It was along the ancient rivers
Where the waters break themselves against
The stones, smooth and polished,
Among the seedlings called words.

In thought, well let us call it mythic
Theory, the river was exposed to the thirst
Of the first men, those who wished an
extension of themselves to the universe.

With a constellation to start them with,
The first Word arose after the first man
Drank from it, the word was Hope
and he picked a small star to mark the moment.

The river was infested with verbs and metaphors,
The man was thirsty for words and description,
He drank with mermaids and sea creatures
From the magnetic water that dripped with life words.

Once he had his share, before he became a poet,
He had to learn a lesson important to being
What he so desperatly wanted to express,
The touch of a woman.....

On a night that was felt as though ten moons
Across, he lay with a first woman as he repeated
The first word into his heart, Hope, the audacious
Nature bother heartfelt and genuine.

And the next day as the sun spring forth the light,
He woke alone and a sudden cold entered,
His passion untamed, his heart recognizes
the abyss, and he began a song of words.:

He who belonged to no one,
Suddenly belongs to the word,
The word was his foundation
And the magic was born in a sullen pain.

A poet was born from a river,
The words a passionate abyss,
The perfect pattern from God,
The verse was born from his heart.

At this hour the walls are black,
They breathe with apparitions as
The sky splits open,
     I am alone as the sun dial walks
Across the stone bodies,
    Where there were once streets and homes
Now lay in waste filled with your
Silhouette of silver memory,
Vast as my Earth at the crossroads
Of eight directions I walk through
a gallery of echoes and the infamy
Of the present,
And the verbiage of the moment carries
       Your luminous spectre,
A master of reflections,
     The dialogue of a lonely poet....

I am but a poem haunted by your ghost,
petrified by the frame of your spectral silhouette.

With the sun settling down,
The huge candor of the dusk settles
In on its spectral enchantments
And its usual "Only God could have done this",
Portico: Where the day is meditated
And the sigh of humbled gratitude sets in,
As the stars form
Across the eyes and her hand
In your own,
It is simply good to have a moment
Between the day,the sky,
and everything in between.

Over the wide cold earth,
You walk back to the door,
By the fleeting pain I endure,
I don't know whether to open
Or close this chapter.
     You come lukewarm in color
And shivering with guilt,
My heart yearns to open the door,
From a word yet to he spoken,
      The essential within which was us
Before you left,
You wear a coat of tears as your
Hand placed flat against the door,
     I feel its presence
And place mine the same.
How much of the soul
      Do you want to **** in me,
To forgive you, to hold you?
Should this be the final sky
    From whence ocean tides once
Touched us, even as gentle air,
Should I open the door in full anguish
In this flowering sorrow,
    My heart nostalgic and broken?

You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.

2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)

3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)

4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.

5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.

6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.

7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.

8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.

9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.

10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.

11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.

12. You write  Peyton Manning farewell poem.

13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.

14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.

15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.

I, who longed to be someone else,
To weigh my words in the scales
Of judgments, to read poetry,
To hand  out my own,
Will see the world invade even here
In this place, once thought to be
An Eden of words, a place to begin again.
I see that I am at last here to face
My destiny, carried by the ruinous envy
And hatred in a war of words,
The intricate labyrinth that are verses
Designed to weave their way through
A site where philosophical change
Of the human condition can be
Discovered and even nurtured
Through words is being held hostage
By those who would not sacrifice ego's
Grasp to better the world around them.

I am an honest man,
With my open book of lies
That my poetry is a kind of reflection
On the life I have been blessed to see,
That poetry is the key to dealing
With all my years, to see the perfection
In desolation that was the beauty of
Some mysterious higher power,
That in the lampshade I write the
Eternal nocturne and I see the world's
true faces, I wait for the circle to close.

And the war of self should not spread
To those whom seek refuge from
Inner shadows, to spar with words is a ridicule
To this artful mirror.
Bow the wars of the self have spread
To poets, and the truth of poetry
Is not that of hope, but something
Much more powerful, the true nature
Of the person, which is animalistic
No matter the pretty words.
And the truth crosses my throat
As a jaded knife,
Poetry wars, oh the humanity.

In every century
You will hear of a comet lost in time;
Haley's was here an eye blink ago,
And the rivers replenish the oceans
One and again.
There will be a small light in the sky
That you will not see tomorrow
Because it is now dead,
And it died millions of years
Before the luminous rays hit
The first womb of Eve.
     There will be children grown
Into formidable singulars,
     And each one is barely here
When the sun yawns, another passes away.
    And when the sky is full
You will count the stars
With your child, just to teach them how
To count.
        The eclipse will haunt one because it is
Like a darkness that comes to visit
       In between one decade and another,
You will question yourself to see
    Where you were before.
And there are premature moons,
     Babies of the cosmos,
And you will name one after your daughters
That brought you to look
Again at the hopeful skies.
    And when you are done here,
As you leave for eternity
To the Blue Sun,
You will look back
And see the tiny miniscule miracle
That was a star being born.

High voltage poetics,
       Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
     In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
      The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
        The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
        Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
      A city
In a day
     In a life
In a person-

    The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
    Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
     A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
     The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
      A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
       The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
     We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
    Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
    Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
     The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
      Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:

   I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
      But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
    Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.

It's stayed stuck in my eyes,
The vision of you walking home
As the old school buses, sluggish
And scattered yellow passed
You by on the infinite road.

     I wasn't following you, I smile.
You don't know how crystal clear
     I remember you.

From the bottom of my soul
A fresh evocative scent forms,
One I can see ,touch, and hear,
I could smell it even today,
I take it with me everyday
Under the maddened carousel
        Of this life.

I am the same wild guy
     Who brought you to his side years ago,
In those moments we are forever.

Don't close your eyes,
The wind has just begun
To sing her song,
The rain had just fallen
To tickle the windows.

And the sounds are an enchantment,
The song of the humming storm
As the night reveals herself,
She is a wondrous traveller
Who catches falling meteors
And turns them into flashing lights,
She waters the ground intent on
Life giving life.

Don't sleep,
The rhythmic nature
Of her kissing the glass,
The crystals she hangs to
Shine in a morning dew
For a magical beginning!

Don't sleep,
She rumbles a world
To isolate the imagination
Between the mind and a pillow
She lulls one to a different world.

And when you do sleep,
Your dreams will be as a lightning's
Child free into the sky
Shooting up into space
Where dreams are born.

Woman: You are not a drug,
But the rehab, the twelve steps
That I could never take alone.

They say in poems that your love
Is like ******, but you saved me
From the needle I stuck in my arm.

And you are no addictive,
But you are my lover,
My best friend, a reason to quit drugs.

I know myself, and you knew me
Better, I could never have seen myself
With out your clarity.

I am an addict,
But you saved me from myself,
You are my grace, and I love you.

I am from everywhere,
My homelands nowhere.

In the final night
Take me to the Constellations.

Now while the words still flow,
While the world is a despairing beauty.

While I am full of life and laughter
And I do not fear the end.

Now while the day is at its peak
And my calloused hands grow stronger.

Today, not on the morrow,
For I do not know any better, or want to.

In the final hour let me die,
Not of death, but of life!

Your body is a Heavenly crime;
I am caught like a mountain
To the sky
And I am certain of your Angelic presence:

I am absent of myself when your naked
Light forms another plain like
A light of bright silhouettes dancing
At the precipice of eternity,
The night in your hair as
The moonlight dances a seduction
That makes Angels fall.
The nape of your neck to your shoulders
Where I mapped my world in a
Cascade of kisses and I am sure
I saw your wings in the dancing shadows.
A thousand sighs around your
Waist as I trace forever with
My touch,
The tongue as it tastes from
A fountain of your flesh:
Daily I drink of you.
Your thighs like a petrified miracle
Tormenting my eyes,
They close that I might drown
The other senses between them.
A painful tenderness in your body,
I make love to an Angel.

Here in the dusk of the day I dilute
Myself into anything:

I am a hummingbird and I go fanning
The flora of the forest,
I move in a slow motion when I watch
Myself fly,
However I am also the wind which carries
Each feather in a flight of fancy,
And soon the Luna dances into my
Fluttering wings and I am lit
By the mist of living water as the moon
Makes them tiny falling stars,
A galaxy is lost in my wings,
And soon I am the rain in the night
As I cover the earth in liquidity
With my falling ways
Giving life to life,
And while the rain I covered
My sad human form walking in the
Afterthoughts of the hummingbird,
As I move into the darkness,
And I remember I am afraid
Of the shadows.

In the birdhouse I built,
The youngling flies off for the first time
Looking back

With hope for you
       I whispered your name

I wanted nothing more than the world for you,
So much,
I invented new ones.

     We made moons at the cliff
In a word of spoken poetry.

   The rivers split
And we became found.
  
     I caught all the petals in the wind
To recreate a flower.

      I taught you how to fly,
And you became a bird.

    I'm just an old fool
           Who pieces together
                  The broken heart.

The night is drowsy and frowning,
      I hear my thoughts aloud
      In forms looming over dimly
      Lit rooms hurling worlds at me.
It is incredibly close, the thoughts gallop
     Confused I plunge into a sea of faceless
     Names groaning, discerning the sorrowful
     Language of half dead stagnant beings.
I see a flash of verses that I grab from my mind
     They speak as a mirror speaks in reverse
     Phrases I spill ink repeating my minds
     Tongues to prove a sanity in the dark.
I am lone into the night,
     I am breathing still as I write with
     No gravity in my hands,
     The words lulling the constellation
     To sleep, one by one a poem is furiously
     Born.
But with night comes a deeper essential,
     I am not certain where the images
     Come from, but sometimes there are
     No words for their form,
     It is a haunting tide of thought.
Today is born of yesterday,
     I write into the morrow,
     Suddenly time is conscious
     And it ticks away watching me,
     And now is passing away into the moment,
The moment is sunk into eternity's nest,
     It is not wasted on a compass of death,
     I passionately write it into life,
    Time is frozen at my inkling,
     I will die of life and death will
     Be a birth.
Vertigo,
       Caught in a lucid rapture
       I cannot name the faceless momentum,
       But it brings more life in the dark,
       No body or soul, just life
Into the words, I am trapped deeply
       In the starlit terrace of my fore thoughts:

I fall away into the poem,
     My eyes have nothing to see,
     I am a 360 degree spherical eye,
     I see the cosmic splinters of time,
My childhood comes to mind,
      The whole of the beginning in the
      Past, a whirlpool of water that flows
      Furiously with eyes closed,
And suddenly I am middle aged,
     Today brand new again,
     The past in my present,
     Becoming omnipresent like
     A ghost petrified into thoughts,
Wind blows through her hair,
      I am in love once again,
      My first love relived without time,
      Timeless like a frozen ice queen,
I have come back to where I was.
     I am in immensity of youth,
  The shores extend like an endless beach,
       The water is crystalline,
Her body is transparent,
    Two rivers become one,
We walk into forever over the water
   In a bridge of time that relapses
Over itself, time looping into
      My very memory,
The jade moon follows her silhouette,
       I am a star crossed fool,
The sun shines at night when
   We held hands.
I blink, and once and again,
I am trapped in the eternal night.

There is no way back,
    The dead are still alive,
The living are suffocating on life,
     On my wall a sea of faces enrapturing
My words,
    All the time I have lived in a bottle,
  I drink drunk on memory,
       The ladder leads to Jacob,
A thousand lives have lived in this night,
     My world remote,
I shrink into the dawn,
     My eyes close,
My final thought:
Where or when have I ever been??

Words are the wombs of a thousand verses
Opening a thousand lives.
A man sees a woman;
Let his love unfurl in a sonnet
Of the trembling soul.
Invent new eyes to see the beauty
In the words of different
Souls giving life to a lifeless thing.

We are the words of life,
We invent new worlds,
We become the memory of the world,
But we are not the dreamers,
We are the dream realised.

Poets, why talk about birds,
Let them soar in your poems!

Because through poets one
Can see beauty in all things,
Life and lifeless;

We are tiny little gods!

There is no distance between stars,
They catch the eye and the hopefuls
Wish upon a glaring dot,
The skin of night has not yet been
Pulled close enough to visit.

Time is a hunger,
The space between us,
Light years!

And to think world peace is
Unattainable in this modern world,
And yet some guy with a bazooka
Sits atop a mountain at peace
With the stars....

Oh the anxieties of the empty abyss,
We fill them with constellations
To make sense of the world!

Maybe one day we will return to stardust,
Time will Jo longer be a hunger,
We will need no one but our light.

Earth is Rock,
We feed upon the notion that we
Are alone, and savagely question
Our faith in the skies,
Shall we fade without ever truly
Knowing one another,
If you don't know me,
Did I ever exist?
Did you?

And we dream on a solitary rock
Where our soul wears the flesh,
But we must dream on the stars
During our ordinary lives!

Sleep now, my daughters of fire,
I have removed the teeth from
The flowers, in your dream there
Will he a crystalline home
At the bottom of the sea.

Your hair like morning dew,
Glistening like constellations,
I have prepared your bed
With sheets of earth and a quilt
Of smooth butterfly wings.

Sleep now, my daughters of fire,
I will watch your dreams from here,
I will be the star you follow home,
You will play in a sea as blue
As the day sky as fish wink at you
Both in a meadow of coral meadows
Riding the sea horses to visit golden fish.

A heavenly body will watch over you,
Sleep now daughters of fire,
The night dove has come to sing
You to sleep, a celestial dream awaits
You, and when you return,
A father will be just as grateful.

Man, whatever bleakness has named
You, I have never seen your face.

I imagine you rugged and more....
More than I had been for her.

I imagine she sees strength in you like
A stone on a mountaintop: loftily perched.

And your hands that have stolen my embraces,
I imagine them smoother than my calloused
Fingers,

My jealousies grow as you see in this poem,
It kills me, every verse that I imagine you....

Are you like this?
Is this the unimaginable lust she has for you,

Are your ears ringing now,
Do you even acknowledge me as her man?

Tell me, tell me if you held her through death,
Did she cry herself to sleep in your arms?

When you see your destiny,
Is she among the constellations you foretell?

I am sure you are quite the lover,
You who now kiss the woman I had before,

You who hold her in adoration,
Perhaps you know why I wanted to live,

Because you have stolen all good from me,
All the hope I had from this verse,

In petrification of my soul
I confess to you I am a broken man.

What divine intervention will seek you out?
Will karma let you be as happy as I was?

In a myriad of solemn thoughts,
I am at a loss for the wrath I hope vengeance has for you.

But treat her well,
Kiss her methodically and with purpose,

And maybe she will show her angelic eyes
Which promise forever, quietly whispering:

I will be here with you always,
So that when the promise has penetrated you,

The divinity you feel at the comfort of her
Lifetime of promised cherishing,

Maybe she will find something else
In another promise of another soul,

Only this thought eases the heavy bitterness
Left in my procession of days.

For now move forward,
Because I am paralysed,

And to the other man,
The burden of me writing this poem.

Emptying memory:
        The sun does not block out
The stars,
        The soul did not absorb them
The water vanishes the fire,
       Petrified light,
Executed dust of old flesh
      In a tomb of earthly thoughts;
The Sol centrally corners the eye,
     Blinded by the word
In a litany of days,
     Crushed hopes fall on nocturnal
Flesh,
     Old as Cain and Abel
As smooth as assassin pagans,
        Kissing the eclipses
In a fit of rage on a wounded bird,
     Theatre of peoples
In a cosmic garden
     Impaling moons
And guillotining the planets,
      Eating fire on burning lips,
A thirst for living water
     And a wisp of gentle air,
A swarm of deities with
Overgrown origins in a circus
        Of faithful,
    The sanctum was exploded
With idealistic dogs licking
     Their own *****,
The amphitheater of man
     Stained with repetitive slow thoughts,
Drunk with light
Hidden in shadows.

I will die enormously in San Antonio,
On a day when my poem trends
For the last time, on a day I can
Already recollect.
I will die in San Antonio
- and I won't fake this one-
Perhaps on a Saturday,
As today is Saturday in Midwinter's
Grasp.
    It will be a Saturday,
Because today I have written this
Poem, these prophetic lines,
I have been inter-dimensional
For too long, perhaps this fleece
Of flesh was meant to die here
In this verse.

    Ernest Gonzales is dead.
He beat himself up like a depressed
Boxer with an emptied punching bag,
Though he rarely fought back,
Life beat him like an ugly dog.

These are the words,
My witnesses, on a Saturday
Reading these lines, the pain
In my chest, the rain, the sorrow,
The lonely roads.....

I do not feel alive so much as when
I am Dedpoet. I do not suffer as my
Alter ego, but I do suffer as a simple
Living being. I do not feel alive as a
Christian, or even a Muslim, or at times
When I am a Pagan. If my name were
Edgar Allan Poe, I would still feel
The sufferings, but not so much alive.
Today I suffer from something deeper,
And being alive is part of the dilemma.

This suffering comes and has no explanation,
It is a sorrow so deep that I feel it was
With me alone in the womb. Where is the
Excitement of life? Where is the fulfilled
Feeling of completed goals? Is it because
I have nothing, so nothing comes
Full circle and becomes a reason?
My depression comes from everywhere,
Like four winds of sorrow spinning
A compass. If I was shot down and taken
From this place, my suffering would
Still be the same, if I came back
Reincarnated I would feel this abyss
Even only in a different body.

I look at the pain of a dying man,
He says goodbye and rights what he can
To those he wronged, But I can find
No redemptive cure for this emptied
Hole inside myself, I am simply in depression.

I always believed a higher power would
Give me a miracle cure for this suffering,
But one's belief is merely the precursor
To death and another life when the suffering
Would end in the divine promise, which is
To say we must be here to suffer and believe
The next life will he a better one. I look at the stars
And wonder about light and dark,
But I have no epiphany, today I am depressed,
Simply and utterly, no matter what happens,
Today is what I feel.

Today it rains like never before,
It wears grace and pain;
It feels like a woman.

The cruel abyss of my cavernous
Heart wears violent black flora
In the furrow of my deep grief.

On this day no one has asked for me,
I pray to God and ask forgiveness
For how little I have died.

This mortal crusade that fasts on emotion,
It wears me like a fleece of flesh
That weeps softly at the soliloquy of me.

I wish I could beat on all the doors
And find good behind anyone,
But I soak in a puddle of self pity.

Destiny has seen to my downfall,
The backwash of suffering welling
Into my soul, today it rains as never before.

This poem has the shape of a mirror,
       The mirror has your face:
  Quick sculptures emerge from the mind,
With grace of fountains it spills,
         Waters of memory
Buried deep in a stormy sky,
     Hexahedrons of every moment
Form a cage of infinite faces,
           I cannot look away.
I sink into the many sided eyes,
        The apparitions of making love,
This poem is your world imperceptibly
          Populating the prisms of my heart,
    The empty rooms grow more
And more secluded,
       I am petrified into your mind,
Your body of light blinding,
   Thick drops of ink bleed from me,
    Final cigarette
Where the dawn comes to haunt,
      A laughter
Like a foliage of sounds
     In the meadow of us,
But you are everywhere
    And not here with me,
I write a passionate calligraphy
    On the dark corridors of the soul,
You are manifest lasting as long
     As these words of shrapnel
Travel the echoes of the polyhedra.

You fall from your body to eternity,
Not to death but in my eyes,
      Your name becomes untouchable,
Falling through a prism of mirrors,
        Each one my memory of you,
The eternal moment is a scattered fable
       As I divide you into words,
Kiss me at the solstice,
         The season bring about separation,
Alter and knife,
         The tremor of the moon on your *******,
Solar lovers in a cosmic body,
         We make two syllables out of love,
We paint the sky unfolding the horizon,
        Transfigures of body and time
The dream realised in another dream,
        I fall into you
             You fall into me,
We meet where the earth and sky kiss....

I met her by the garden
Standing in the middle of bleeding
Roses and burgeoning flowers
Caught in the order of the wind.

She spoke to me:
"Write me anything
And put your soul
At the cusp of the poem"

I wrote her a mountain
And became like a lost
Petal encircling the climb,
Half rhyming in a maddening sonnet.

When I finished the poem
I found her reading my words
And tumbling down the mountain
I had created for her.

I made a bed of lilies for her fall
And she never thanked me ,
" Now go and sley the whitest deer
From the deepest depths of a wintry solace"

I clamored in a sley and rode
Three reindeer to a wintry solace,
I found the whitest deer had snow
Upon his face and a half smile.

In the insanity of whiteness I
Killed the deer whom shed a tear
At the notion he was slain
For a hopeful love.

I came down from that cold place
Into The garden where she awaited,
Her face turned white as snow
At the beauty of the slain white deer.

Half enamored with me,
She gazed upon me like a hopeful flower,
"I cannot leave the garden,
Go and bring me the dove under the veil"

I went straight away to the eternal place
Where love meets secretly,
The dove like a saffron  sacrament
Hid shaking under a veil of secrecy.

And I plucked the dove from eternity,
I showered her with a burst of feathers
And she was smiling picturesque
In the middle of the garden.

"You are almost there my love,
Still I cannot leave the garden,
Bring me the flowers whose color
Is like dreams, I am your woman in the garden"

I could not fathom the request,
What dreams may come are never
Colored one stroke or the other
But painted eternal in the minds eye.

These flowers did not grow on trees,
But on the very soul,
I cut them from spirits,
I cut them from my hopes.

I cut like a wounded lover cuts,
Blind at the pain,
Direct at the intentions,
I cut deep from my own garden.

And when I returned from cutting
The flowers from my own soul,
She was no longer there in the garden
Leaving all I had given.

Burdened upon my very self
I followed her and found her destination,
She was preparing a feast of lovers
Reaping all that I had sewn.

I followed her into the garden once
And again, she goes as an eternal
Flower made of gentle air
Through vast flowers and secrets,

I follow where none else can follow,
Into the love of a woman
In the farthest limits of my heart
Into the maddening love again.

1.You shall not confine beauty, that which is in the eye of the poet charged to show it to the world.

2.There is no poetry better than the other, although your words are different you all bear witness to the soul's confession.

3. You will write freely not to incite popularity but to give truth to this art.

4. You shall never use poetry as self vanity but for exploring the spirituality within each other.

5. You will not be confined to the repetition that you have used in poetry, poetry is an exploration of the self, therefore the words are too an evolution of discovery.

6. The words will be therapeutic and truthful to the self so that you can see the truth in the world to bring about the compassion within.

7. You will bleed your self onto paper and very word will be yours for everyone else, there is no poetry without others to read it.

8. The words shall be as a confession that does not inspire sorrowful outlooks, but it shall inspire into action those who knew no better than before your suffering.

9. Being true to yourself first and foremost is an absolute; if you lie to yourself then how can one be a true person, much less a true poet?

10. Each poem will be a gift to the world, but it will never be greater than your dream and will always be inferior to the most marvelous of dreams which is the art of poetry itself.

To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.

And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.

But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.

Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.

Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.

It is better not to go to Eden
Empty handed, solemnized,
Among the mutilated people.

Even among first fruits, now withered,
The words of poets with their
Pompous thoughts and politics,
They must have thought themselves
Great for survival of the flood,
Groaning at lesser poets in their eyes.

The ominous black thoughts,
They have worded destruction on
To the new poets whom might steal
Their light in a ghostly place,
So that they do not return and we
Are stuck with the same moderation
While falling under an evil spell
Of repetitive words mixed with
Bitter allusions.

When the site turns to "goodbye"
Instead of hello, inside an old enclosure
Creaking with the same ole and their
Followers hoping to be hearted by
Mediocrity and sleepy eyes,
We all lose a little of what this place
Was.

And I will enter the poem hated,
Earning respect the way it should be,
With my words that cannot judge,
With my hearts that have eyes and
Have read your poem,
I will humm along the spider's webs
And see if I can see the hope and reason
Of why any of you write these
Wonderful confessionals.

In the relentless nature of renewal,
The crying of new born poets,
For what is given and taken
In the words of you ,
I will be here,
Renovated alters for your sacrifice,
I will ring the bells
With fluctuating tones,
The affectionate words of your sorrow,
By the light of your dramatic hearts,
There is a poet who does not take sides,
I am here to read and enjoy,
Either in the light or the dark,
The intimate poetry that is you.

Liquid days when the morning
Mist whispers and the woman's
Touch softens in bed under
The pelting romance of raindrops.

Moist Earth of liquid hearts, when
The solitude melts away from
The the tumbles grey and the
Light flashes across the myriad
Of sky tirelessly crackles and lifts
One out of the depression.

Steaming Earth, when the body
Is melting like clay in summer's
Tears, when two become one in
The moist of the Rivers, water turns
Into life and the soul is freed
In youth.

Wet Earth when the Angel's tears
Cry for their knowingness,
Who wish to make the Fall
And bathe in the love of man,
Petrification of the motivated as
The tears flow down un-sinning .

Rain upon the Earth,
Like a woman in her bath,
The stress falling away with
Each droplet,
The edification of her day,
The supplication of living water,
Up on the squall we dance
In thought ,inciting the flood
Within a liquidised existence.

My Cousin Frank once
Came to spend a weekend
With the family at a state park,
He came with bongs
And a habitual prestige of
*** smoking.

He would light a ****
In hiding but would
Not blot out the smell
As a show for his pride
As a smoker.

      I was a here and there
Kinda smoker, couldn't roll
To save my life or the last
Of the bag, but amidst the late
Night drinking in the gallery
Of faces round the fire,
Came my time to take a few hits.

( I began a soliloquy of morbidly humorous
Topics which no one thought was funny)
As midnight hour came, Cousin Frank
Came to the unpopular guy who
Couldn't handle his smoke.
He lit another and began
A soliloquy of his own,
Rather I think I just spaced out.

     He went to bed and I stayed
Wondering about apples and grapes,
In the starlit terrace of the infinite
Possibility of fruits,
Thankful Frank had brought
Such philosophical ****.

a deluge,
         a flood,
water flows
          as a seedling
drowns itself in a word
inaudible            deaf
the fertile ages like a promiscuous fire
         buried with flames
passion                 bound to the world
by passion            it is also released

           man the animal
           speech craft of a deserted tongue
filtered                 thoughts retreat
         to fallen realities
sorrowing confusion revolves
      around the charred light
burn the natural flower
      let loose the animal craving
drink of the chalice
from the fictitious mind
         all the world on fire

animalistic morality
      the flame circles
the weeping lion
amidst the penumbras skin
     they weep for the magnetic night
burning inside a compassionate luminosity

        man/animal
a surge of atonements
for the rage inside us

Hair unpinned,
Half smile,
More like a half moon
That shrugs off the day.

Arm at your side,
Like an angry mother,
Glued eyes to towards
Me and your presence
Exploded into my memory,
Subliminal walk skywise rises.

The weary fall
Through which you see the world,
The weary rose you were
As your presence burns through
The cold.

The portrait of your figure
As your memory
Burns the epitaph of your presence
Into the windows of the soul.

My eyes cover you
      With a warm rain
Of stares,
     The morning comes
Like a singing spiral,
      Your body of foliage
Opens like a meadow
    As you arise from bed.
The gilded light
    Sifts through your blouse
And your body burns
    Through the silhouette.
Coffee,
          The vertical hour awake,
Your laughter is everywhere,
      I take your hips of light
And make love at the cliff
     Of the day......

Eros,
whose armor wears the red fire,
Whose prodigal body lies in the deep
Carpet of the forest dreaming
Of divine things,
Here He awakens from vast sleep
In a repose of anciently wonderful
Dreams and wanders through the expansion
Of the current age of men:

"Ancient words never spoken,
Flayed hearts I feel calling in abstract
Places with dizzying geometric scales,
Man, woman, the call like the lyrical
Madness of the heart."

Formidable cement glass raised
Up by the incalculable ingenuity
Of the empty spirit of men,
Anonymously spoken messages
Without history of literature,
Pessimism reigns down upon
A heal of bones praying to
Gods on waves of cellular destruction.

Eros, fallen star
In the endlessness of time
Hath awakened to the ineptitude
Beneath half opened eyelids,
Lost girl in a tunnel of quartz
Lost in hapless energy
In the marrow of Internet's
Granite.
"Where are the hopeful lovers?
The spirit in subliminal wounds
Of passion, when the emotion pours
Like a fountain of wishes,
Where is the pillar of men who
Astonished angels with his ferocious
Love of the woman?
I remember men were passionate
Beasts, whose hearts were flames,
Whose words were psalms of red vapor
To a scarlet queen, the silence here
In a digitally martyred evocation,
Where has the romance gone?"

Eros,
He has fallen silent to the worlds
Web widened by its absolute
Unredeemable fashion,
Eros,
The dark brilliance of sadness reaches
Even your heart which is unfathomable,
You devour the passionate
And spew it among men.
The young used to live in water
And all was charged with eternity.
Men are broken in the computerized
Abyss, filled with pop up romances
In a flux of desire which points
To a disappearing saffron flecked
With sorrowing petals,
Texting the familiar calls of lust ,
Eros never though the house of
Aphrodite could disappear!

"I aim my arrow at the old man
In a moonlit patio whose heart
Calls to older things,
Like the embryonic love
In the lovers womb sparking
The mass reproduction of a
Nourished partner,
His ending commenced,
His heart nailed in hope to the sun.
There is no page for this man,
No .com could suffice as the wheel
Of days spin in a long procession,
He hopes on hope,
He does not consume himself,
But holds true as a young lover would,
The woman that lit the fire
Of his years gone but alive
In a spectral glare in his eye.
Love alive as death arrives."

Eros,
Given hope from the dying,
Fixing the world around a passionate
Moon, stilled the light in one man
And charged it to the world in age
Digitally broken of passion
And set it upon the arrows that he fired
From air and sky embarking
A new flame in a time of computerised
Tombs.

Eros, the ever hopeful.

Once, when forever was merchantmen
And time sold in bottles,
Once, when the nocturnal Almighty
Opened the skies to eyes of stars,
I had wings that existed wholely
Like two sides of an ethereality
With the miracle of an illusionistic existence.
       Wings which sang unto open blue
Skies with all the light of a star,
Wings flashing like a storm lightning
And the caress of the moist rain at my
Feathers, the calm of the night.
     I was an angel right?
Once with glory and rhythm
And all the harmony of ineffably
Clear minded hope, did you not pray
Upon the dazzlingly Divine,
Like mercy in flight over the
Sprawling desolation?

Yes, yes I have taken the fall,
The ravenously singular fall
For the lust of a woman and twisting
The Heavens, but I have awaoken suns,
Flown with meteors and shedding
The brilliance of light in the dark,
Even the fullness of the Cosmos
I have known since before when
I danced with constellations and evoked
The deeper lyrical prayers
Of madmen!

One day,
I will lay upon the exhausted earth,
Fall asleep upon the deep soil,
I will dream infinite things once
Again, and I am still in love with you.

The sorrowful birds seemed less enchanted,
Like a forgotten holocaust beating
In agony, the silent grey of dawn
Set forth over the mystery.
Under perplexed veils I call
Forth the lost days of depressing
Symbols, like a raven in the distance,
A storm smothering its deathly gaze.
     And when alone the sparrow
Refused to chirp, instead wallowed
In the quiet solitudes of the lucid
dreaminess of the bitter infinite grey.
      Earth offers its deathly gaze
As a meager conteplation in the
Grey of the early Winter displaying
Her snowy apron like some dark matron.
Gradually the day drags obeying
Time, slow to the mind of a sad one,
Preoccupation of illusions,
Like a poets inane blank page,
A wind minded sadness flying
Through darkened pupils:

A grey irony forms,
A crow cloaked as a hope
Cries to the infinite grey;
"I will always love you,
Though you abuse me."

I dreamed a glacial moment,
Where time ends or begins,
I was hopeful the grey would
Never end and I could wear
Its sad dark velvet with its
Perjured love and scorned existence,
I follow the shadow of storms
Searching for the torment with in,
The bleakness is a grey day with
The sun hiding its hopeful radiance.

Above the spine of snow,
Calm ,white; and here floats
Ice crystals from a dead storm,
And there in the snow a child wins
With a snow ***** chance.

The frozen scapes- grey nostalgia-
With a peculiar memory
Recalls itself in its snowy drifts
And mania like senile tundra.

To add the sum of January
In enthusiastic forms of child play
Like a snow man in fleeces,
The memory is fused.

And far away,
Dreaming maybe of an abstract
Freeze in the heartfelt snow
A child is warmed by the memory.

Oh Aztec watching from your
Rustic home, for my dignity
Do you have any advice?
For my poor state of being,any riches?
No wisdom for my inexperience?

Oh Aztec warrior who lays brick
For homes he will never own,
Don't you understand by right of
Superiority and sweat and blood
And tears from tyranny this should
Be your dream as well?!

Don't you see the Spaniards robbed
You once and the Europeans once again
Stole what is rightfully yours?
Don't you know you are Aztec?

Aztec, mighty spear in hand,
Or is that a shovel?
Your eyes with proud gleam in them,
Or is that a tear of despair?
What are you here for Aztec?
Why have you silenced the dreams?

Oh race of my forefathers,
Bring about the impenetrable heart,
The joy with pleasure,
The suffering with grief;
Tears of the Aztec sun!
Yours is the blood in my veins,
By that blood blank stares at the
Liquor stores,
I swear by that blood that I will
Rise once again and once more
Into the day of my life and fill
My song with a forgotten pride,
I will wonder where the Aztec
Has gone, though his dream
Remains unseen, his people
Remain in shards.

Each vulture has its ugly profile
As if abruptly God did not feather
Its face.
Yet its pure flight with enflamed
Eyes that see the dead as they leave
The body, it perches among the oak
Under the hilly peaks.
His featherless face like a hanging
Veil from the face of the sky.
There among the fields of death,
Wings like a sudden dark cuirass
He cruises like an ancient idol
Wrapped in air,
His talons like daggers into
The sacrificed.
He goes deep into the sky enveloped
In splendid light watching souls
Leave the enormous earth.

Insanity is a somber flow of waters;
Its rain above the gentle mind
Is a murmur of moaning thoughts
Ina crooked wind, a subtle chill
In the distant breeze.

Suddenness like air breathed
In torn skies, among the vivid blue,
The thoughts collapsed to the startled
Earth like a great ceiling of copper
And shadow.

The Asylum beneath the slow shadows
In a lunatic fringe upon thistle fields,
Flowering Insanity's bloom like
A vibrant Willow under a filtered sun.

The liquid pain in tangled clots
Of distant sanity unlocking
A rapid downpour of condensed
Versions in reality's mixed afternoon.

The Asylum takes in the deep grief,
The rain takes a pause,
The day long and sad,
In the greyish distance the light
Hits though the smallest window.

Restless eyes,
The luminaries winking,
The night, as if were
The Moon's stage of solitude
Shines vast in the nocturnal glory,
Revealing silken flattery,
The gentle light caresses.

There is a connection
Of the luminal glow
To the eyes whose mind is
Trapped in a cavernous shadow
While fathoming uselessly
Unto the revolving clockwork
Of living,
Like a trance between
An unknown familiarity.

Thoughts carve out timelines
In jigsaw's grip,
The Moon is a portal
In deafening silence,
Faceless memories guided
By forgotten constellations and
One realises the depth of life
And the race of time,
And come sweet soul searching
In the needs of the spirit while
Trembling from regret.

The solitude is an ocean
Keeping one afloat in a
Suspended profile,
Crystalline clarity like a mirror
In polyhedrons,
So much reflection in restlessness.

And we can drown
In this ocean bathed in the Moon,
Like reliving or redoing
All the past making it so
Pure only our souls know
The life lived in another version.

When the thoughts calm
Into the the minds realignment,
The light becomes forgotten
And the nocturnally calm of the spirit
Flies to live another life;
All that remains is the solitude.

A rolling hill
With suffocating oaks
Under the dire grey of sky
Pass along the dire straits
Of the Ded.

And the Ded do speak
Like silent auras wandering
In poetical forms,
From the Ded they embrace
The pain and sad skies.

Slowly they walk the desolations
And bring forth the balance
Of the darkness's and a
Black rose blooms.

Once alive the Ded searched
For hope;
But the self absorption
In the heavy skies
In the mind's prison
Hold a still terror,
The Ded walk among marble slabs
Of light.

When I was young
And a stranger to the world,
With an empty canvas of imaginings
And rhymes,
A fiery red blaster at my hip,
My spirit submitting to the innocence;
My remembrance holds in its selective
Elegance an always evolving memory,
Distinct and treasured
And my soul renders itself
To the innocence of the
The infinite possibilities
Of the moment.

Polychromatic lovers-
I open a window,
Open wide toward radiance
That descends into the primitive
Depths of a fiery spirit,
There upon a mural splendid
I did see like into dreams
With incomprehensible clarity....
Windows like lights reflecting moons
And daily the gaze fills the abyss
Open wide toward uncertainty
And hallucinating destinies,
Window, open window,
Crystalline glass of the soul.

Swat the butterflies whose wings
Decieve the poem and inscribes
Its colored brilliance on gilded flights;
There is no grace to his clunky
Flying and brings repetitive hooplah
To the natural poem and steals
Its personable voice.

Every language has a flow of poetry
Whose inner soul derives of the
Course of one's harmony and rhythm,
And using a star of butterflies in every
Poem brings about the very sameness
We all suffer from daily.

See the beauty in a vulture
Whose glide is magnificent
Spreading his wings in silent
Flight above rolling hills.

His beauty is not that of the
Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably
Graceful and finding its natural
Poetic flow is deeper still.

Vengeance, since you cannot
Vanquish my thirst,
Where is your power,
Where is your bloodlust?

       There is no vengeance
To carry away all the love I felt
For the One taken.

Vengeance, you cannot touch me
After the years have melted your
Full peak, and Peace grows inside
Me, fuller and larger,
The more I remember the love.

The days can raise colorless
Born among mysterious everybodies,
The Sad Ones carry shreds of darkness
With them tangled in the fringes
Of their lives.
They cannot drag another down,
They give happiness where
None can be taken,
They can illuminate
The saddest people and take
Their pain like an offering.
They walk among the souls
With silent faces and drowsy
Existence.
The Sad Ones
Disperse into the Winters' depths
Where winter honors grey days
And starless nights.
From their secrets or pains
Come a gathered endurance
And can illuminate with
A wisdom of regret and sorrow,
Like colored plumes of dark flora
They roam spinkled among
The masses to bring the bright side
Of things they know nothing of.

They have wings,
The Sad Ones do,
Gentle but firm wings gilded
In murmured words never spoken,
Winds of the lovers never taken,
Watching moonrises
Over sighing waves.
Their home is a lonely peak
Where clouds sit on mountains
And forever remain,
There they reflect on the sadness
Of most kisses and symbolic love.
And they are forgotten when
The people encounter them,
Though misery loves
A little company, the others do not
Stay in the dark.

The Sad Ones,
They are dreams forgotten,
A smile returning,
The bring about the light for others
In their dark lonesome hearts,
They are hidden away like memory,

And they keep other smiling
As they sigh above the moonlit waves
Sighing in the darkness.

A God visits a city,
An Omnipotent One whom
Walks among the dire,
And a woman passes through.
Suddenly she sees God
And her face falls to the ground,
Her blood runs cold
And she feels death coming to her.

But God was confounded,
In all the scared places
In all the faces of even astonished angels,
And the Holy spirits that stopped
To witness the moment,
God did not bring about
Her final moment.

And God remained silent
Outstretching His arms.

But the quaking woman would not
Raise her face from the dust
Where people trampled
On the concrete day in and day out
In inept and rushing,
Still even more a lone tree
Buried among the concrete jungle
Shook in fear,
And the consecrated moment changed.

God,
Mercurial and fiery,
Compassionate and understanding,
Did not and could accept
The woman's reaction,
God with His arms outstretched
Would reach for every human,
And every human still
Trembled in His presence.
And God left the city,
His amorous presence could
Not inspire the people with
Holy reactions of love and embrace
For their true Father.

And God went unto the Heavens,
Arms outstretched,
Alone and omnipresent.