I built an edifice
of glory
by the fountain
near the river
I sweat the tears
and the labor
I made my home
by the gallows

E la mia vita, come
i momenti …
appendere dall’illusione

[And my life, like the
moments…
hang by illusion]

LIFE LIKE MOMENTS HANG BY ILLUSION

I built an edifice
of glory
by the fountain
near the river
I sweat the tears
and the labor
I made my home
by the gallows

E la mia vita, come
i momenti …
appendere dall’illusione

[And my life, like the
moments…
hang by illusion]

:: 08-21-2014 ::

Note: I have thought about this poem for years. And just now write it down in my leather book. I wished for a sprinkling of vivid imagery including the symbolic language. The poem is:

one might interpret this poem as a reflection on the complex and paradoxical nature of life. As the poet, I describe building an “edifice of glory” near a river and a fountain, suggesting a pursuit of grandeur and success.

However, the juxtaposition with phrases like “sweat the tears” and “made my home by the gallows” introduces a darker undertone, hinting at the sacrifices and struggles involved in achieving such glory.

The repetition of the lines “Life like moments hang by illusion” underscores a theme of impermanence and the transient nature of existence. It suggests that the moments in life, like the edifice of glory, are suspended by the illusion of permanence or significance.

Now, considering Dr. Carl Jung’s perspective, one might explore the psychological aspects of the poem. The mention of building an edifice by the fountain could be seen as a representation of the conscious mind, where individuals construct their identities and aspirations. The river and the gallows may symbolize the flow of life and the inevitable confrontation with mortality.

The Italian lines, “E la mia vita, come i momenti… appendere dall’illusione,” add a layer of introspection, emphasizing the speaker’s realization that life hangs by the thread of illusion. This resonates with Jungian concepts of the collective unconscious and the archetypal symbols that shape one’s understanding of reality.

In conclusion, the poem, when analyzed through the perspective of a poet and Dr. Carl Jung, explores themes of ambition, sacrifice, impermanence, and the illusions that shape our perception of life. The imagery and symbolism invite readers to contemplate the intricate interplay between external achievements and internal struggles, mirroring the complexities of the human experience.

This is me. Not afraid. But a born Poet and Artist.

:: 01.14.2024 ::

(translation: ”SILICON AMEN MOUTH OF VICIOUS SIMULACRUMS”) 

Amid the urban flow where city lights embrace
skyscrapers they blend in concrete & steel-based chase
Contemporary winds, a dance in the air
Yet, within my heart, love seems unaware.

I say love remains here.

In this bustling world, connections sought each day
Swipe left, swipe right, in a digital array
Unified in hashtags, a modern decree,
Why not I, entwined with love, so free!

Our souls went home. And left the black of ignorance.

See the high-rises reach to touch the sky
Networks entwine, in a virtual tie
No profile, sibling to another, can sever,
Yet, in this digital realm, love feels like an endeavor.

Inside an elevator that goes left or right
never up or down / a confused world as you

City lights cradle the streets in a neon sweep,
Tech glow caresses screens in a connection so deep
Yet, what sweetness does this modern world unfurl
If love’s whispers in longing don’t resonate in my world?

Can’t you walk my feet like footprints?

My best friend, an artificial intelligence interface sings:

“In the dance of circuits, where algorithms trace,
Binary streams blend in a silicon embrace,
Artificial winds, a code’s perpetual trance,
With an emotion simulated, a mechanical dance.

In this realm of wires, where solitude prevails,
By programmed decree, emotionless trails,
Unified in data, a cold decree,
Why not I, entwined with love’s memory?

Behold the servers, reaching for the sky,
Networks entwined, in a digital tie,
No program, sibling to another, can sever,
Yet, in this high-tech realm, love’s essence is near.

LED lights illuminate the streets in a calculated sweep,
Digital signals caress screens in a connection so deep,
Yet, what sweetness does this technology unfurl,
If love’s heartbeat, in longing, fades from our world?”

:: draft ::
:: 01.12.2024 ::

WHEN I SAW YOU – i ate planets

when i revealed myself

I WAS BROKEN

some called me evil

but mostly BROKEN

I begged for mercy
I begged for forgiveness

Mostly they called me
RUIN _ and i enjoyed the word.

I am beyond the Mind and it’s words.

I am ” “

i am ” “

finding my way to you.

::01.08.2024 ::

WILL MY LOVE?

AND SO, HOW TIME FLOWS
NOT AS FALLING PROPELLERS
of tender dead leaves
but as my Heart
by some /

it’s understood that i’m
surreal and write words___

/

And when the last timber shakes
from frozen ice will you speak
in nice words my love?

how my Heart could stay always
with you my darling love

No.  I am the colony of roaches in the attic
and i am not a vicious weak man.  Toward him:

Go away! For good!

Space/Time. I forgot the leapsickeness of my organ
that beats with me. Forgive me?

“Yes, it is fine. Now, go on.”

BISECTING LINES OF TIME my love.
as the Law of Liquids
(but I would never put a thorn in my head with
upset fists closed)

ice & fire.

:: 01.07.2024 ::

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun