A woman descending...

A woman descending an infinite stairway, her elegant face but a chromatic aberration. Above, the stars swerved missing the trees. In the palm of a hand was a rose-bush. Around it, the vegetation was quiet. Many days had gathered like feathers. It always seems to rain tigers just before noon. From a mountaintop we can see the perished land trapped inside a cage, its firmament pounded with a fist. A notice reads: "No free shelter here". Hammers fell until dawn, resulting in only so much rust and empty fascination.

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Tomorrow is another dream
where the ancients have troweled
an inner world
smaller than oblivion
and longer than time itself.
The question mark is either
how to begin
or where to depart.
Simultaneously within the hand
is the entire coast of Florida
and the whisper of the wind
is synonymous with your flowing hair
from which the planets hang
and the mystery of you begins.
Another passed ruin on a long
journey another sign post
to somewhere exceedingly far
which I have not yet dreamed of
but I continue to walk these steps
as if a poem endlessly composed.

A Dream

There I was wading
Through a vast ocean
Lost
The whole scene
As desolate as blackness itself
Plunged through my stomach
A Japanese sword
Perhaps it was vengeance
As waves
Dark blue and jade in color
Slowly carry me inland
Eventually I collapse onto
The sands of an unending beach
Falling dead I awaken to existence

More incomplete poems

My hands become invisible
each time the day is revealed
like a horoscope
caught in the halfway space
of reasoning and doubt.
I find myself explaining myself
to aquatic numbers
which are swimming somewhere
upstream where the dawn
is collecting silence.
Every cloud is
a lyrical ballad
waiting to to be rained.
And you are nearer
than any star to Heaven
simply because of virtue.

Edge of Splendor

Every day is hung on the nail,
a wreath of life, flowered.
Water to the tongue,
giver of life.
Quiet pools of complacency
pour from the mouth of Eden,
which is invisible.

Hand of truth, gatherer of waterfalls:
its ripples are misgivings.
An idea wakes,
gives birth to mammal
like ideology to man.
Just as sewers are to loneliness
is not the soul stupid
when written in cruciforms?

I walk the moors,
I walk the jagged rocks
where oozes the corpuscle,
its veins shaking like roots
in a black river bed.

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Lucid dreams abraid
My fallen sky
A blown kiss
For your starlight

Love

Love

I've set out to find you

where the dawn

is blossoming

at the sea

The ocean is immortal

sleeping naked under

restless moonlight

jewels aglimmer 

on a crested globe

My eyes they wander

There is too much boredom

to my hallucinations

There is too much violence

to your beauty

I observe the stars

spilling out as if the sky

were turned upside down

I question heavens constellations

The angels have revealed

their true darkness: temptation

is but a disloyal thief

I fall to sleep in insanity's panoply

I take on civilization by submission

The alchemical fish are swimming

near the edge of the senses

Oh how fragrant 

was the innocence of our youth

now camouflaged by necessity

and greed

I resign myself to be astonished by

beautiful words because they are our

last hope before the stars' end

I choose poetry

The only kind of love

Questions in February

Answers to questions posed which are only revealed afterward:

How do you tame a rabid octopus?

By petting its blue fur.

Why is arithmetic boring?

Because diamonds are cut with great sorrow.

When should we not defame windmills?

Every Sunday evening.

What gift shall I receive on Valentine's day?

A caterpillar that smokes cigarettes and sings with the most beautiful voice.

Letters to God

Still Life

The night is unmistakably
pedantic
The stars are all mediocre
at best
The trees are a cage
containing lifeforms extinct
Houses of people
having been born here
once before
All this land and more
habitually platonic
staring back at itself
The facade of neon glow
strengthened by
innumerable voices

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The weather is full of traitors
who attempt to give us purity
in the way of news.
Solemnly the night crawls.
Not a sound
because the emptiness is
so fulfilling.
There is pressure against the stars
to hold up the sky.
I look out the window
- a prism filtering time.
No one believes
in mysteries anymore.
I hold the world inside my pocket
written in verse
which no one will see.