There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search

That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for

The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth

Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it

But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind

On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment

Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments

OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.

And the alphabet is longing
Language the key to the sky’s desire
A grace of words, to move the spirit
That moves by Him and lends
Mercy to power, gratitude to intelligence
And that law is a music, a Kingdom
Of poetry, those incantations
Where the vowels spread like mantras
And the songs reveal Her face
The mystery of our evolution
In mere syllables, moments of expression
And the letter is longing
And the sky-people write hieroglyphics
Not unlike mandarin, with concepts like Sanskrit
And our Law is their Law
We communicate in mathematics
And the translation of vibration
We attain diplomacy via Quantum physics
And the alphabets merge, like rivers
Into a sea of our unity, mystery blood of sentience.

I’m the captured poet of dream
a Ferris wheel author of
haunted Sioux transcendence-miracles

an alchemist of language
maybe the last poet of epiphanies
that dance like a silent water-tanka
the fire-rain-truth shouts inside of me

like a poet that navigates the overmind
a benevolent alien collective-mind
an indecipherable dialogue of

darling insomnia divinity and
fantasy-starved and sun-quilted
ambrosia, my lungs filled
with the promise of the cosmos

come to life in majestic verse
behind blindfolds of invisible offerings
resigned to the hypothetical
responsibility of mediumship.

These words have survived separations
Faces I can no longer remember of loved ones
Poetry has transcended my decades

Spacious and fluent like a last reminder
Of why truth is no longer as important
As beauty, inner beauty of a spiritual quality
Alphabets now shelter this candle
This life that was my hopes and dreams

These most intimate self-deceptions
Wildest faith of wonderful illusions
For a moment still I am there

With moons and roses, aware of nothing
But the shine of creativity on our inner cheek
The mineral blossoms and lotus of our imagination
It’s pure there to write like drunken water
In a light of its own color, reflecting the pauses

Silences, spaces in-between relationships and solitude
That was the best quality of the life I lived.

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.