The Creative Act, the Self and Transformation.

Inspiration is to let flow the mind in remembering – it is the point of intersection of memory and imagination, which (only in that time) returns to being a one and only Essence.
The Creative Action is the Seed of Inspiration: its fruit is an imperceptible and intimate Transformation: necessary conditions are instinctual Intellect and the Heart.
a Surface is a place that welcomes the beat of Inspiration: It becomes created Image and it bears testimony to the Action
a Shade is an argument
Color is a sensation
a Sketch is a articulation
a Sign is a story
a Stain is an enterprise
a Fragment is compassion
Language is to share.
These elements are method of the search . Research is:
Move Inspiration to Recycle that fragment of the Self splintered away by the experience – recomposing a new, munificent hypothesis – a multiple becoming of the seed outside the fence of the only rationalization.
Transformation after transformation, leave the Light free.



Buzzy poetry – staring out of the window the emptiness of my Thoughts of Lichtenberg
in trembling blue-neon-lights – old brick five story industrial building,
my tower of enlightment-ivory:
a sudden afternoon attak: flashes of white calm joy swimming in the shadow-tide



Stuff of Universe

Came over from Russia – Blue notes breaths in her silver mind – I am not down
on your crazy golden crowd, Desire:
Trapped desolated scared in the day of the Lord, as a matter of act
there is no “to be jailed”.
Young bedroom face, kind and opened up thighs changing sex in eternal phenomena
– White light of el Salvador waiting across a silent goodbye.
King and Love, little-girl-home_

On our solar soul-light ship, slowly we’ll pass the asteroids
where our fathers died – going home, over time, out in space
– through hearts of twilights and everything else we used to call love

Remembering drops of paranoia not much more than drops of milk in black tea
– staring at the perfect evening rising from the earth – Paranoia skrews your thoughts
although there is no sickness, just bliss and pain:
Paradise, where we have always been – dance of fever replaced forever out in Space

Sounds, interruptions, background echoes as a lovely female thing
trembling before the flesh-machinery of man
– then light in spots of invention, sticks of white neon light
create sharks of shadows – no more void, just jumping melting loosing
in ghostly Milky way

Welcome in Lichtenberg! – the man said, and showed us the back entrance
to his works of white lime and numbers and astral divisions.
I was cold and humorless like grandpa dying in a friday sunny evening. – Sick and misty
like great suicidal dharmas on the bank

Oh Poetry, destroy our Iron hood and let our howling holiness endless flow!
– Still your beats of mercy in the eternal war:
So long (breathed like a dawn) – standing cooled down on the starlighted pier:
flannel eyes without a face…