Here I sit where time terminates
My tired legs hanging off the cliff into the other zone
Listening to the noiseless sounds beyond these gates
Still feeling the hard end of time’s long bone
Brooding on rock climbing, climbers and mountains
Chewing the gum over why things are as they are over the mains.
… the wind curly in the dark–
your locks slippery through my fingers
when all winter came and froze on your hands–
memory forgetting can’t eraze,
memory tears can’t wash
sweating hot, no winter can cold
Look so serious a poet? Tired of being happy. Trying to act sad.😄
Failure is a beautiful thing–
the most beautiful but the hardest to live.
A beauty you avoid, an art you fear,
one you like only from a distance
as your negative space.
The best men in the world
are failed men.
They keep failing. Beautiful men.
Hopes crumble down in their laps,
brick by brick–those they laid one by one–
into shapeless rubble heaps,
formless grains of dust and mass of wastes,
in sounds from the mute fall of airborne dust
to the soundless noise
following the crashing of towers
and skyscrappers onto the dust
where the sky begins.
Meaningless until you hear them on a tape
meaningless until you rub
and feel their roughness on the canvas.
Failed men breathe through the wreck,
speak in nonsense–
a tongue of a different frequency range
where sound and matter merge.
Hinduism. The end: the end of samskara.
How? By committing karmas without a shadow
that ties you to the ground.
Love, hate, riches, debt–they tie you to the ground.
You are a kite belly-creeping on the floor. Swimming on concrete and stone.
Ship. My achor just drags.
Love, hate, riches, debt. All mud.
Nothing holds. They just give way. Such honor.
My anchor cast like a hook. No love bites.
Mouthless. Debt. I love it, too.
Too weak to ground me by itself.
Riches and hate. Don’t give a damn.
Am I a saint? Reluctant moksha?😁