here
even eagles dare
not enter

a snow capped peak
where
meteor showers fall
and
gods routinely visit
to pay obeisances
to the solitary mendicant

that being for whom
all things
animate and inanimate
are equal
and worthy of compassion,
this eternal resident
of gang rinpoche

© 2017

I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill

Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?

Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight

To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside

E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here

Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too

Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace

If freedom means
To not need
To ask for permission

Why does it cost
So much
And many a pretty penny

Life like re-enacting
Civil wars and holocausts
Conditioned for submission

The battles with ourselves
Already lost
All ready at a loss

So many without
Such pretty pennies
To show for

Only the cross,
Only the burdens
And the shameful guilt

Unworthy and unfit
Already at a loss
Born to silt and subdegation

I try to avoid confrontation
Nothing said in conversations
When all we do is cuss...

And still we are proud
To have the freedom of speak and say
How the prey will pray

(For you)

These times we consume
In a spherical cage
Of our own doom...

Some weeks after they shot
my father in the face
and my mother in her stomach,
I could feel the joints
of my bones, the ***** popping
in the loose sockets,
all pain, like the ****** of nails,
their rusting in friction.
The same anorexia could be
seen on the scrawny
gait of our dog that had already
forgotten the taste
of fish heads my father grilled
on coconut charcoal,
my mother stewed in vinegar
or I deep-fried to crisp.
Gray, his foreign name, barked
before dashing out
towards the avocado tree not yet
in season, a collision
between a hardwood and a skull,
his body on the ground,
the dimming gaze a quiet begging,
his nod letting me live.

Before my uncle
Johnny "Cash"
González died,
I had already ******
my Russian girlfriend
countless times
and in several positions.
He told me about
wearing condoms,
gentle *******,
which my girl liked,
and bongs for ****.
He was against ******,
hitting women,
and spit as ****.
Because of his insistence,
I could play the guitar,
read chords,
and sing blues.
He also taught me
how to roll dice
and bluff in poker;
it was all about
tricking eyes
and ****** up hands.
Right before
he closed his eyes,
he whispered and laughed
that I was ready to make
the world cry.
I got it when he said
******* and kisses
were the kept secrets;
beer not water
was fuckingly good
for filtering smoke;
die or dice,
about surviving
in the streets of sharks;
Folsom ... Blues,
a prison song;
or man's worth,
his **** and pride.
But world crying
sounded Greek to me.
Not into poems,
flowery words,
or emotional ****,
I had no clue
until I stabbed
my girlfriend's brother
who wanted to **** out
his sister for dope.
He hurt Oksana and me
and tested my manhood.
I was prepared to go
to jail for that disrespect.
So I willingly did
to stay there for a while,
and the world cried.
My childhood buddies,
friends at work,
and even neighbors
showed up to console
my mom and dad.
I was a good kid
with a good personality
and a good job
and a good future.
My baby sister
Elena Marie
suffered from asthma,
and I made her sob;
that ******* hurt,
and her hug was tight.
The trial began,
and my lawyer argued
self-defense;
that ****** was no saint.
Eventually I received
a unanimous acquittal,
but was never the same.
I used what I learned
from my dead uncle,
preyed on anyone,
and did not really care
if the world wailed.
Last spring
it was writing poetry
in New Folsom.

I didn't get
your lick last
on my cheek
or hear you
bark for bye,
but the stare
glassy-eyed
and asking
for revenge
from a child.
I tried peeing
in the steel
bucket used
to fetch water
and then boil
your cut meat
they abused
with salt, but
I just couldn't
make a drip.
The walking
green camou
pants nearby
and the heavy
boots pacing
back and forth
to startle me,
I whimpered,
while the garlic
was burning.

You're willing to die for a country
That will exclude you from being able to serve.
You're willing to **** for a country
That still thinks a Bible is a valid argument.
You're willing to contribute to a conflict
That isn't as big a threat to your life
As the people you've vowed to protect the liberty of.
And you do it again and again
With a fraction of the respect patriots demand veterans are entitled to.
Because you've decided to put the needs of the complacent
Above your own human rights.
And you'll get no thanks from them,
Because they can't sleep easily at night
Unless they can rip off your clothing and see what's in your pants.
And if it doesn't add up to their image?
You can sacrifice your life for theirs and they'll still call you a freak.