Transmeaning

768 miles per hour

the speed of a conversation

a drop in pitch we’re all made

of words maybe we’re all made

of poetry and a few subatomic

particles some spontaneous overflow

of Unwritten poetry and ego tripping at

the gates of tongue moments between sound,

gaps between sound waves interlude between

translated memory ruptured interpretation missing

footstep of word tattooed onto a page Written but meant

to mean another thing like being etched in stone hindered

expression of language confused space masked by literal translation

and off beat communication in that case C’est la vie mean not that’s life

but it is the life the indefinite article asphyxiated by established catchphrase

familiarity voids of thought rendered a Transcontinental splintering of fractured

message empty spaces between transcription transliteration Transcribed denotation Cracks in the pavement 768 ways to imply the death of imported semantics

because i went to forks and picked up some kind of plastic they called native art

Fake &

Plastic

Made to look wooden

Tribal by

Association

Financed by

Custom

What will you do when your culture goes out of style?

Trade more culture for profit I suppose &

Sacrifice more folklore for recognition.

Grains of

Fictional abstraction

Of native North America

For this moment

The guise of your society is cool

But your beliefs

You can keep to yourself

The least

Of what’s left of it

One vein of information

Collects

And distributes

Because fantasy sells

And appropriation consumes it.

So find salvaged minority hiding in a page

& Your lineage sitting on the shelf

While it’s still

Popular.

but for the motion of currents

In penetrating quietudes
& silent dimensions
between silk drapes of burnt orange hues
shades of emerald and illuminated crevices of sunlight
i leave sound
to come into ocular saturation,
the hazel eye of the forest.

The senses shift greedily from one to another
and soon my skin is coloured by the sensation
of soft earth and hushed condensation.

As thoughts that dance on treetops dwindle
and the presence of my tangible body ensues
i am curious to find myself start
at the physical sensation of my own heart
beat,
screaming with every passing second
that i am alive.
this stark fragility,
this forgotten song of existence
(blurred by noise and the passing of life itself)
is tragically beautiful.
an endless rhythm of beats seeks me
startles me, revealing one organ
bearing the weight of continuous life,
carrying blood like the river current beneath my feet.
for it is not i who chooses to live
but my heart who chooses to keep beating,
(elemental value) and some distance of flesh.

silence, but for the motion of currents.

sea beyond sea

The way each wave in passing moves
is almost as if a hollow mouth of earth
is breathing into the flesh of sand 
that sinks with each footstep
salt tinged lips of foam
pour like lava over stone after stone
carrying molten of age, inhaling the surface quality of things

a sigh remains.

crystallized sun conducts an orchestra of fog,
harpsichord clouds,
wind blows into its flute to the synthesized notes birdsong 
& harmonies of the seagull,
the sky a sacred chant
and words rattling
like a tambourine.

Under the breathing mouth of the ocean
submerged under white frothing collision
a deepest silence reigns
heavier 
than a wrathful sky blackened by storm
& leaden with the pressure 
of limitless heaven
where far into solid blue
is absence
of sound.
where
past all the eye can see
infinite creatures run amok
dancing in muffled sound
the persistent hum of the water's surface
hiding the span of the living world beneath.

a sea beyond a sea. 

Cryptograms

Today
I decipher cryptograms
written in the code
of hypertextuality

finding myself
beating to the heart
of technology

whose presence,
assumed and pervasive 
whose power
to inflict dependency
reveals itself to me
like a story unfolding in a book
whose ending
lies in it's uncertainty 
and whose pages 
could cause me 
to stop reading,
because modem links 
are like plagued vines to me
something

i try to avoid if i can
but alas
the 'web'
may really be no different
from that of a spider's
And i
am really no different
from the fly,
unwillingly trapped
in the midst of intricate lines
invisibly thin
and spaces
of open illusion
to hide in.

I have dreamt before
of myself
looking into a computer screen
at an image of myself
looking into a computer screen
at an image of myself
unsure whether or not
my dream is lucid.

Yes, 
Technology has even penetrated
my dreams
which can only mean
it has a special place
in my subconscious 
And considering this,
i picture my brain
if it were to be x-rayed
to reveal an unmistakable outline
of a google search bar
embedded somewhere 
between the tight foaming grooves
And i often wonder
if electrical energy
is not seeping slowly into my bloodstream
over time,
clicking 'history',
tracking life by day.

And finding 
my eyes so sunken
so glazed
from the gleam 
of a macbook's screen
that when i close them
i can still see the fluorescent glint
branded into my eye's retina.

And finding myself scrolling down facebook
already forgetting
the reason for being on the computer itself
And recalling Technology
to be something more
than I had considered it
a world in it own right
This World
where the physical
becomes image
and the tangible
becomes pixel
still cellular
but not 
entirely
the same.

And i know
that when i can count
months more of emails 
than spoken words
from my father
and stare 
into single dimensional
reflections
of people i can see
but cannot touch
that i must
in fact
be in a place
some extension of cyberspace
an ubiquitous force
without a face,
and i know
that
Today,
I decipher cryptograms.

grapevine

I find a spot on the kitchen table
where an old brown grape vine lies
defiantly lost between computers colored pencils
keys paper teacups and electrical cords
twisted and knotty 
like a dry naked bruised and scanty tree in winter
a solitary, minuscule grape
wrinkled and brown
still hanging
from a tiny ventricle of a branch
empty and sagging
creased with tiredness 
but still
somehow
hanging 
from the tiniest arm of a vine
a single grape
attached,
still hanging.

Ode to Oly

Grey dampness tasting-
like deep blue cane sugar on my tongue
grey white capitol building mimicking the real one

crossing bridge over twilight water.

Past antiques
lamps lit in windows
bread rising down red brown lanes,
New Moon cafe closed for eternity,
pass clothing food family
to concrete and noise,
shouts, sometimes a howl
bloom with dusk sky,
sun
having retreated long before
centuries before perhaps
leaving the land to be governed by mystical overcast-
ashen haze and smoke
all tranquility and cloud.

Streets of books coffee
tattoos and tattered shoes
sun setting by now
cigarrettes and marijuana interrupt air
as it proceeds
past scents of thai food and vagrant youth
take my hand through cluttered crowd
tight sidewalk
conversation ensued
by sewer
music rupts from some source-
a car,
a guitar,
did i forget
pure mountain snow-capped in stillness
pronouced and visible
at will-
dan Dan the crystal man
sitting behind his blanketed array
of gemstones
hemp
and wire
a silhouette of army green.

Walk until your feet feel railroad tracks beneath them
Burnt wood and aged whiskey saloon
big and bright and broken,
dreams forgotten,
fantasies savoured,
gone,
past lighted windows
street all concrete and quietude by now
beyond bright light
beyond living
beyond night itself
to cold coal-black stairwell
playing tricks on shadows and walls
and laughing
at the now blackened and (nearly) starless sky.

Animus Escondido

pervasive spirits lose me within susurrous translation

I cannot find my own.

It is too deeply entombed by the same hands that crafted it,

the same hands that defined it,

a temple of absence

spawned

by golden tinged asphyxiation

my anima,

long-stagnated and sewn

into plethoric earth.

This anima,

from moonless sleep and languor

wants little more

than to be found,

wherewithal an emptiness unfelt until it was gone

was hiding,

amid penumbral eclipse

somewhere,

behind a physical dynamic,

a sacred flesh,

warm lilt of soft milk earth

a scintilla,

of river soil

in which beneath,

lies labyrinth of labyrinth,

machine after fragile constructed machine

suggesting

a clock.

este reloj que baila con el cuerpo

invisible

del tiempo,

whose unwavering presence brought me to

glistening luna

brillante,

que se me miró,

and I followed su sombra en la noche infinita

desde el callejón

donde

ella me encontró jade green burnt orange eyes of glass

bomba de relojería,

ticking under concrete

y cuando la traducción me pierde,

aún más,

al dentro

de una negritud pura

embodied by space itself,

y cuando los labirintos se doblan a sí mismos,

and retreat to a place of origination

y cuando se borra el tiempo lo que las máquinas

han dejado atrás

feigning,

a clock,

una bomba de relojería.

La luna me llevó al interior de todas las cosas,

en donde un alma oscurecida

se reveló,

a silhouette,

quivering in mist

and tangled in riddles

todavía distanciada

behind catacomb doors

yet such an existence I never doubted

as surely

as a story without a beginning,

a story without an end

espiritú, alma, anima,

found.

4 am remedy for sleep

(some nights)

I lay awake,

in some blackened hour of night

bathed in darkness

mildly curious,

at first,

to find a distinct

beating in my chest

of a heart.

But a mind interferes with this sudden,

instinctual,

acknowledgement,

this simple accordance

with being.

It strips itself of layers

looking for truth

that it won't find

on a blank ceiling.

I drift unintentionally

in and out

of differing fragments

of reality

hoping they'll meet somewhere

somehow

and shuddering slightly

at the fragile sensation

of this heart

still beating.

I blink my eyes once,

twice,

and remember

That I am only dreaming.

The shadow of a mole

Consensus Reality

A South African golden mole relies on his shadow,

complies with his shadow,

survives with his shadow.

The mole does not fear

a pure, silencing darkness of vast underground existence

because he knows

he does not need eyes to see.

Burrowing a route, he lives on little more that the sensory instinct

of touch,

leading him,

eventually,

through the dark home.

Hours

Time,

Neither an abstract essence but rather,

A selection of nearby numbers,

Numbers close in proximity,

Somehow its fighting logic

With a semi-persistent yet broken insanity, that are, that is-

Numbers.

Yet,

When bridges of illusive time crumble around me,

Time moves not by a number,

But from moment to moment,

The day a blank page,

The absence of a list perhaps.

I take away the hours,

I take apart the atoms,

And find myself in an ocean of space,

Not certain where I end and another thing begins,

But certain that I am following light and moon.

Such is grace.