Daubmir's Rose Noire PERFORMATION

Through all the contention
Of intentions
And motives
A miracle
Has occurred.

There is something
Under the sun -
Being has emerged
From nonbeing
And a spring
Has bubbled out
Of a rock.


Chagall's Violins

Not yet have I
trodden the path
to the end of time,
the end of space,
the end of darkness,
and the end of light.

I do not know
where it all ends,
it all begins.

And if I am concerned
with miracles,
then I must hear
the music of those
Chagall violins.


Daubmir's Semantic Fish

If i push you,
shove you,
what will I find?
Does the sky in your mind
have a limit?
Can you hear what
you are thinking
under what you are reading?
Does it at times drown
the reading out?
Where do the words come from?
What if we drained them of their meaning
just to see what remained?
Do the words fold,
fold back?
How is it with all this language
there is still this thing
so vast that we have
no name for it,
even if we sense it as a thing
we have seen?
Were the words
trapped in the pen,
just waiting?
Did they burst, sperm-like,
into meaning in our mouths?
Can you taste it? Can you feel it?
What about it?
Is it time to think time?
Do the words time?
How many times?
Is it locatable?
Has it a space?
Does it have a secret?
When will you tell it?
Are you anxious?
Are you ready?
Is it simply because you do it?
Are we inside it
Or is it in front of us?
What if we said that we had done this thing?
Can you give a yes or no answer?
Can you say it in a few short words?
Did you go into that phase and go through it?
What is it like to not work?
Would you just go out to the ocean one day
and begin to swim,
outward without limit
toward a vague conclusion?
What of a poem that
stretched from summer to summer?
Will the sun grow cold?
Or will the clouds burn off?
What kept you here?
Are you with me?
Or against me?
It’s me,
Isn’t it?


Chagall's Flying Lovers

There's no way
to really preserve
a person
when they've gone
and that's because
you write down
it's not the truth,
it's just a

are all we're ever
left with
in our head or
on paper:
clever narratives
put together
from selected facts,
well edited tall tales
with us
in the starring roles.

The characters
look like us
but they aren't us,
they're just actors
speaking to the wind
of sorrow,
with eveything true
falling away
through the cracks.


Falling off the Nadir?

That anxiety which kept us searching the heavens,
wringing our hands, wiping our brows,
questioning the outcome,
is only a matter of tension: that intangible
way of holding things we'd just as soon let go.


Daubmir's Choice

Words hold us down,
with light and dark
with heat and cold
and we become
what we mean,
whilst something in us weeps,
and something in us sings.

Words lie slaughtered on the rug,
without the skin,
withouth the weight,
when you work
the oracle of my thoughts
and haunt the prison
of my sleep.


Daubmir's Dusk