We are supposed beings
In  thought
Made of infinity,
Passed by momentum,
Mediocre wonders
In a marvelous prison
Whose door
Leads to
A universal soul!

What I write is an expression,
One that I can never just tell
You.

What I say I couldn't write because
I never meant to hurt you.

That's the poem
And you,
The difference
Is reading one
From the other.

To whom one is loved,
To be loved delivers
In return
A natural state of what
It means to be human.
And all along the river
As the waters whisper moments
In a running stream
That makes what bearable
Pre existing emptied
Soul poured into the flesh
And left to settle into the dust
What one can manage,
Only the love returned fills
The soul,
And family, friends ,
And lovers begin the end
In a flash so bright
It blinds a star
And what is born is life,
Each a tiny universe unto
The self,
A portrait of a person
For better or otherwise
Solidifies the magnification,
Love is Spirit,
And I am magnificent,
Because I know I will
Die of life,
And I lived,
All that one can do....

There are no words
Yet a poem is birthing itself
Out of the kiss of your lips
That burned
The moon's faded light,

Yes my pen is on fire,

It burns after the touch
Of the prophets words
And the fruitions of our bodies;
We bring about the end times
As we long for the next encounter.

Yes, tonight the poem is born,

Born in the eye of the storm
A thunderous peace that
Falls as I seed you eternal
Flame and cool the desires
That dissolves the liquid drops,
Rain down on me!!

Yes, tonight my pen is on fire,

And it burns,
The hole in my existence
When I am not naked
Next to you and the day
Is born into us
As first light ignites your silhouette into the scape of
The bedroom, and the fire begins
Again, again,

My pen is on fire,
Too hot to hold,
So I drop it here at the
End of this poem
And burn alive in the
Passionate touch
Of our bodies engulfed,
We burn the liquid flames!

......the paradox was not a mysterious precious singular reason,
     As he breathed life into
His own lungs,
For daily he seemed to live like this,
The wound he wore on his chest
Like a reaper of life,
    A blood wound so thirsty
Its vampiric torture on those
Closest was not life but an
Embellished form of whimpers
Not some courageous
Yell to justified glory,
    It frustration was at
A poem or some form of
A form that gave it's bitter
   Deliverance grace
So that all might hear
Such a didsain with
Fanciful words more for word's
Sake, the ears silken flattery,
    The mundane use of glorified
Flutter,
  He wrote the weak
And a theasurus well thought
Made it strong,
    As it was read,
The mundane echoed
From an empty seat,
An empty word
From a cup once full.....

I want to chisel away
That outer layer that calloused
My voice,
  It's always toughest when
The words bounce of like
A hardened clay I did not
Mold,or intend to mold,
But shapes I don't recognise,
    Climb the ladder of your
Walks that you take alone,
Whenever you come back
You seem to have ascended
To some higher place,
    An experienced wall
Between us,
The hindrance of your sweet
Melancholy that seems to
Grace the dead petals at the
Sunken Gardens, where the water drowns
The plants but is still the life
Of all that is,
Breathe,
I want to understand
Why I don't understand,
And why each time I ask
You, you gaze up at me
And smile with those
Eye's of solitudes,
   You confine me to these graces,
And I forget why I asked
At all....

I have never met such  
A universal conundrum
As the God of my truth,
The God of my folly.

You need God in your life,
They told me once when
I was drowned in to a river
Baptised by a southern gentlemen,

The snakes like the feel of
Grass on their bellies I thought,
And yet get whacked with a
Shovel once discovered;

What did I do to God to get
Born and then asked to find
Him, some glorified game
Of Hide and seek and ye will find?

Still there is no driving force
In this world as to who is right,
Or who is wrong on God's Monopoly board game, the dice roll

And it's my turn,
This poem might burn in hell,
But if I get a get out of hell free card, I might as well finish
The game.

How your arms reach
Like the moonbeams
Over the Mexican jungle,
Only the smallest tips
Of light enter over her canopy,
    The vanity of
The first moon of the wet season,
The escaped light that hits
The grounds,
  How little the canopy
Can be seen when
Planted so firmly to
The ground!

I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
     But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
    As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
   I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
    Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
    Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
     How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
    And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
    Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
   Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
    And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
   Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.

These old sidewalks
Are still being poured,
Uncemented in my mind's
Evicted memory,
   Still as I walk them
With regards to the past,
When everything is changed,
    I loosened the locks on
Memoires that fall off the side
Of cliffs onto
Some ravine no one will recognise as once up so high.
    Here on the street,
With knuckles clamped
As if another Street fight might occur,
Though the innards of
My seasoned being
Archive the rotation
Of memory's grip,
    Such a daunting thing
To be grateful for all
The pain,
    I imagine ducking from
Grazing bullets,
  Eating laying down in the living
Room, privately
     To my self,
The self takes refuge here.
    A silent thing that creeps
Up
When times seem bad,
    One cam remember the worst,
And that 12 year old
Would smile,
Laydown and have some
Dinner shaking his head
With a humble smile.
    I think it's OK
To walk the worst
When things are bad,
   It's being like an old soul
Waving at a new born,
Experience is funny
Like that.

Along the the beach
With skies coated grey
And a feeling of brooding
Sentimental reasons,
   The feeling of today
Gathered inside and repeated
Itself to me,
A walk through the wind
And the familiar ripple
Of my wind breakers
Whisp in the air,
   A familiarity rolls over me
And a sordidness of recollections
Flowers like a lukewarm
Spring day only half way
Flowering,
   Still waiting I trek into thoughts;

  I met once with fingernails
Adorned in a slobbish black,
Dirt filled and a sigh,
    She spoke to me in her
College plaid joggers with a
Sweater bearing another school,
  And we spoke of the dirt,
Simply and plain of how it
Had gotten there.
   And working in dirt
Brought a great day into
My life,
   Oh lover of words and
A philosophy of conversation,
   How the wind wept that day,
And the familiar greys peeking out,
   Unspoken yet here today
Sneaking in a familiar
Resonance,
    Today is today again,
A hint that this will be yesterday
Too.

There is a natural melancholy
To this season,
The departing leaf
And it's burnt graces
Of a cool wind that chills
The Aloness inside,
   Songs seem to fall away
From birds,
   Here there is hope in
The fleeting moments,
A promise of cold
And the warmth of Winter's
    Insisted grasp.

There is no time
As you time passes through
Eye's perpetual needle
And a basic understanding,
      There are no seasons
That resonate forms and certain
Needs,
   There is not enough time
For anger and happinesses,
Only that it remains equal
In the chaos of a a hurried
Mind,
   A flutter into tornadic
Expressions,
A desire into a yearning fire,
Indirectly the season gives
A feel,
The cold winter she walked
Into the wind and her hair did
Not move, time does not beat
There, but arches into
A future,
    That summer the sweat
Off your brow bought the car
Of a dream in a dream,
   Carefully time snuck by
And perfected a moment's
Theory,
    A man needs both time and
Stillness to recognise that
All is fleeting,
And the only thing real
Is the mist,
In the mist
A temporal moan.

A regards to the singlular
Chaos,
But life dwelling is not a
Trek alone:

   I forecast order in a feminine
Touch that clouds the menacing
Aloness,
That order feminine
Which will throw away old
Things lukewarm in my
Memory,
The old cup that barely bears
The insignia of my team,
An order feminine which will
Prearrange all the chaos
And let me fill it's orders,
A space all my own,
A dusty garage
And all the feminine order
Will not follow me there,
But direct like a good woman
Does pushing behind every man.

An oder feminine like the sweet
Smelling home she scents
As with everything she touches,
    The chaos will never truly
Die,
It will slumber and awaken a few times a week,
An occasional game and fire and meat,
And filling in the time
Between the spaces,
An order feminine
Diguises a brute and differs
Into a man.

Tell me if you heard this one,
I was at a bar,
Ok that's it but the rest is mine,
I was at a bar last night
Sifting through slurs
And undulating whimper
On daily pestful subjects
I thought should be left at home
Or be drunken under the table,
           And in the jungle
Of blurr a voice like a tiny God
Came to me and said
Things that didn't make sense
    But sounded so alluring at
Ear's tickle,
   Such words shouldn't be
Wasted in a bar with a variety
Of urban sloths and various
      Creatures that remind
Me to leave the bar at 1
Because I might take one home
With me at 2.
      I took her words
And sifted through them
Like I imagine God would
When He makes a soul,
    Saying, you're going to hell
And your going to Heaven,
    Since I could tell her
Verbiage was passive and rehearsed,
     Such beauty wasn't meant to be spewed,
    Under a tortured light
That shows the faint
Lines under everything
I said to her,
" Baby, shut up, lets make beautiful music together! "
     Little did she know
She didn't have a chance,
     Poets never do against
A musician.
    Suckers!

Sub-atomic strings,
Each flailing in a solar system
        Deep under eye's
Reach,
    Taken at present
With a grey gloom under
  A Fall wind's coming,
      The first steps
Like a toddler graduation,
       Vacating the spaces
In a perception one's own,
          
     Sub-atomic,
Tiny presences,
     A walk alone
Between the spaces.

3am or same day yesterday,
Now,
Opened the blinds,
Pitch black,
A dance of shadows,
Watching slumped
Full attention at a moment's
Snap,
Order in the chase,
Cigarettes steady stream
Lights flicker at eye's corner,
     Animal nocturne
Domesticated wild.

All along the rain road,
Stopped, like a solitude ray
Escaping the glooms grasp,
Along the ways aglow,
Evening,
Perhaps morning,
Mixed waters in the midst
Of a formless cloud,
      Colored grey or under
The brightest light,

A wandering mind
Never at its now,
     Only then can he be,
Occupancy time
And bellowed grief through
   Mists of thought,
And luminous it may,
How stars see city's night,
    His cloud follows into
The sun,

All along rain road
Slithered in presence,
A wet summer heat
Forms in the cab still,
      Rolling in a flutters drop...

Where the first candle was lit
At midnight mass,
You greaved forward the light
And blessed the joint,
Took a puff and inevitable
Like the cries of the kids
Chasing the raspa man,
Said puff puff pass.

Over summer 95 with
An eternal cusp of weathered
Youth we drove the neighborhood
In the Accord I was given,
At times I believe for graduating Jr High, your unbeatable design
To get us laid was never like the fated quartet moon
That you held in respect almost
Soldier like.

   Remembered C-5 Galaxy and the base we could never get into,
    A roar of sunset glow and the
Colors we flew for our street
Wer more than the rainbow
Could bear,
   A spectrum of a place and
Time that only
A whispered gallantry when
    You took that knife for me,
Always the duo,
Once alone,
Taken with the ways of men.

    I did nothing  with my
Pano, the red handkerchief
That all the homiez through
In a sea of red,
I swear I heard the Taps
Being played by Carlos Santana,
I took a breath and lay
Out a cry,
     One that still runs the barrio,
Mi amigo,
Once the road in a present dream
Taken like the winds
And a memory's glance,
    You are there
And I still,
My Friend,
      Westside intangibles.

Who gave the heart the beat;
Life blood and destroyer of
Lives,
The tree with roads branching
And the destiny unfolds
In an implacable red,
Luke Autumn's kiss to the wind
And the grace of a falling leaf
Emitting the eternal harmless
And sweet,
Love and a kiss of many deaths
As every moment is a lifetime.

A silence of the tears
Made in the resolve
Of the inner sanctum
In a warm embrace of all
That was and is no more.

Take it to the sky
And limit the pain
With a full hope and empty
The cries that never let out
In a thunderous peace
That can take all the
Hurt an pain
And joy and love
Wrapped into the grace of the
Encountered moment.

The storm which rages
And takes on life as a feeling
Or a thought;
A surge of energy
That keeps in the synergy
Of a non perfect existence;

Rage on life which isn't a feeling
But an existence
How to see fit to
Cloud over the land of your mind.

So I breathe words into
A subtle chaos,
Il portrait a poet that lost
And gained insanity's
Gambit;
Flame into the ice cold heart
And scream from
Drowned lungs
"MORE!"
And it's given where nothing's
Bloom is in full swing,
Take me from this disastrous love
That makes me want
The life passion
In forbidden whispers....

I am Ded inside
So why feel an eruption
Of life when death chases
Me and mind bending
Paranoia takes the place
Of normals paradoxical
Existence;
Nevermore?
Ever more!!!

I live to die of life,
Crazy as it seems,
Feels right.

Take me as I am,
I will find myself
With a gun to survive me
And a bullet to take all the
Paranoia;
Love the other side
Take the flowers grave
And plant it on the fields
Of sorrow.
I wash my hands of you,
The other one internal:
I **** again,
Another sin, death maternal.

Take it away,
Not this life,
But that one I don't want to live
When I am forced to survive.
I don't want the gun
But it Seems to find me,
I left it in the past,
What's in front of me,
Follows behind me.

**** me,
And death becomes you.

When one was never two
And the reverse doubled
Becomes positive,
I remember links to an
Abandon page
And the effluent nature
Of the voice,
Spoken at odds at the edge
Of yesterday.

Where have we gone,
The soul is A tired old man
Forever told in a web of time,
Take this away,
Numb the years gone cold
In a river one ends
And begins in the sky's
Tearful rejoice.

That I took a deep breath
And found a complicated
Sigh;
I often wonder of the
Two existences,
When life can smile
At death's birth.

I felt the blade cutting
Tje mirrors eye,
She was cold like a fevers
Body,
Brazen when she held the
Life of me,
Lettimg go at the precipice
And falling into the extreme
Suddeness of who she
Became,
A razor cutting life from me,
Piecing me back together.

Such an immortal wound
To the momentary quiver.

I can't take it,
So I wrap it up
As a gift of words,
And poetry becomes
An emotion,
And I can be,
And I can live,
Here right now,
Poetry,
Life in words.

I swim in your glances,
The sea of awkward depths.
I see you look away,

A moment flutters and forbidden
Is just the beginning.
Fall into the dusk hours
As the darkness falls
And the shadows form
Over your body,
the whiteness of your skin
Becomes a pale kiss to the
The moonlit desire,
You flash a smile.

I feel a lifetime.

In the dark riding the light
Of your skin,
I become the shadow in the
Crevise and curves of your
Body,
My body over your body,
My body into your body.

Kiss the night,
Die into the desires,
Breathing your flesh,
Exhaling pleasure.

And it is a war of Worlds of worlds,
My mind versus you.
In the flow of the river
I began as a drop
Filtered at the edge of the moutain
Becoming what a perfect intention
Usually flowers into.
At the precious moment
I left an eternity of thought.
And all i see has passed me by
When the present was gifted
And abnormaly
Absent from minds eye.

Is not in my pen,
Not in these words.
Not in my breath,
Speaking broken verbs.

It not my book
Of lost sorrows,
Or writing audascious
Hopes for lost tomorrows.

It is when I fight
To get out of here,
Lost in the poem
With life oytside so near.

The curse of words
Is that we are there but not,
Writing thé moments
Where present eas forgot.

I take the time
To take the time,
A moment in its pursest
With no reason or rhyme.

Just be.

I apologise on behalf
Of myself,
I am not here at present;
I will be here later
When I am in a reflection
On a mirror which was
Born by the ripples of memory
On an empty ocean of my thoughts
Which mirror a light in
The spectrum the eyes cannot
Fathom.
And I will say what I should
Have just as my tongue fell
To the floor at that time
When my mind was elsewhere.
I apologise
Because I wanted to be there
In the moment,
But my moment was elsewhere
In a time past
Or in a time to come
When I will not be there either,
And I will miss it then too,
And catch myself
Later from the time before
Or that which never happend.

And every place is terrible
When at present the mind
Is somewhere else.

I want to be alone,
And someone to be alone with,

Crowding eachother
In an Empty heart,

Dark stars entwined
In a melodious nothing,

Taking in the sorrow,
Lovers with melancholic grace.

Chaos in a wind,
A whimper in a death,
A poet stands in a crowd
And lulls the words to grasp
The emtptiness:

Let sleep the order,
Chaos in a passion's touch,
Feel the fiber of existence
And know that one is nothing
And everything to himself.

Chaos like the scream in agony
And torture of the dance
Under the forgotten night
When under the portico
You held back from destiny's
Melody and order killed
The unborn.

Quiet the noise of bitter
Memory, take in hand that
Chaos in a world of numbers
And lose count the minutes
That always seem fleeting,

And a poet overstressed,
Underwhelming as poetry
Became a job,
When time is put into words,
Take the first draft and run,
Let go The editor.

Take it,
Its still there,
And the order is a chaos too.

Pieces in the mist,
The living waters:

The melancholic grace of
Sorrow,
The crow sings for the dead.

The nostalgic réminiscence,
Joyful frames in the afterglow.

All is a stillframe
In time's gallery.

I sit down and freeze my pen,
I tear the unfinished poem apart.
I take a breath and open the shades,
I run outside to finish the poem.

The world is a marble
The size of a tumor
Inside the mind:

Breathe, just breathe,
I feel everything
All at once,
I delve in the paradox
Of the devil's advocacy,
You are all against me....

Ok....breathe....
The body shakes
Inside the child whose body
Doesn't recognise the man,
Sweet memory hits like
A punch to the gut
And remebering becomes
A fist fight.

You!

Who?

YOU!

And I speak to myself
Outside like some external
Ghost that carries all
That I never wanted to be.
Holding in and biting
My tongue off left the man
A little boy.

Night falls,
I chew my nails down to the
Elbow, where is the peace
I read in the poetry that
Motions I am not crazy after all,
I am alone,
Yeah Bukowski....
Alone with myself
And I cant stand that
P.O.S.

Stroke soft the curves
Of the forbidden servant,
Follow paths of the intention
And know not the rose touched
Is a petal in a cyclone:

**** the martyr
And feed the the dogs,
They serve a purpose beyond
Your grasp, under the foot
Of your heavy needs
And spiteful words.

Speak;
And the ***** do grasp,
They will not let the spirit free
When pain cannot be released
And the world would be great
If we could share beauty like
It shares its misery.

**** them softly with pretty works
And speak the réflection
Inward,
There you are,
You are what you say after you
Do the favor and the world
Is owed to you.

Oh pain.
Such glorious levels you reach
Within the ugliness of reflection,
How you see and how you feel
Is how you choke and how you
Hold,
Pain, all that can be remembered
Not in the moment,
But in a lifetime.

I didnt realise that
I wasnt cool enough
To carry myself with eyes
Wide open,
Like some enigmatic beauty
With no interior design,
Someone gazes at clouds making
Shapes,
People look at the man
With a pen and tiny pad,

Their thougts like dandruff
On the black polo
You bought to impress
Her father,
Self aware and glare at the living,
Painting the swindled
Version of the real things,
Wiping away the tears
Of this mornings' spilled coffee,
The 29 year old beggar looks pridedul
Enough to know you burn
Inside and out comes the
Weasal,

I couldnt truly see that I wrote
In the most sensible way,
A poet defines a classic sight
Timeless, wondering
When the pièce will be done
So he can write about beggar.

A poet is not slave to the mind,
And the mind is not a terrible
Thing, only when the door closes
And last light curls the spectrum,
The poet lays the earth in symphonie, afraid that he cannot hear the music,
Desparate and hungry
For the life he writes.

When the delights
Became the norm,
And the spring roses
You planted failed because
You bought that stupid bike,
And my personality
Lost its person,
When one more is all we needed
For an empty bottle
To match the drapes of our
Talks,
This place I loved
Became a Hell,
And home is where the
Heart is,
Surely he is a real estate agent.

A mind can be a cage,
Though complex in its
Subtle equasions,
Fairly dumb in social terms,
Filling cups of *****,
Never to far from that
Old lamp,
The light dulled as his living,
He sets free a legacy
Changing the world
In a solitary confinement

Slow breathing-
Taste the sol in perception,
Sensless as the fear grips,
A wry smile
In a confusion hung by mind:
The living room table is too small
But the grandiose thought
Kills joy scrolling
On a thousand beats,
Taking panic
Wherever the people roam,
Grazing on the mind,
Slowly melting summer
Cones,
Alone writing strength
On a page soaked in
A cold sweat

Point the quarter moon
Hard pavement
With crecent curves,
Big on heart when villages
Raid for the totilla's final
Call,
Caps styled latest
Rest off the young and full hearted
Slowly contemplating
With final breath,
Grandmothers son
Took the last one she baked,
Aroz con pollo,
The taste leaving the earth,
Once bit,
A final savor
The West on no one's side
While quarter moon
Cries full.

And poetry is worthy
Either way you see it,
Its free,
And most wouldnt spare
A penny for these thoughts

In the Roundabout
Whether on either océan's
Side,
A circle persists and choice
Is a beast grazing,
Wether or not the soul
Exists
Bringing the toll is
Hardly worthy poetry,
Still the beast turns
And the toll left at home
Brings the Roundabout
One more verse

Image power
By that gentle confidence,
And a little boy knows his dad.

Stolen thievery,
Pride in the lost is vein
That whixh buries the heart
In echoes.

Fallen hereditary
Keeping the memory
And all is a silence of natures;
Wind and water amd stone.

A waters dive
Oceans ago when waters
Fled the open heart
And father was the only son:

Take my hand old man,
Though your at the edge,
Your blood will flow to the
Future and your soul is
Always reborn.

Teach, learned man,
Pour out your swim in life
In the waters of the moment,
Stroke, strokes, and still
And always, father.

I take you as you are,
Because you were;
Stranger here before me,
Never will I let my eyes
Be seduced by your
Broken road,
Once I was broken too,
And I cannot forget
The past is a glory,
Faithful, haunting,
As it was you were there,
As you are, friend,
I am here!

Me,
A rebellion's echo
In a war of patterns,
Dwelling.

Take me into myself,
Tinker on the past,
Realty sinks in the mud
With footprints of what ifs.

I woke in the haze of
Tequila breath and a beautiful
Regret,
Naked and alone,
I can smell the nicotine on
The kiss that stayed in
My hangover,
An empty bottle with
The lipstick she left behind,
Round and round
The room spinning
And my head thundering
Like the storm of echoes
When the ***** seduced,
Funny im alone
And hurting, hungover
And grateful.

Come to the well of your
Existence and draw the nothingness
Of reality; anguish there.
A chaotic order in the répétitions,
Lost in the cries, deafening-
Open the enslaved mind
And convince yourself
Of the righteous ignorance;
You are bitten by the shallow
Thought and driven by an
Empty success, grow bitter there.

And once you are unfulfilled
Rage against the spaces
Of each regret,
Set them ablaze with the desire
That makes dreams fickle
And rich men hold dear to paper,
Free yourself from everyday
And know you are the eternal
Wonder of your perception.

What are the answers?
The question beckons tomorrow
And the magnetar glows
In a faint doubt,
The eyes do not lie
But are blind to the touch
And all the world is misunderstood
When there is no return
In a favor,
Glorious beast in the concrete
Jungle,
Know that humanity is
A drive chasing the storm,
Where the river runs wild
The passionate man drinks,
Heavy heavy
Is the pure heart
Within the confinés
Of man's crucible.

That I might sink my
Prophesy into your revelations,
The body of creation
In every contour,
My taste is numbed
By the flavor of your kiss
And know that your
Touch is a flow of sacrifices
That die into every pore
And create worlds:

I walk the lustful word
And pace in anticipation
With the poem,
Written by the hungry
Language of my desire.