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Most elaborate of paintings,
the painting of all paintings,
an infinite number, or vast number
beyond human grasping
of images, combinations of images,
of concepts, combinations of concepts -
all flow, unfold in this painting,
forever flowing and unfolding.
See the tragic images,
see images of tragic human plight
and you may be partly right.
See images of inspiring beauty
that smell and taste of heavenly delight -
see these, swept up into an angel's song
and you may not be wrong.
Your seeing may be correct - either way -
yet it's only correct
in an exceedingly limited way.
The vast canvas of cosmic art
accommodates your focus
and all that prevails in your heart.
For reasons

More obvious than love

We fuss

Infinity now

That at any moment

Someone might

Call my bluff

Man gets caught up

In his existence

But it is enough for

Man to be  


‘I exist too’
Faces implode
And erode as
Tongues slither
From wall to wall,
Hall to hall,
Draining and draining
With nothing to prove,
Only commanding
In a secret language
That you pour all yourself
Into it.
To devote one’s words to the eyes of another
Is to devote one’s thoughts to the mind of no other,
For, in my mouth and out yours,
The words are all there,
But the thoughts none.

And everyone thinks
That everyone thinks
That anyone thinks
At all.

We fail to attend to our own thoughts,
Only the thoughts of those others,
Who have the thoughts of none.

United in silence,
Who really has won?
The placement of thoughts
Some Talking Stories
Hold a face
That tells
A story
With no words.
These Talking Stories, Some longer than others, Sum to another, Attached somewhere
On a Self
Everyone knows A different
Sum of
That is, all That is, oneself.

The Self
Is a Foreign Invader To a homeland Guarded with
Tiny Heroes
With huge egos.

Each of them
Armed with a Burning desire To be.
One Ego
That all Subsequent Selves Participate in Called We.
Sprout your wings
They’re a sky,
A guise that
Holds you down.

(Words are only weighed and written
To carry our attention,
Else like the paper
We would fly away.)

Some Hummingbird
Humming its way;

All the poetry is up for grabs,
Only a translation from
Thin air to modern day.

And soon the wind
Will stop,
And as there is none for me,
Soon there will be no hum for the wind.

As if to simply
Acknowledge our presence
I flew by.
Looking through the window,
I saw him lying there
In his coffin.

We are scavengers
Picketing at dead religion,
Eating what is left -
We are left.

Niche nest negated,
I will make a nest
Of my heart
And one day birds will fly
And lay their eggs in yours.

These chicks will fly blindly and without direction,
Nor will they find another nest,
Save the nest that is
This poem.
  Jan 26 Dennis Hernandez
Lucy, cut the rope for a moment
the ceiling is not too strong
to lift the weight of your angst;
Lucy, open the timeworn window
because heaven is closed tonight;
take a look outside, Lucy,
stars are dancing in the sky;
take a look outside, Lucy,
the dusk is waving you goodbye.

The bullet is running away this time,
so put the gun down, Lucy;
the floor is not yet ready
to taste the sad trace of your blood;
walk out of your hell, Lucy,
the rain has stopped burning outside;
don’t try to walk in, Lucy,
because heaven is closed tonight.

Lucy, close your weary eyes;
darkness is too blinding
that it makes you want to kiss the fire
when your sharp tears
rip your soft heart out;
don’t be deceived, Lucy,
by the shadows climbing up the walls,
don’t try to come undone, Lucy,
there’s an angel waiting for your call.

Put the knife down, Lucy,
throw the evil pills away;
step out of your room Lucy,
the light is knocking at your gate;
hold on to the rope for a moment
this is just a single nightmare,
step out of the golden stairs,
do not climb up yet this time;
do not walk in yet, Lucy,
heaven is still closed tonight.
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