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Poem with Stonehouse’s line “Reality isn’t created” (trans. Red Pine)
My Cold Mountain This morning shrouded in sea foam A thousand miles from any ocean. I am tired of smelling fish and salt air Among my beloved pines. I want to cut them down, burn their limbs In my stove and put my graying head Into the fire. “Reality isn’t created,” Wrote Stonehouse centuries ago. Read more
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Russell’s Paradox: The Doxa of Gottlob Frege to Bertrand Russell: Bertrand Russell’s Head as Heliotropic Distemper (as a set of all distempers not heliotropic but eschatological remains): The What of the unwanted: The child
Letter to B.R. from G.F. Such a heliotropic mind you have; have I never seen before the sun staring out from your grape-set eyes as I have buried in the broken existence of your very own collection of being which is, it so happens, not quite the set you had in mind. O my Read more
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Thinking of Goethe’s Ganymed
Morning sun through the open door A glaze of angst over everything Even the petted and pruned parts Of the reeved umbilical Recalling a thousand-breath sorrow Languishing in Goethe’s frail voice— Ich komm, ich komme! Wohin? Ach, wohin? Words turned to passing clouds in this life. Read more
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What’s lost is lost
What’s lost is lost: As a child building dreams From floating pebbles My fingers bled from the digging, The chipping away, the piling of One loose moment atop another All the while bearing down on The floating desert of my little destiny Not yet tall enough to crumble to dust. Read more
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Nahn Qhanszhu’s final Mountain Poem (AD 987)
Prospects are hunger and cold. I cherish the icy wind It awakens my suffering Reminds me I am still alive Having burned my furniture To heat a bitter hut So it is only a cold one Having nothing more than A few cups of wine left I will drink them without delay Before the wine Read more
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Dan metralla a las masses humanus que claman por un pan
Pablo de Rokha Monkey said since you are kindhearted…you ought to be able to persuade the demon to set you free. Pigsy Some drag memory after them, a stinking sponge gathering waste, putrid spillage of a life un-minded, while others troll grottos dampened by sense’s oblivion, dimed by vocabulary’s rickety frame. I, living as the Read more
Umbriate Press Poetry 