At five I knew much more
than I was capable of saying.
Later
my path unfolded
like a tree in the middle of Paradise.
Where I understood that life is the dancer and
I am the dance.
That is why my life is not mine
but I am its.
Turns out
without viruses
the earth
and everything on it would perish.
Apparently quickly
very quickly
in a matter of days
maybe even hours.
Could it be that
everything here is exactly as it should be?
Our Sun is said to
one day
have a spectacular grand finale.
Light is then a planet’s privilege
light
our light
poetic light.
Poe’s Raven is 108 lines long
divided into 18 six-line stanzas.
Many Buddhist temples have 108 steps
while Penelope did have 108 lovers.
In Japan
a bell is chimed 108 times for
the New Year.
Living in the present
means
you’ll never be lovelier than you are
now.
Clouds feel like art
bedroom feels like spaceship
desktop feels like stuff.
Rhyming feels like dictionary
fluidity feels like language
mirror feels like infinitude.
The hand feels like five places
nostalgia feels like missing the point.
Words feel like change
pockets feel like words
overcoats feel like envelopes.
Stairs feel like concepts
moon feels like the sea
its gleam feels like silence.
Water feels like continuity
movement feels like space
time feels like air.
Not writing feels like writing.
Swiss Alps
enormous mountain dogs
where stern innkeepers serve up hot soups.
Total attention being paid
to demands
as expectations allow for human fragility.
Koala bear thought process
later than you think.
Mangled disambiguation hiccup
Claire de lune flashlight personification
modest shrinkage
scandalous transliteration.
Textual surface
Lispector’s non narration
writing that eliminates the notion
of representation.
A text that’s alive
Meaning and non-meaning
mystery between the lines.
“A text saying something
is very different from
what it’s supposed to say.”
Nobody said anything about
the extraordinary festivities ahead
sparkling blue invitations notwithstanding.
The open piano
a forest of language
relentless uncertainty.
Paying attention
paying the price
paving the sidewalk
when it’s still dark.
Death would not exist
were it not for humans’
imaginary rapport to it.
The mysterious experience
of déjà vu
speaks to the simultaneity of time.
Time
like water
like pebbles
gently rolls across my feet
reminds me of
a pencil on a chair
like air.
Chair reminds me of the color of air
unlike paper and despair.
Something written
that is indirect
informal and unforeseen.
To be frank
to keep one’s hands clean
show one’s cards.
Luminous days!
In the garden of paper and words.
Words that are quotations of themselves
tend to avoid
the poetic edifice.
Jigsaw Jeremy significant discharge.
Voluntary epigraph secretive palm tree.
Various worried men.
Jaunty music
situational banter
semigloss Ricola
starving starships.
Dingo visibility do not forget
yet
just yet
do not forget.
The musicality of a text offers
rare pleasures of sound’s falling cadence.
Language
a shadow of complex images
from the fragments of a mind.
Bunny rabbit
apricot pit
selenium consumption
buffalo vandalism
secretive habitat
boomerang singsong.
Victimized booksellers wearing turquoise satin bathrobes
enjoy singing
perfectly composed Pindaric odes.
Your smile
reminds me
of the stillness
behind you.
Where to from here?
I ask myself
quietly realizing that I’m already there.
The figure of the road
the imagery along the way
are fictional.
The beast is imaginary
beauty is imaginary
imagination itself is imaginary.
And here
life wants to be formed
and
thoroughly loved
and illuminated.
On occasion
I pick up the crumbs
that great minds leave behind.
Humbly
very humbly
with such modesty and trepidation
that is almost euphoric.
