Times without Grammar

These are 

times without grammar 

when Life is 

yelling or foaming 

within the compass of unknown 

unknown surface through 

many layers of original waves

These are 

times when 

none one you 

approach closer than my mother 

tongue

and truth begins 

as an angle or an arch or a full 

circle of my skin 

unknown surface 

perspiring towards 

erased and overwritten  

none one you closer than early 

cloud of Intelligence or Madness 

These are times of rain with brief cosmos

Deus = Scriptorium

O Alfabeto vem ao ritmo do nosso Espanto tão vasto quanto Deus, nome do Mistério Inteiro.

O Alfabeto vem pela mão matinal tocar nesta pele tão vasta quanto Deus, nome da Poesia Toda.

O Alfabeto vem com ondas de um mar de espuma contínua sobre a Espiral devastadora dos nexos fabulosos. 

A Espiral de súbito faz estrelas no barro e no ar da boca. Atravessamos o mundo, o magma do Núcleo do Mundo e aprendemos a metamorfose da vida em mulher estremecendo de Sentido.

Amo-Te Aqui, Diagonal e Fractura, que tão fundo desces para o silêncio do símbolo.

O Símbolo invade os pássaros com o amor do amor tão vasto quanto o Alfabeto, nome do Possível Aberto. 

Metamorphosis

the horses trembled before the dark caress of fear

the ways of longing tragically tenderly fiercely

butterflies arise and howl against 

my last ignorance 

you know not 

the forest calling 

within the voice 

calling 

Traumata -

1.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me, biting too much.

2.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: the soft tissue between my skin’s surface and my bones, the unified flesh, is torn, deeply, by an intensive magnitude that disrupts the very system of sensibility and sense. It is too much, a critical upper threshold of affective capacity is crossed and at once the boundaries of intelligibility are traversed as well. No sense makes text, nor fluxion, home of nexus. The texture is broken, dismembered. It blows up: discrete qualia and discrete forces, strokes or blasts, within without, yet unknown to me.

Are these ciphers? Are these scriptures? Are these language events? Or else the vehement material embeddedness of my suffering myself? Or trembling fingers approaching and avoiding the open wound? Or silence, within without?

3.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: It.

My body does not forget the frozen gestures and postures. My apraxic body can be saved only through touching, as if something in me and not-me were writing on the flesh … and reading on the flesh putting their fingers on scars that re-open and re-close always otherwise, meaning other than being, meaning possible worlds, re-membering the dismembered body of mine. This is too much: the labor of blind people, writing and reading with their fingers … acts of imagining otherwise than being… through extreme joint ventures: we are the nexus of possible Alphabet, yet unknown, within without absolutes. We work together this matter, we—sympraxis, we suffer together, we—sympathos, till the recognition of our uneasy flesh with fever of remembrance and blood so warm on the face, like flashes of absolute light, within without, We—anagnorises, through catastrophes of unlearning my river, till the climax of blindness…

4.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: It dances more than gods and their nudity. The mythos produces what it signifies, within without, we-sympoiesis: the alphabet opens my possible flames. It carries the joyful rite of imagining possible gestures, my selves, and their iteration with you: gestures that gather themselves together, gestures that hold and caress and sustain my sufferings with you, my doings with you. The Origin gravitates around the gesture where my body becomes capable of dancing.

Post-Scriptum: Be hospitable to bleeding wounds and welcome scars. For they can be angels in disguise. Angels speaking over torn flesh, moving towards language, almost capable of being a dancing body, together. 

Traumata +

1. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: It.

No name names thee. It. It blows up. It happens. It encompasses all there is. The time-space and all cursive realities stop and become heavier. It is full of it. Violence of not-me—on, against, through, me. Flesh surrenders and opens up. It bleeds, without flowing. It is stuck: there is a blockade in the threshold: liminal hotspot. I am the closure where it repeats itself, reinforcing its law of intensity, its empire of intensity in myself—on me, against me, through me. 

2. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me: It.

This suffering is without Origin, sheer power of anarchy. The organizing force of my aboriginal place and aboriginal cycles vanishes; other gravity, unknown to me, operates. On, against, through me. It makes unreason, non-sense: the voice and the body implode, ground down. They plunge into muteness and paralysis. Or else they explode like unbounded, raw, high-pitch, vowels, too far away from language, sheer yelling, without Origin. Both muteness and yelling signify my dismembrance and my bodily self-deixis without signs. For articulacy requires the most impossible labor, a body capable of being held and gathered.

3. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me not me, biting too much. 

Traumata

 Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: 

something in me not me: things past. 

Is it my mother or my father? Is it one, none, you, me, it? I become it. And the depth of it surfaces and resurfaces. Time-space and all cursive realities are stuck, summing up, fulfilling abnormal geometry. I did nothing. It just happened. Or else my deeds were not-me, not-actions, but passions by extreme powers. Deeds merge with events, powers from outside disjointing, dismembering, disarticulating the body of capable beginnings. Me is thus magnitude of sufferings, no longer home of origin. Estrangement and alteration happen, abound, rule, without a proper line interweaving a sense of beginning and a sense of ending and a sense of flowing in between. Estrangement and alteration because there is no shared sense of navigation whose tempests would be nothing but life-expanding, life-nourishing, peripateia to be named and storied, and eventually celebrated with all brothers, demonstrated to all, reenacted with dance.

Mulher-escritora

A mulher-em-versos:

Prefácio de um Leitor

com metafísica otimista

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos faz sentido. Tece outro corpo e desenha outra boca, outro som, mais feliz, para a sua voz inquieta, aflita. A mulher-em-versos é uma mulher que conhece todas as emoções trágicas de perder e cair… e ficar só, na perda e na queda. Porém, na manhã em que começa a escrever, logo aprende a cantar e, antes do meio-dia, já se levanta um novo vento livre, libertador, dançando entre as lágrimas antigas das vogais, que sofrem, por vezes, muito entre consoantes.

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos faz sol. Tece outro chão após indefinida chuva, onde os pés aprendem a sonhar a linguagem que reconcilia o abismo e o amor, multiplicando o timbre eterno de compreender os músculos futuros da melancolia. Dentro do texto, o dia de chuva pára e a dor enorme de vácuo transforma-se em energia Desejante que sente o sabor da passagem entre a fadiga e a força.

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos renasce. Tece a verdade de ser na verdade de sonhar. Respira melhor do que o Mistério inteiro do tempo. Fala, profética, sem angústia, após incêndios. Apaga o real Absurdo com uma carícia leve sobre os lábios do Não-ser. O Possível triunfa e o Livro faz mulher, obra de arte e corpo vivo com Caos dormindo, compreendido no sal da língua nova…

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos cura todas as feridas com o bálsamo da sua canção lunar…

Dibujos de cuerpos

puerta abierta: desencuentro de los amantes. 

quemaduras tempranas son flores: miramos una puerta abierta. 

hay ruido de flores: hay puerta de desencuentro: aquí, somos otro mundo. Idea de una caverna para sentir el corazón.

una sombra de abrazo. una sombra proyectada por la luz del fuego sobre el fondo de la caverna. un abrazo de sombra lucha contra el vacío.

una mano enorme llega y Algo comienza.

guerrera y amadora. una mano nacida para padecer mucho de sí misma. una mano comienza, amadora y guerrera,

porque amar es la guerra suprema.

todos encendidos en la sombra. somos desencuentro: guerreros dentro de amadores.

cuerpos dudan del mundo como agua indefinida. 

Ven, aún sin rostro, una mano de fuego, una piedra de fuego líquido, deseante. 

Morir de desear beberte, senos y ríos: mujer.

aquí, un gesto hace atardecer y caer la noche sobre Nada.

otras mañanas deseo para la mano, amadora desarmada, que abrazará senos y ríos, talvez

Aber die Angst!

my blood disagrees with me

the fabric the text the nerve of my telling still burns still smokes still desires the Indefinite Song.

None, One, you are so quiet listening to my trees.

Once upon a time, a birth shall begin within All that trembles and cries out and looks for the forest, the female forest, where the wind blows God in the mouth. Sing my song and pass, the wind is the hour When. 

touching on sad tales

a sad tale compels the mouth of my life course to plunge into the dark blue waters of why and how.

there is. there is not a shark capable of devouring my insomnia of spiraling reasons for why and how to happen. there is. there is not a course, a straight course in the oral suffering of the narrator. And the narrator in pain is me.

I could have and have not. just a fraction of expectation greater than the entire matter of flesh and its contradictory enemies. And that event of flesh in the story is me. but the untexted, unstoried, flesh of gaps greater than nonsense is also me.

the coherent mouth looks for something to tell. none, one, you mature in my dark bliss of sweet silence of panic before dawn. That mouth defines the story and fails, always with an acute delay touching the first breasts, behind the text making love with my delayed fuse. That mouth is in control of life, ever since my touching been touched. first letter. Alpha written in flesh forever, bearing the Possible and the whole country of change   

memories of fire and ash

a person, that holy being that asks questions and promises much, a person falling down, ground down, into solitude, deeper than a silent kind of panic, unaware of its center pole. it happens. it happens to me, even in the velvet tufted beds of ecstatic love. if only there is such fraction of fire among us.

a person falling down that could be falling forever. more than down into the ungrounded. had I been just a fraction of love. it had happened. always the same experience through the skin, the master that cannot deny itself.

and that person was me. forgetting the progress of fire into ashes, holding my layers of skin. it steps over me, perhaps on me.

a person falling down in the solitude of kissing and dying. it happens in the love bed. it happens and ties my layers of skin into that falling and freezing up during Fall, everything attracts and rejects and gravitates, in solitude, as though birth and death was always there, cutting the edge of that volcano island where you climb till you forget the hour, and enter the mist of nameless fractions of rocks, liquid rocks of kissing. much salt of panic in the saliva yielding entirely before the tongue, the speechless gestures of the tongue.

there is. there is no speaker capable of that tongue. I agree with a crisis of clouds, and I pass, half naked half dark half none and much more halves contradict the idea of being possible.

as you drink the wine you come closer to humus

that solitude of being clay and whisper, even in the love bed and in the lakes within dormant volcanoes.

the sound or the music of a person falling down through every layer of skin till the sheer nudity of not knowing the ways or other ways of telling the story of a broken glass of champagne