poetry

The poems are published in alphabetical order.

A DRUNK KIND OF STUPOR

a kind of half-stupor,
a drunk kind,
a willingness to fall into Abyss,
an obliteration of logical Necessity,
a string you cut off,
a crawling on the cliff afterwards,
a Golem hiding, this cave where mistresses are chained,
a kind of hair flying like Horse’s mane,
a fucked-up encounter,
champagne and another swirling dark liquid,
a kind of “first rays of the sun”

A VICTIM OF TEMPORAL CRUELTY

a victim of temporal cruelty
a pining
concessions to the deity of Milk –
a backdoor itch

Linear
a “too much inside the box”
an ill logic
Let me go

ALESSANDRO

Alessandro sweeps women off their feet
…then sweeps them under the Oriental mat
He paints the nude with broken arms
…and breaks bread with the gods of dichotomy
It seems he has sucked enough jugular blood
…after thirty lazy years of smudges and canvasses
Alessandro, the mistaken man of the Boot country
…is aging but beautiful, and definitely not Christ.

DIGGING IN

I sit
in the midst of vivid inks that carry light;
Thoughts stir relentlessly like bees
Gathering the sweet effluents of memory. I know
quite well that someday, I will relish
This little piece of hard-earned madness
waking me up from the vague

I have come to learn.

At first they whisper to me
I barely heed them
Then they started boiling an I shuddered
at the strange madness I acquired
Just by staring at it

Words scream on my face — I delight in it.

For whoever dives in,
comes up richer than before.
I sit
Now I’m richer than before.

9/26/1999

DREAM

When I am lost
Seen levitating across cosmic misery
drowning in a great sea of apathy
I close my eyes and ponder.

And the great wave
will come crashing down on me
Rattling me out of sanity
I stare ahead and wonder.

I am distraught
Beleaguered by a multitude of pain
clobbered by everything mundane
I taste the salty tears

And i get numb
despite the sweltering awareness
of my chilling helplessness
That nobody hears.

Something rescues me
from the brink of demise
Knotting my broken, severed ties
I have reached a faraway kingdom.

A transient picture
I never intended to create
while I am in an unconscious state
I grasp my freedom.

The world swallows me
without the least bit enthusiasm
I just sink away in phantasm
as I drool away till dawn.

Now that I am awake
I face the staggering reality
that I only see in ambiguity
I rub my eyes and yawn.

INUTILITE

When the land fails to stand you
the Waters do
the Oceans and Tides give
you a Springy Feet, a candle
to Light your Spirit
the Dips and Waves do not break–
they shape
Your phantasms, your Fate.
When the Land topples down
It is the Fluid Sea
that grips your loss, your Misery.

MON OEIL

my eyes would not wake
my eyes would not chew
my eyes were drunk
Just by looking at you

they’re crazy, my eyes
carved in pearls and opals
they strike boldly the Lightning
they squeeze your juices and sip your glasses

my eyes, they don’t ever falter
they bolt and dance and dream
one is half-open, the other murmurs
my eyes, the palace of my Soul.

ONE FLAW RUINS ALL

One flaw ruins all
if my mouth stretches
I get into trouble

One flaw ruins all
the authority to babble
is only for HER

One flaw ruins all
I’ve been convicted
on this before

I’ve been harassed
for using my tongue
One flaw ruins all

POETRY – A FORM OF HELPLESSNESS
Poetry – a form of helplessness, a groveling to the gods,
the impatience of a raw lemon, or a pregnant cloud
a submission to the Big Mother, or the Ruler
an absolutely uncool scandal of INEPTITUDE to a world
that yells “Hurry up, hurry up, you boofhead!”

SWIRLING

Swirling
are a thousand poems we could breathe
on to make live.

I came home from a
Super euphoric score of ninety-four
above all.

I dried my own tears
with inks that spilled out from this
Bleeding brain.

No gravity
I’m a freely-floating numinous body
from a dictionary.

Cartoons drum into
Unconsciously and no one glances
at this masterpiece.

I think I’m a master
of a thousand other things except
world renown.

Swirling
are bound expressions of me
before I die.

January 19, 2000

THE ANATOMY OF PRESUMPTION

All the hour spent on litter
I was picked gooey from the Dumpster
all the hour preferably denied
because of uncertainty
Is like a law that I transgressed
Not even the sky could find
Justification for my foolishness

all the hour should have been
offered to writing an epitaph
carving a cenotaph
but I drank a potion instead
It made me wriggle, squirm and flit
shudder intensely
Something I thought sometime would
somewhere put me to -nothing-
Nothing at all.
This potion I drank (which should
have been poison hemlock)
Galvanized me for my imminent downfall.

And death I talked about
as heavy as a bullet on my nose
I tried to escape but I do not know
Death has an appointment with me somewhere
else; Speak not when you are not God
Not even LOVE, the greatest force of all
Could ever foretell the future.

March 3, 2000
4:30 pm

the fingers of the gray…

the fingers of the gray, run-of-the-mill
days clutch this hollow brain
and reduce these speechless, winded neurons into
Flakes of apathy with moments of passage

for what could a trapped body do
but submit to the strings that pull it
to the abyss of quotidian letting-go? One must
admit that anything slips without ado

about its existence. We must admit the world
Spins the way our bodies do — Twenty four
hours in a row. The dirk of ennui
tucks itself safely on my neck

Softly, the suns and the moons hover and disappear
and these windows capture only the minute
Slivers of their eclipses. So much (without fun)
consumes the sightless and soundless flux

of our barren ghosts. With the erect
tussle of man with modernism with
the hungry disapproval of the green earth
My back craves for a piece of slumber.

THE GOOD LIFE

I cannot trust the Good Life
at least, not in the books in the shelves of hell
Fiction it is, fleeting like the wind
the Good Life, an abomination, a deceit

I grew up, there’s been too much
Bile and Bitter, Boredom and Breach
that after the painful the Sweet
Numbness has tales to keep.

At the middle of the threadbare bridge
under the fiery merciless Sun
Gasping for air in the choking Ocean
I tear my hair, from the dark I run

Twenty one years still amiss
Not one scar, but never a bliss
Not the Good Life, nor the Fair One
Why? He would NOT tell the Reason.

the torture of eleven o’ clock breakfast

i just dug my teeth on bread
sold for 6 days over-the-counter
Topped with the white of a sunny side-up
each tasteless morsel and gunk clamors
for a wash of bittersweet cafe au lait
One tepid gulp and it’s all over–

A cold hard regard on the wall

The torture of eleven o’clock breakfast
and unbrushed teeth. Bonjour Madame!

THE FUGITIVE

spawn me some place where the whales reign
i’m loved by the sea. I like the pain
of bends, asphyxiation. The whales eat me.

drop me to the territory of white smoke
let us float, swoon, disembody our souls
touch the carefree, no misery at the
freely drifting space of eternity.

WHERE NO ONE CAN FIND ME

I spin my own web
Spiders do not know me
I gather the species
are too bleary-eyed to peek here
In this sanctuary
of letters and rhymes.

I peel my own skin
Surgeons do not find me
Legitimate to be one but
I find everyone
So indifferent
of the crashing stars.

I pour down my own blood
Sucked from the fissures
of my needle eye.
The light bulbs blink
and the halos leave
The heads of the
Free-willed organisms.

WITH THE MEDUSA

Hearts pound
I could hear the sound
of labored breathing
of teeth chattering
Tension kills the souls
and the remaining drawls
I have for myself

Are in my head
Left unsaid.

I am winded
and so we are branded
Clamorous until she
starts bawling us out.

Infinite
like the ticking of time
And I release my stiffness
at the strike of nine.

It felt like
Being drained of fluids
Or, being shackled on the wrists
with the gullet being strangled
until I could scarcely breathe

And then
the twitching nerves converge
to make me feel nauseous
Thank God I could
Stop myself. I could
Hope for the ordeal
To end.