not logic
Or sequence, it is
A painting heard but not seen

It is the vowels that are
Fully oval, that heave learned
To find inspiration
In tragedy, poetry
Is a reset button in the brain

It is magic and dreaming
Half-awake, in the author’s
Trance, it is the fragrance
Of verse, brightly lit
On a surface of pain

It is the white page
Begging for a lesson from faith
It is not rap, it is not spoken-word
It is not clever lyrics
Poetry is aesthetic, intelligent

Intellectual, asking us to
Redefine who we are
At every breath, it does not
Simply mimic, or repeat
Poetry is that life

That we could not live
That we did not dare to realize
In everyday course of events
Poetry is the mirror
To the inner life, and door

To the very psyche of the author
It does not require audiences
Fans, likes, or even acknowledgement
It’s the journals of the Earth
The earth that is never dead

But will keep writing
As long as the human heart beats.

One Last Chance


69

I’ve buried with open eyes
My heart in the world
To see nothing really
And to see love clearly

I’ve deserted language
For feeling, it’s the only
Truth that matters to me
The foliage of clear identity

The fallen reality of empathy
I’ve buried with open eyes
My heart in the world
So that my soul might

Not go extinct, it’s light weight
Pressed against the winter morning
Like an anonymous conspiracy
Of seeing beauty even in decay

And the pulse of syllables
Laughing even in monotony
I’ve burned with open eyes
My heart in the world

So that i might sleepwalk kindly
For the rest of my brief years
If only to love a bit more
And learn to think of myself

A bit less, so far as I know
It’s working, goodbye then
Charred language, scattered vows
Promises of desires better left

For the precipitation of music
The arpeggio of sighs.

Last voice of the organics


44

i

There is a river around
Me of love, a writing of fire
A slab of jade on my back
A testament to the love

Of what we do, not why we do it
It’s like God working through
Us, or a snowstorm in August

ii

Or the circular days finding
A year of extraordinary fantasy
That’s art, and that’s also life
Relationships, mutual influences
The energy behind a book

The process of alphabets
Converting on a brain
Unifying incoherent symbols

iii

A language of creation
How birds and stars can meet
And how creatures evolve
There is a river of sound
It’s the narrative of all stories

Of the very act of story-telling
It’s the inheritance of millions
Of years of effort, to grow

And to understand truly
What it means to be human
And now, it’s all changing.

The Lost Sunstones


40

I’ve swallowed
Glances buried deep
In the heart of soul
Between strangers

Who will never speak
Again with their eyes
My mind transfixed with sunstones
I’ve loved the nuances

Of a life that passes
Too quickly, all of the names
Are gone, all those doors
To my soul are gone

I’ve read books that
Knelt at the feet of dreams
While time folds my brain
Into a quantum piece

Of energy, what I was
Is going, ripening towards
The future that
Does not belong to me

It belongs to you
I’ve swallowed visions
Of a world not governed
By blood-thirsty schedules

Of minds not conditioned
To be slaves, to feed the profit
Of the few, and to lead dull lives
How much of the routine
Can you survive when
Your inner being is
In a quiet state of famine?

Bouquet on an old wave of silence


19

I sang into an invisible Country
I called it Home, breathless
For the future and poetry
I sang a canto in stuttered
Hope, that filters through
Years full of sunshine
Pillars of sacrifice and people
People who unknowingly
All contributed to the same aim
In a harmony of music and energy
I sang into a moment, that kept
On being timeless, a transcendent breach
Into the clean air of worlds
I stood and sang with the voice
Of Silence, I wanted the diamond
Pivot bright to bathe me in
Transparency and wonder
So that the luminous pages
And on my knees, I might
Whisper something of a lost divinity
I sang for all the creatures who had died
For principles, ideals, survival.

I have traded nights of sleep


13

I have dreamed of accomplishment
though for a length of work
I cannot say that it was just
sacrifice itself is an art
Lo, have I discovered
how to love more
than a packet of ambition
to do good is more fulfilling
than to profit from others
the vanity of things perishes
but the ripeness of life
always continues, like
the youth who never change
they just exhibit new faces
and new dreams for humanity.

A living mathematics


12

Life is a mob of music
the sky and memories
full of bodies and wood
the feeling of watching

others, as if we existed
separately, the virtualization
of difference, the illusion
of diversity, the impression

of individualization, but
all the notes move together
in a cadence that is a pattern
where all the variables follow

predictable algorithms
it doesn’t take a computer to
see, life is a volume of designed
potential, impatient for itself

to manifest, for a brief vistas
of glory and effort, to simulate
something of the journey
and evolve a kind of ambiguity

of the summation of experience
which is invariably limited
to conditions imposed upon
the manifestation, and the living

would be speaking
in a kind of daze to itself
sounds over space, that join
to form some brief relevance

like a page of Euclid, a
trajectory of something that
once seemed important or
at least a step forward

In the diction without
A manuscript, a semantics
Of how to breath and what
To want, and how to possess

The moment better, as if
We didn’t all want the same things.

Octopus Poem


59

There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search

That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for

The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth

Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it

But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind

On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment

Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments

OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.

The Young Brain


52

In memory of the
Germination of words
I held dreams to the
Mansions of meaning

Remembering that myth
Permeated culture, a million
Notes within symbols
Hidden between the context

And the semantics
Of the dawn-wet architecture
Of how to think the same things
Each generation has thought

The important questions were
Immutable, a meeting place
Where all minds wound up
A municipal garden of intelligence

The corners and plaza where
Feelings, instincts and awareness
Intersect, like lightning
And the words meant nothing

They were only a bare minimum
Translation of experience
And experience wasn’t much
But a simulation of variables

An algorithm of sense
The salt and pepper of pulse-beats
Of time, but how the present
Was as untouchable and intangible
As ever, like a child who never ages.

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http://www.deviantart.com/art/Glitter-491028440

I Came Here


50

I came here
As I write these lines
Not as a poet, preacher, prophet
But at random, an explorer
Of language, this first
Invention, I find it very fine

Finer than many of our
New things, I embrace
The lineage of poet-saints
And eat the mystic rhetoric
For breakfast, all to have a

Feast of the mind, a daybreak
Of the soul, that is not
Contrived by economic murmur
The first light, the dispersion
Of the birds makes me feel free

Like the music behind verse
I came here
As I write these lines
As a simple fool & observer
Careful to maintain my silence

In this world of propaganda
Careful to maintain my purity
In these times of great corruption.

On the Ascendancy of Bitterness


I can lecture on the darkness
I’ve tasted shadows like burnt milk
I can lecture on the shadow

I’ve tasted her tongue-dried appetite
The way she cowers in fear
For what is new, in confronting change
I am older now, more fragile
Being had, enjoying how love decays

I’ve grown simpler in these hours
Dying, a bit each day
Though I admire great things that

Can somehow outlive their maker
Even if they have a false shine
As most human things do
And have a tinge of exaggerated
Self-importance, their relatively silly grandeur

I can lecture on the cruelty of men
And the sadism of women
Who care more for clan and religion

Than any real human goodness
We live in ignorant times
And the world is growing more illiterate
Each year, but that is not my affair
The disgrace of catalyst has yet to unfold
And how I shun the self-righteousness
Of the young, what they don’t know yet….

To Name is to Create


36

I draw these letters
Alphabets I was taught
The day draws its images
The night will blow them over
Forever, they are mere words

Writing in the sand
Symbols do not return
They are invisible
For the rest of years
No one will read

Poems left unpublished
No one will read
Novels burnt before
Marketing, but writing
Is my way out, my music

And my bread, the milk
And wine of my loneliness
So what am I to do?
These poems sharpen
My emotions, they love me

Across the night
Where I am but a ghost
In the conjunction of stars
I drew these letters on
A white canvas, they are

More me than anything
Else I have or will own
They know me better
Than the women who come
And go in my life

I will tell them my secrets
Poetry has set fire
To all poems, but I am that
Living fire, I am that warmth
Of a thousand glorious sunsets.

beautiful dolphin jumping from shining water

Between Silence and Music


72

I will defy the movement of language
With syllables soft before the snow
For Autumn in the fewest chosen words
Along lines of simple alphabets

In the palm of my listening
I will observe you walk as a poem
Skips across ethereally this earth
With colors and bodies of Christmas

An instantaneous impression of beauty
I will sing a lullaby to the irreproachable sky
And kiss the poem-greeting letters
That dissolve as a soul among the trees

And the centre of music
That is a living expression of the times
Today the sun comes out in your poem
And I listen for the poem I will write in reply

I will be a hero of a recluse today, again
With an inner smile of jewel-pointed clarity
That the imagination is a universal thing
The night’s sheerness of black gardens

A voice from which religions spring
Spiritual movement completes itself
In an intuitive release of meaning
A letting go of the sadness of having come

And gone, like death, poetry takes me there
As a river of music, entering my blood
Chilling me with a serotonin symphony
The joy of being here, the glances and reflections

Of existence, mirroring poetry
Between silence and music
The snow and sun, men and women
The rain and drums stalk my fantasies.

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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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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.

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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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.

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.

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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Migration in a summer of lovely language


Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Brinkburn-Priory-478920570

9

These words have survived separations
Faces I can no longer remember of loved ones
Poetry has transcended my decades

Spacious and fluent like a last reminder
Of why truth is no longer as important
As beauty, inner beauty of a spiritual quality
Alphabets now shelter this candle
This life that was my hopes and dreams

These most intimate self-deceptions
Wildest faith of wonderful illusions
For a moment still I am there

With moons and roses, aware of nothing
But the shine of creativity on our inner cheek
The mineral blossoms and lotus of our imagination
It’s pure there to write like drunken water
In a light of its own color, reflecting the pauses

Silences, spaces in-between relationships and solitude
That was the best quality of the life I lived.

On the decline of literacy


“People don’t realize how a man’s whole life can be changed by one book.”
― Malcolm X

72

All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem

written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity

unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate

plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests

like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because

they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work

was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence

while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them

and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon

state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were

the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.

DIVINE BROTHEL


Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.
~ Virginia Woolf

64

in the brothel of dialogue
i am embraced by you
for a brief fleeting moment I am you

the nouns sway exultant
ready to hop out of your smiling mouth
like butterfly poetry of love
without condition, & unconditional

pieced by the light of a new world
specks utopic ascent and AI serendipity
what language makes possible

the fury that is quantum computing
enhancement, augmentation, transference
but how late is it always for love
the love that binds us, weighs us up

to lovely meridians, hypnosis, overmind
and eyes that melt with a thousand tears
for bliss that I hardly could imagine

in the brothel of relationship I am a freebie
for storms that stretch like diamond-oceans
ready to be made supplicant by the universe
in earnest gratitude of our entire being

we no longer know where our shore is
that path that was marked by divine poets
who brought silence like an oracle

to the dying world of politics
in the brothel of howling salvation
we make love to our humanity
unable to escape it, incapable to transform it

we suffer ourselves in our symbolism
the cadences and voices of centuries
waiting for the hour when our love echoes

in sunlit shadows of the orange blossoms
of destiny, like children of mars, sisters of summer
that could go on, if the earth ever was defeated.

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/cinnamon-471665012

Flutes of Light


39

we’ve retold the stories
of our lives like prehistory
so many times we forgot the white morning

or the gulls that drove us
to listen to traces of infinity
we become our own museums
sort of broken accounts of what

happened to us, a thousand photos later
we still can’t tell you the truth
about ourselves, that’s second-guessing

or the lack of objectivity with self
the sun leans low on the trees
of our youth, it passes faster
than you can name your old favorite songs

driving home, the moon draws close
we left our city lights, hoping
to become somebody we could respect

i love’ed you all day, all days
and felt the intimate street lights
bathe me against all my worries
which seem in retrospect, a bit petty

heat won’t leave the pavement
until night is almost over
and we’ll do it over all again

for the last freeway of summer
for leaving all the lights on
just to see you from the corner of my eyes.

38

SONG DAWNS THE TURRETS OF YOUR MIND


5

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.

LOWS BETWEEN MANUSCRIPTS


108

I have written to the heart in you
Re-wrote it several times
Read it to you while you were sleeping
In whisper, free-form, without rhymes

I have spoken to the silence
That you put under your pillow
The easy dreams of zero heartbreak
In a world of such little gains

I have decided to honestly gift you
Entire poems to remember pain
It’s all backwards since we became artists
At the center of my life, I Forget my own names

I have written to the soul for you
Our soul, the one soul, the truth cannot stop
Just because one voice dies
Our manner of speaking changes

With the times, I’m sick of saying
The same thing, reading the same poem
There’s nobody as sick of themselves as me
Because I wanted an end to language

I become sick of duality
So I have written to the spirit in thee
In exchange, I will opt for a shorter life
One with tragedies that can potentially teach
Poems from obscurity, of absurdity, for posterity.

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