Fruit Ninja

There are two knives
and there is a battle for the Lieutenant General.

From the oblivion of Plato’s roof
a golden fruit falls down
and out come the knives
for outcome of fight
and outcome of fight
decides the seed:
the book.

In the book,
the bloodshed of the other
knife has never mattered
In the book,
the meaning is owned
from temporary (matter)s.

It is so dual
my mind becomes its weapon,
because how do you preserve linearity
with multiplicity?
Every second, the knives sharpen.

Plato’s anxiety

Image result for platos academy
Plato’s academy by Raphael

I have been waking up
and trying to fine tune the breath
in the belly
before the instrument goes out to play
on office desks
and impostor-ed classrooms.
They tell you
they tell you wrong,
the spirit does not
reside in the shell of the language,
it has to be summoned
in the body
and its word.
I try and breathe
to summon myself.

A moment of bliss

See the source image
Engraving by Johann Ulrich Kraus c. 1690.

Things keep happening
O what is new to foretell–
scratching his soft beard,
Tiresias slips into his twin-bed
and dreams of a shepherd
in a song of reaping,
that is,
neither to sow
nor to sell;
but the snakes soon unravel.

About a dream

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Once in a blue moon,
when the wind shuffles in the night
and the bat sits above a cat’s crossed tail,
I’ll fall in luck
I’ll fall in a beautiful tale.

[What a pity that I do not remember it;
Just a crooked picture for you,
only twice removed.]

Soft fingers
beautiful red curls on a man
a staircase leading to a souvenir shop
a sunset smile that reaches the eyes
(that could also be the color of the dream)
a freshly-painted dark door
an urgent feeling to keep this man safe
soft fingers.

The order

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for grip surreal

Grip of fate by Chris Agnew

Words like some sing-song
from the caverns of
the brain, however imagined,
perhaps like the trickling out of the housemaids
from residence complexes at a singled hour
when the dawn light begins to break
as if slanting off all the sharp objects in the universe,
and then my writing blunt,
edged with the effort of language.

It is the rule of history,
order must bleed out of chaos
for intrinsically, order is chaos held momentarily in a grip
till the poem is finished.

Everything about everything

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for apple surrealism

By  René Magritte

Imagine a cotton-yarn sun
–all before the six days–
as it sat in absolution
like an apple in a still life painting

until the yarn spelled out
the threads became different
and people like words
had to be understood as different,
and in this uttered fission,
the woman without language
always remembered the fruit
which she could only bear
in more and more difference.

In the webs of the yarn
happened a day,
when the wires tangled so,
started moving backward into a fusion.

In this, the people who walked like words
fussed with a lack of voice,
with their right hands
they burnt all the new dictionaries
that had said
everything is everything.

Out of the box


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

I was born in an empty box
and laid in it
like a sleeping man in his grave,
but soon I could play
and even watch the stars
from the fourth wall,
of a cat’s noonish dream.

A man sidestepped upon it once
and stood upon me
like a tall shadow upon the moon
and so the box tore away;
I stood naked in the wind
and the stars were brighter
than I had ever seen before.

Soon the night surmises
the lapse of people without boxes,
And so you begin again
create emptiness within emptiness,
like a form of winter clothing.

But what are we
if not terribly stripped
–in this brittle time–
of boxes and cycle-ends.

I have clothed myself
in an unraveling,
when a man told me of a house of boxes,
but one without a roof;
The stars are lakes again,
dark angels
that will always fall in the night,
what of your house then
and what of my boxes.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paintings Aivazovsky,  Ivan Constantinovich

Storm in the north sea, Aivazovsky (1865) 

I have never lived this life before
and the land is ever alien,
and the light keeps changing
with questions of mortality,
if not purpose.

The looking glass is my circus
and meaning is my cup,
“oh what could she possibly mean by that?”,
I mean my mode
of writing solemnly
as the sun drips my window with glass-sweat,
my house a greenhouse
and my body within, like my soul within my flesh.

For once,
I wish I wasn’t so mysterious,
I am not trying,
Do understand
the meaning that lay trapped
like a doomed boat diving under the crest.