The Young Brain

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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Between Silence and Music

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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INTO CREATION

i

I heard a poem in my mind
Forceful, lyrical, weary –
The honest trial of the literary sublime

Made fertile by writing’s play
God’s desires in natural phrase
The Divine word resounded indeed

Rebuilt, refreshed, released
From the past, I heard
The future’s signature here
Inspiration’s subjective pursuit
Into timelessness, rapture’s dopamine-surge

ii

I heard a quotation in my mind
Established, reborn, renouncing –
The sublimation of everything

Making delight out of defeat
The simplest leisure of a thinking thing
To make a living from boundless pride

iii

To surrender lengthened life for
The genius of an artistic moment
The last resort, the poetic need
A chosen treasure, a soft aptitude
To praise the passing of a peaceful mood.

CARTOGRAPHIES OF LANGUAGE

A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.

POETRY: III

I know you are reading this poem
Toward a new kind of love
That filled you last night from somewhere
You cannot name, it’s source

The latitude of rush-hours where
Revelation comes, who knows why
The bedclothes of our last
Tattered garments of faith

Towards a new kind of breath
Your life has never allowed
That speaks of volumes of flight
Before the alphabet of precious

Dedication of some philosophical flowering
The enormous sense of being more
Than what our lives seems, as pure
As early spring days covered in doubt

A good kind of anticipation for
Beauty, health, renewal, the touch
And the thirst to live, like reading
A poem silently in our open minds.

The Final Writing Brought me Peace

I have had my dream like others
Born of poetry and poverty
Dreaming with the weight of body
Living with love’s open-cares

I have had my dream with infinity
Caressed by strange rumors in my brain
When I am alone, I wait for writing
The air is cool inside my throat
*
I have had my dream on doorsteps
Of Mandarin idioms and Sanskrit prayers
I have wrote a mysticsm full of my own
Odes to the Cosmos, tripped up my heels

I have had my dream of reincarnations
Triumphant over the most beautiful sorrows
The tragedies were there to teach us
Like a poem with obvious imperfections

We loved and wrote because
We wanted to grow more stupid and peaceful
I have had my dream like other writers
Like an archer in flight, a swan in gleaming
The courageous arrows, gold against the blue.

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Language at the End of the World

To lighten up language, I’ve/
Dug deeper, soared higher
A grassroots entry into oblivion

The little landscapes collected/
Of a billion lives, varieties, in-commons
To become a single blade of grass

Or a single bead of flowing water/
That’s the first conundrum
To identify with everything

Purely, without pretence/
I do not barter light and dark
They simple are, like the macrocosm

Of my internal states, I mirror them well/
With is neither grief nor joy
But only peace, nature, what is –

Time will tell if I listened or loved/
This world well, with my lack of vitality
To lighten up language, I’ve

Blown in your direction, across/
Buried cities, with little saliva
In my mouth for the end-of-times

I’ve dreamed apocalypse would be/
Not so different, as the sweet oblivion
Of a dying world, that thrives if only
For it’s artificial growth.

Gateway of an Author

In the kingdom of poets, you are my
Pronoun intertwined, my lover of words
I read you like a lover touches you
.
.
I learn to be in your suppositions
Striving to yield in your lyricism
And break free in your hypothesis
In the realm of expression, you are my
Premonition of the dream of years
.
.
Arriving forever at distant wonder
Alphabets of yearning, unmistakable fountains
I attempt to enter your gateway of being
With the optimism of your humanitarianism
I read you like a lover touches you
First tenderly and then fiercely, over and over
Again, you are the singing in my brain
The lavish ceremony of my soul’s literature
.
.
I grasp at meanings in-between your sentences
And analyze you because you told me
That I could know you through your poems.

Lyrics Gravitate Within

I perish with wishful recitation
Each word is a trance to

An Audience scattered
In time & space, the last frontier
Of the Theatre of the self
Is to write, the Owner cannot shut

The transaction with Eternity
We are the Drama arisen –
With a solitary acre of purposeful design
Love Maintains her themes in us

And our God is of a General Nature
We obey laws of congruency
A presence of Departed acts
Remains with us like a karmic trace

There is no adequacy in art
Only lessons and beloved topics
Poetry doesn’t have to enact beliefs
But only portray adjusted Dynasties
Nobody is exempt from Change.

Writing is my Last Gold Perception

The Vital Word acts through me
Chiseling lyrics to shiver in language
The act of symbol to perpetuate soul

My favorite invention, my muse
Of the instinct to dance
In line or song, delay and feedback-loop

An aptitude for flight – or poetry
Here one moment, gone too soon
With swiftness as if Eternity was due

Upon the ether-street, airy lullabies
I write to oblige the accomplished Guest
To visit me like awkward cursive

Ancient tongues, soul-music standing ajar
As English, neighbored Mandarin
Songs of Earth, to light my brain with

Securest folds, enlarging loneliness
The Abyss can fall into the word.

Age of Embers

I am a blonde text
A glimmer of silver strains
Of lyrics dancing for eternity
The ageless paleness
Of the strange norm of color
I am an extinct language
Of shadow and wood fire
The respite of Spring’s desire
A cruel pang of origins
I am the last embrace of hope
Unable to recreate tribe or home
I have no talent to fashion suns
In this abyss of lost aloofness
I am a blonde text
The last weary complexion
Of opaline poetics, lost art
A marine diversion of untranslateable feeling.