An idea forms;
      We become the stillness in motion,
Between seeing and making,
     Contemplation or action,
The words cause us to act.

      We dare give eyes to the idea,
And pen to paper becomes
     A resurrection of presences,
Poetry,
      Like life writing itself,
A day becomes dateless,
     Life lights up these words,
We walk the path of inspiration,
     Truth lived and suffered ,
          Shared rage
           Shared passion,
              Shared abyss,
                 Shared love.....

In the end of the verse
The poet transfigures
Inspiration into incarnations,
Given as a sacrifice of self:

All that remains are the ghosts,
We are siblings in the void.

Petrified,
        Obsidian stones,
Fire understood,
      Superfluous verbiages;
The mangled butterfly absorbed by light,
       Hope is born at the tongue,
Confirmation contorted,
     Clarification of the crystalline cries;
  In the whirlpool of the first
Swirling at the tip of the tongue
     Chanted in a litany of animalistic
Nature,
       There is only a man,
Singing solar solstice,
     Staring into sun stars
Splitting solitary shadows,
     The end of the beginning,
Man and fires
Speak the dust,
       Tears of the evocative death,
Rebirth in memory,
Memorial in melancholia,
Misty eyed men mention losses,
      Speak the grief,
Speak the rage,
         Man that is man,
Tongue of emotional images,
                Speak as the first word,
A tree of names,
      Yes, the word,
Words,
       The poem everlasting
Longing to be unspoken.

I don't know your name,
I have see your face;
And hers when she is with you.

That delicate smile,
The same as when we first met,
Somehow, I don't know, ironic.

Does she see in your eyes tranquility,
Like an open sun on a lake,
The lake where we were married?

She drinks in your light,
And when I saw the two of you,
Something inside of me began to die,

Like these words,
Jealous phrases from the other man,
Are you a jealous man, do you know of me?

When you look to the distance,
Because I am sure you will always
Be there, do you see yourself
At the hospital battling pneumonia?

Your hands on hers
Like curled rose petals,
Where at the hospital no one asks
You to leave because they know somehow
The term visiting hours don't apply.

You hold the woman I love,
With your powerful hands,

You who **** me inside,
Is she yours now,
Body and soul?

But you see I am her husband,
And for her I have a divine thirst,
So I won't make a public scene.

Tell me, tell me sir,
What words have you spoken,
Words in a myriad of seduction
To steal a man's love, the love of my life?

Be gentle with her,
Love her as gentle air over tree tops,
Nothing is as sweet as her delicate
Touch, savor it.....

And perhaps when you are done,
Because I know you are just passing through,
(This I pray to God)
She returns to me with the same
Gleam in her eyes.

She holds me like she used to,
And we haven't been this happy
In years, I can trace my life
Over each crevice of her body,

I follow them to you sir,
And it reminded me that I have lost,
Not my wife,
But myself in taking for granted
This dove bit so innocent.

You are no obstacle sir,
Because I am now flaming,
Alive even,
A bitter heaviness dwells within,
I must keep the jealous soul at bay,

And this grief like you,
Will pass,
I will love her again as you reminded,

The paralysis is gone,
And now I leap to life
When before you sir,
Nothing was possible.

Though I feel that
    I am at the crest of the world,
I know I am only defined by words
    With a passion now human.

Though I have limits and limitations,
     I know that my hope exceeds them.

    And even as life tears me apart,
I still choose to write the sorrow and exploit
       The hollows of its weakness.

    Time is a dismembered calendar,
And though days fall like seasonal gestures,
    I neither end nor begin.

For though I am finite,
     The poetic dreams turn themselves
Around and preserve me.

I am a syllable from a broken phrase.

Oh my Lord,
I pray unto the sweetest sin,
That my eyes have gathered a harvest
And in the image of your perfection,
I saw what angels see;
As I walked in the morning shadow
A door half opened,
My eyes curious as a fragrance
Of blessed perfume gathered
And a dove perched at the window.

Lord,
I saw perfection,
Though in the flesh nothing
Is perfect,
I cannot here in words duplicate what
Beauty lay naked,
But the poet in me longs for
The words to embrace such beauty:
Flame of the sun
    Burns amidst sensations,
The shadow of my desire
     Cast from the flames.
There in a garden of flames
       She lie naked.....    the senses open
Magnetic eyes,
     The passion of lovely embers
        She entered through my eyes,
The windows of my soul,
     And I longed to be with God,
The thoughts though unholy
Flow into a desirous nature ,
     What I see is my creation,
Perception of my conception,
      Oh she is crystalline clarity,
And I am revealed to be only a man,
     Truth of desire,
Transparency is all that remains,
     And she is the truth of the moment.

Lord,
Forgive this sin,
I walked away with no soul,
For it stayed behind
To be born through the sight
Of She, of Her,
And in the glory of her nature,
A Poet Saint is born.

In the tower of fantastic journeys
Where a half full harmony
Trembles with hope,
There is a poet and dreams:

Come stars of night
Whose light is flame and scorch
But reaches as a twinkle of wishes,
Come dreams of sleepless angels
Whose golden smiles annoy,
Being that perfection into my
Little world where dead eyes
Have seen too much,
Whose hands have callous
Not from pen but mindless toil,
Let me put you to rest in reality
And a poem of my awaiting deliverance.

Liquid evening when the rains
Whisper to the lovers and soften
Their lips to comfort one another.

Drenched mornings when not even
Noah's dove can be spotted,
The solitudes as one makes the journey;
The thunder crackles tirelessly
On the windshield.

Liquid days when the earth is a fog,
When I admit I get lost at times,
Because the mist forms tears on
My face, and somewhere just above
The light shows how that it is half
There, such wet pessimism.

Rain like a sudden death
That invites grey days known as
Tears from Heaven,
A fitting farewell for the missing
Or gone.

Rain, liquid like old blood
That sits by a fire,
Cup in hand and reminiscing
On old storms as supplication
For the tired bones that once ran
To the lover, that once made love
In a slow drizzle,
Awaiting a final lightning.

Rain,
When my soul hits bottom
I take a walk,
I feel the wet earth at my feet,
The drops on my face,
The thunder that makes me
Know I am small,
The lightning that shines the way,
And in the distance,
A ray of sun that escapes,
And I know this too shall pass.

That wall man hits as a child
Would still on the floor,
Anger,
Which breaks men into pieces
And scatters him among those he loves,
The anger which held down
Can turn into an explosion.

That same anger which calls
Men to become something else,
And that something else becomes
Regret, that regret becomes a plea
Of forgiveness, which to himself
He cannot give.

Anger, which triggers paranoia,
And that paranoia into rage
And men are sent to early tombstones;
This anger is that of a poor man
Who has the world to suffer.

Anger which tears the man apart
And makes the soul cry for help,
And the soul breaks down into
A corridor of sorrow,
This anger that stains the man
And consumes like fire,
An internal burning.

I face the neighborhood that took
My mother's life,
The same one that I watched turn
Many cousins into ****** addicts,
I burn but I am not consumed:

I write the pain on a slab of Jade
Watching a fleet of dead roll by,
The names will stand among the tombstones
While in mute heavily grieving the nocturnal,
I am filled with the eternal present.
      The memory is a flame
      On open wounds,
      I am thirsty,
      But there is no water......

Time has done its hardest on me,
My blood courses more deliberate,
My teeth at a grind,
I want to fling all the bullets back,
Take the knife from Victor,
Out of his animal belly,
Out of his organism belly,
His human belly;
Life is an ancient gesture
And the hood is the very survival
Of those unfit for society's expectations.

I am Westside,
And I am still here writing
Away all that was taken,
The words plunge itself like
The needle I took from my arm,
A perfect drug that never quits you
And courses inward only to grow.

I am Westside and I am still here,
I am Westside and I still cry,
All the pain I drink with beer,
I push a fight and try,

I am Westside,
Glory in the hood,
It wasn't the best side,
But I always knew where I stood,

And still I carry on.

I pace myself in search of a moment:

I seek the day as a man,
The sun at 5p.m. with ripened
Sweat,
A cold beer with hard hat at my side,
A few words with a co worker
As though brothers in arms,
The sweet smell of dinner
In a place called home,
The run of my children toward
Me as though a hero, daily.
The kiss of my wife as she fought her
Own battle,
And the evening when I realise
The moments are not moments,
But a momentum;

I savor the journey.

I begin these words as confirmation
That I have poetry at my side,
To out words into stone, these vast gestures
Of words covering worlds;

And suddenly in this verse a great
Sorrow overtakes me, everything abandons.
I have words but nothing else,
Not even the paranoia of someone watching,
The pen takes over like some cursed one
Taking control of my poem,
The words of the pain inside well up
Like some volcano about to spurt Suns,
What I am about to say is the very
Most personal sadness I carry,
The abyss takes control, I am a blind poet....

Wait, I must breathe,
Close my eyes until hope returns,
The words juggle between the
Light and the darkness,
Waves of emotions sputtering about
Like a boat fighting the whirlpool,
The weight of the words
Like a world on my shoulders.....

        Wait,
There is nothing to write,
Only my pain, just pain in the nothingness,
My dear friend was "Alone With Everybody",
I see now the writing is the same,
Pain and nothingness vs. light and everything else,
These broken words fighting with
Angels and demons, what do they say
But nothing, but everything,

And I write it all anyway,
I am chained to the pen,
All night I want to write something wonderful,
But the Abyss speaks itself when
No one wants to admit it is there,
So now that it is written,
The sun has come up
Hope has returned,
I want to drift into this life full,
Nothing lights the abyss,
Too deep it is to fill,
But the words bridge the pain
To better days.

I was multiplied in a dream
By hollow envious creatures,
The earth became an epiphany
And my eyes set for the sky:

       The sanctuary of grey
Under white for neither greed nor
Want,
         Instant dream washed by rain
With light sneaking to the treetops,
      The feminine touch of a cloud
set in the sky survived by
          Birds set in still flights -

I am a coincidence with angels,
     As I become many
Like raindrops on a head,
      But two heads,
Rather all the heads that walk
     In the mist,
I touch a thought in each
And in each a dream one different
But the same,
     The hummingbird drinks itself
From the pomegranate in the foliage,
        Awhile away
To the sky blue,
      Born again to grey bottoms,
The lone thunderstorm
      Raining in a vast desert,
I am multiplied among the earth.....

       To know the exile of the sky,
Being the sky,
    To know the highest heights:
Angels dance here,
    Sing here,
Cry here,
    Watchers of the secret world,
Souls leaving, returning,
But never ceasing.  
    Water over fire,
Air over trees,
     The smallness that I am
In the vastness of the world,
I write the sky for a moment,
      Walking under the sun,
I am multiplied like dew drops
In the cycle,

      And peace fills every step.

Observed by ears
    An unfolding vertical orchestra,
Smelled by my eyes
      I touched the aroma in her hair,
Like the nakedness of gentle air
      As fingers run through your name:
    
      Speak of the instant
And I can sense you even in dreams,
      The infinite moment
With you is a canticle of senses.

Luminous fallen child,
       Your star exploded.
The sublimation of youth
      Discarded in the dizzy geometry,
Like fireflies in a city
      Against the anonymous streets.
Home is where the heart is,
      Blood of cement and gravel.
Child, phosphorescent angel,
      Your light is a poor full moon.

Lost girl,
      Daughter of fire,
      (She wears black armor)
Raining your embers
          On the ecstatic boys,
          You sacrifice a piece of
Your innocent luminosity.
        
     Lost girl,
Ancient fire within,
        Your heart is an obsidian castle,
Formidable walls on a heap
Of broken lies( the boy wears white armor)
      
   Lost girl,
Holding bloodstained lilies,
       Crying the fire through
Crystalline eyes,
   Find yourself
And open your heart like a wound.

On this afternoon
       The poplars walked around,
I spoke your name;
       The wind took it away.

And the sun glazed windows
     Hold the echo of your reflection,
Sudden grey skies over
       The kingdom of your ruins.

The forms haunt, black dense memory,
          And I named this day
Perfect Sorrow Without You.

I am living at the center
         Of a fresh wound,
My steps resound
      In my head,
Only the pain is real......

      ****** vertical regrets
That weigh on me like shadows,
           The air is a manifestation of panic,
The sun is immobile,
     Everything I say vanishes;
All that I am is in these words,
      Perpetual lungs
Breathing the abyss,
    It's too much,
All the nothingness.

An angel stares into the sky
In the form of a little girl
Born mentally ill,
          The sky which is the
Inner eye of God scatters the spectacle;
        The people ignorant and blind
Pass the little girl, homeless.

All you readers:
Inside your safe worlds
The little girl almost becomes
Visible, only for a moment.

I am lost in the forest
        Of your hair,
You sleep as the dream awakens,
        Darkness turns to light

The sun dawns over you,
               Over me,
   The day gives birth to us.

Speak,
       Listen,
The night awakens and asks for you,
            I enter by your tongue,
We speak in nudities
    As our bodies invent another
Language.

Quietly whispered,
The words spoken without envy;

The divine thirst is for you,
In a myriad of liquids yours
Is the only quenching,
There is nothing as good to the soul
As kissing the nape of your neck
When I come home,
I hold your hands beside you
And gather them in a harvesting,
The touch dominant of my existence.

I will be thinking:
This pleasure is all mine,
A promise holy like time,
You are my Prophesy
Spoken with every minute.

Today I sit with my coffee
And I like life right now,
      I can feel it.
I almost touched my own soul
When the brew came out to perfection,
      And my tongue did not burn.

Today I sit at my table in deep contemplation
  And in these momentary boxers
I sit as I gulp down life's immensity,
So much and so little!
I buried myself in this moment,
And in this moment I have become
Everything and a sip.

     I write the infinity of a cup,
After all it is great coffee,
With my beloved own pen
And paper stating that a poem is born,
And repeating this gesture,
I take another sip,
The poem writes itself,
Always and never!

I'd like to immortalise this cup,
And the millennium will march,
This organism's had enough,
     Anxiety kicks in,
So much life in a cup!

The moon carves her claw into the night,
Nothing is alive except
The fathomless infinity of darkness
Sulking in a white solitude.
      The lavished night
      Lays her hair upon
      A lonely pulsar,
      The body of silences
      Which bring ideas to life....
There is only the word
In the deep abyss of thoughts
And death is but a Nightstalker,
The sad desires envelope the lone mind
And trembles the broken heart.

The tremors of light cut away
To an absurd blackness,
The night is alive and distant,
The moon submerges
Into sapphire waters
Running in silence toward
An empty sky black.

I awaken to primitive forces,
My hand at her hip,
Like two flawed crystals
With eager flashes
With no grace in morning ***.

The longings drained,
And a hangover settles over noon.

The most uncomfortable peculiarities
Sit in like an unwanted listener,
Like a vagrant flower she eats
Whatever I threw on the table.

And I never knew my ex this well,
Still at least I knew her last name.

Inflated situation with irony
And absurdities between adults
Who for all adulthood are acting
Like nervous teens,
There's to be no encore ***.

"I'll call you"

Was that a question?
I wonder,
I close my door like the saddest clown.

Pale, bloodless forms, untouchable forms
On beams of whiteness, snow capped
Forms, vague translucent forms,
A sacrificed vision....

Forms of a prophetic body, virginal
Bright innocence in the fire of Saints,
Wandering the silences drenched
In illusion of slow agonizing temptation,

Incandescent harmonies like fallen angels,
The color of blood moons and patron gods,
Suspension of memories in the hesitant
Afterglows of the soothing sight, silent....

Crying the psalms of ecstatic angels
In sensual malices  fertilizing the innocence
In a subtle cascade of last moments,
The light just over the darkness, dawn's mystery

Infinite forms, ethereality of sobbing sounds,
The ideal form of death and birth,
The dream is an exalted stanza,
Sterilization of the mind, exotic forms....

Requiem of the private sufferings,
Form of the lonely charade,
Magnifying the essential need of the other,
Form of chastity for the *****...

The the golden pollen fall upon the dance,
The dancing form of a black swan,
Luminosities under the lunar glistening,
Deeply, subtlety....

Primal forms, animalistic in the body
When the aura is sensually appealing
Gilded upon her ******* and curvature
Like rolling hills under a storm,

Forms like crystalline glory under
Said light with a court of stars,
Vibration of light currents flawed by
Peculiar prints of the flesh

Forms of courage, gusts of love,
Crimson depths of the soul,
Forms like vanity into the black dress,
Conquest of lustrous desires.....

Forms like yours, forms like mine
Bleeding into foreign rivers,
The Dream is a fantastical whirlpool,
The form is confusing and terrifying and
Wonderful....

If only the world weren't so big,
All these souls would pass by my
Door:

And through my window cruising
I see a magnolia flowered sorrow,
The kind with moon beam eyes
And darkens your heart when you
See it;

Why is she in pain,
All alone in the grey.....
She has a wall surrounding her
Until the last day of hope
And a turbulent river encircling her.

Ah, but her steps are like the dove's,
Tranquil,
For gentlemen's sake I have to offer my
Hand holding hers like fragile balloon
Set off in the air, getting too close
To the sun and the continuity of the light,
So bright, it might burst in my hand.

She only needs some money,
I tell her to get in,
I'll buy her a meal.
She enters with grief,
The kind like in this poem,
But from her gentle eyes
The nocturnal sense is born
And the stars with her eyes.
I am taken,
What sweetness in her voice,
She asks me for a lemonade
As something familiar to herself,
The longing she has missed.

Why doesn't she get off the streets,
What holds her here?
I see the shake in her arm,
The tiredness of her body,
But she does not want to be saved.

I know her goodness
Had more than a conversation within,
That a life wished for better dreams
Haunts like dawn and dusk,
Touching her like a ghost.

"I need my fix"

I giver her ten dollars.
What horrid reality she lives in,
She walks away,
Turns back and offers a sentiment,
" I needed this meal, and
Thanks for just being nice"

Her hope is barefoot and barren,
Who will save her life?
I only know soon I will
Be a voice, an echo in her soul.

It wasn't a smooth journey,
Twists and turns at every corner
And there were whispered words
Of a premature death among the discord
Of his selfish persona, he wanted to
Know what it's like when you die.

Along the extreme elongated portico
Held in captivating glory of falling sun
Attached to a man sitting on sunsets
Alone in a chair with an empty coffee cup,
Dedpoet wrote his final verses:

I am not the harmonious fluke,
But the orchestrated chaos of the soul,
I flee no challenges, save life, whose teeth
Have sunken deeply as two rivals
At once, I am the coronation of effigies
Whom laughed behind their masked
Intentions, I sit on the pedestal of irony.

I strung magic words like pearls
And spoke like winged creatures through
Gentle air, both volatile strings pulled
Because the violins were in tune,
Alas, I am the curse to mine own life,
The fool who believes in love,
Both lovely and perverse,
My soul is a crystal pale glance
With moist and starry eyed conflicts,
I destroy the flower with regrets.

And now at the precious end
I gallantly provide a word of lasting torture,
Meet me at the gallows,
A sun with a court of stars
And let us fade into the light
As though into the shadows.

Dear Roaches,

   Please stay out of my coffee mug
In the mornings, I'll leave you bread crumbs
Or whatever it is you eat on the floor
When I make my sandwiches in the morn.
     ( I'm sure we can come to some
Sort of agreement)
   And perhaps I will forget to wash a dish
Or two and leave it out with just enough
To taste and delight yourselves in.
    But if I find you in my mug
Or my coffee machine, I will break
Out the Raid and other chemical
Weapons at my disposal, and sure I know
You will procreate faster than I can
Buy poison so let's make some kind
Of deal?
    Though it may not be a banquet,
I'm sure I can leave the occasional mess,
    So how bout it?

        Your housemate,
         Dedpoet

If I was a real poet
I would write about the world
Around me, the living problems
We share commonly.
I met your eyes on the way,
They prefer the pitter patter
Of small minded half empty cups.
I desire the beauty you write about
But I hate that we escape our world
With distilled words of selfish
Inward feverous double edged nothingness!
Oh, if I were a poet
I'd be humble
And facing tomorrow with hope
With fortitude of today, unflinching,
Uncompromising with no promises.
But every reader needs an escape,
And I'm happy to provide ignorant bliss.

Perhaps with cleft eyes
He grasped the form of woman;
    To what region of being
Did He want to tempt the Saints?
And men tripping over themselves
Until the sky plunges beyond her skyline
Chasing horizons like waken dreams
      Conjuring the vanishing moment
He entwined himself in the essense
Of Her,
Of She,
Of Woman!
(I write knowing I too am fool
For the taste of her wine)
Welcome to the vineyard of slaughtered vine,
Trampled grapes,
Vessels of drunken madness!

     Imagery of her transparency,
     The energetic torture of her touch,
     The burning flame with lustrous embers,
Soft harmony of her fingers
As she flows onto my body
Like some supreme sculptor,
Blossom me with your masterful touch,
Woman, created by God
To accept a blood stained lover!
Lost man to lost girl
In tunnels of obsidian,
The bonsage of our love,
Woman, ancient name of desire,
Abstracted spectre of your body
Sets men to explode like a sun!

Such a wondrously created being
Set before the eyes of barbaric confusion.

The clarity of the quarter moon
Voicing itself toward the waters,
       The purity of self absorbed moments
Discovered in the nocturnal prowess...
       Receive the night
As the fathoming echoes stay there,
       A bird sings,
Edges blur over hushing fountains,
      The world is a song of transformation.

Though their bodies were not strangers,
They did not know each other.
She needed no storytelling,
Nor promises that would never
Reach the ears of God.
He gets up and leaves,
If she's lucky, she will be asleep
When he does,
And forgetting or remembering
A dream is never a choice.

And I wrote the Heavens,
And wrote havens for the Heavenly
Til all the bright buds wilted,
Milk no longer flowed,
And now my muse left me for
Some dude in Canada.

     Oh siren mourning over the mist,
    That I was a bird of prey
     And was taken by your claw!
    How silly of me to sing the Nightingale's
     Transformation in the verses
    I lost myself to you,
     And in comes a chance of change
    You roll over to the next guy
     With a Daily!

Oh Muse,
The masterful strokes gone,
This arrogant upstart would write
You the last sonnet of air
That you might breathe your echoes
Upon my words,
Bequeath me the inspired harmonic
Yielding the poetical mastery to my paper!

   Oh muse,
   You old hag!
   I'm left with crooning
   Your ungiven name!

Lyrical waterways,
Prepare for a backhanded slap,
Then a second blow;
I don't care about your personal
Problems, as long as it's written
Poetical, you and your weeping
Streams with a deluge of emotional
Lamented problems are tolerable
As long as it's written with some class.
        Now give me your poems,
Though only few draw water,
I do not claim to be the best,
Merely a lover of it,
I will heart you, you will see
Lightning and like the child of a nymph
Be happy to see the fetching comments
I leave to you.
     I will squeeze sweetness from you,
All it takes is a click, light footed words
I read beforehand when you copied
Off a poet you thought no one had
Read before( I study a lot more than you know)
Ever the herdsmen
I preach a doctrine of poetic originality,
And lately I see few worthy,
Myself included,
Now pucker your words like lips
And lavish this poem with a heart,
Or don't, I am real,
Or fake, and I only love poetry.

Life and other things
Have kept us apart all these years,
Since the day we never said goodbye.
And now grey sprinkles my hair
And I think I'm getting mature....
But I still live hungry in heart,
The sound of your whispered words
At my neck,
Our bodies locked in dance;
Oh the hell with it,
I'm still crazy about you!

Who am I to harvest a dream
When cities are buried and sanctuaries
Become ruins all in the name of....
     And I see that life is worth nothing,
    The streets are empty now,
     Families in pieces
    And some horrid prophesy comes true.

Devastating air, suspended in waves,
Horrid and flaming,
Why Extinguisher of the world
Have you come now to the
Final Earth?
Were we not capable
Creating our own hell?
Land of my Mother!
Land of my Father!
I see the battle rages all across
The face of the earth,
Shall I feed my children
The inherited devastation?

Eastern philosophy,
Western ideals,
Southern simplicity,
Northern reverence;
In the sanctuaries of the mind
These winds are truly worth
Beholding;
The winds have eight directions.

Isn't better now to back
To the hood where the Eden
Is in ruins, silent,
Among the bullets echoed with no names?

Even the crippled that hold fast
Like dignitaries to empty beer bottles,
With a good for a drink at the tips
Of tongued devils groaning that all
Have failed them.

     Dealers on the corner
With their ominous eyes and crooked
Cash on the beaten sidewalks of a ghostly
Corner, wondering if they can return
To innocence like a prodigal son,
Home to end an evil spell,
Might he end up free as in dead
As he walks with a half hope
And pockets of cash not his own.

    When the homes stop falling sideways
And the floors don't break at
Nights step, walking by old frames
When the home knew better days,
Half open eyes walking about
The enclosure's cracked walls
And roach infested walls,
No water and asking themselves
If it's all worth it.

And I return here in a stranger's
Stance with mind wide open,
I watch the leather bucket stands
Dripping its drop like a weeping
Woman for a child.

   The sun decieves here,
Light sheds over burning fountains
Where the trash is unfiltered,
The homeless suffer chronic mist sleep,
    The ******'s eyes closed with
A faithful candle hoping
To open her eyes and save the neighborhood
From itself or its repetitions,
And still they bury one everyday
Too young to go,
The doves humming above when
Another is laid on a slab dead from
Hopelessness of it all.

There are no new arrivals here,
This is the hood after all,
If you can make it out and remember
The overflowing reflection,
Bring back a fresh and humble view
With some dramatic memory,
You may survive the barrio,
But the intimate response
Of sadness when you visit,
Somehow the nightmares never go.

I would let go all enduring sorrows
     Lifted like a curse,
A difficult time, so many times.

   In the Autumnal of my life
I would become like certain birds
And stay home for Winter's stretch,
      Where I was forsaken before
Like a lonely solstice,
You bring with you new seasons.

    And as I am now
Like a tired horizon over an
Un- majestic setting over a people
Long on their own lives,
      Over the repugnant solitude
Of a lone island,
You bloom as it's first carnation.

  As I am just a man now,
I grasp at new beginnings with a
Consolation of a certain rebirth,
      If your arrival means I must
Leave my world behind and live
Somewhere, somewhere new,
        I long for this,
Already lonesome is a type of death,
       As I am now, revived as a kiss
Of fresh air received me,
      All my being aches for you;

And taken as I am,
I shall not be as I was,
      For in the Autumn of my life
I find a blossoming Summer in your
Embracement,
    Firmly I feel the veins filled
With your presences,
    Lost in the labyrinth of your
Anxious romance,
    I live the sweetest clarity....

And you take me as I am,
      I will never be the same.

If your poor like me,
Your flesh is gonna be burned
And added to the pollution problem,
And our smoke will rise
And be added with said skies,
Should I romanticise
Your body's burning a bit?
OK:
You shall join former skies
Like a mist of your essense,
Your embers will burn forever
Until they fall back from the waves
Of winds that have carried those before
You, and those that have yet
To join you.

And if you have enough money
Your get a proper burial
And get seen by many people you
Really weren't close to any more,
Those who already became cadavers
Long ago in your heart,
They walk with other corpses
That never penetrated your true self.
      And $5000 in a plot of dirt,
Your picture on a slab of marble,
     A song sung awkward by some
Niece or nephew,
Tears for the day,
And your body cannot rejoin the
Earth because the coffin
Isnt bio degradable.

Its just your body,
But the soul is finally free
From the riff raff of the flesh.

Why try to construct with words
      What the Spring blew
Between storms and kisses
      Thorough your memory,
On old paper?

The tongued fire that speaks
     The dense desire to the lover,
Is now only descriptive descendant
      To what was....

Poetry is the moment.

When you were a phosphorus angel
     There was almost light,
And your glow became like the Fallen.
        
When you were holding my hand
       Your prints took over
Mine, like a stolen identity...
Willingly.

       And I was,
Because you were my existence
    In the abyss,
And your luminous spirit a breath
      Underwater.

And you were the storm
     That I left the shelter for,
A little grey can go a long way
      In a rain of sorrowing embers.

I was the reconstruction
     Of your project,
Rebuilding is never easy
But you stayed til I was me again.

       Life is big,
But so little in time,
     I am because you were,
I was because you're gone.

I sang the hymn
Among the ruins,
That which I hummed in the garden
Of my grandmother whilst
I gathered pecans into memory.

And once I sang a song
With a nocturnal note
As I gazed upon the skies and laid
Waste to hopeful stars with
Wishes from a tranquil tune,
Such innocence defined in song.

But there was always musicians,
That of the lover I took as a teen,
     The notes new to me,
Beyond me,
Into o my very fibers,
Her touch and kiss in an
Orchestrated gallery of memoirs.

     And the ruins are like old winds
That humm the virginal blood,
      As I quivered over her unknown
That such music was for Heaven,
    And all the perfection of playing
A reckless tune into her heart,
Into my soul,
I sang the saddest lament when our
Youth ran out, and still I sing;
She is gone.

A hymn for my Mother
    When God said nothing
And took her away.

I sang at the birth of my daughters,
Daughters of fire and destiny,
    The instrument of my home ,
The dream of my notes that they might
Sing a song in the new ruins,
      A Father's hope is an
Eternal song.

I sang the lovers I take,
    They that take me,
Jealousy and the mad love we make
In the abrupt song,
   Far away hope,
Hope far away,
I sing to find the One true lover.....

      I sing today for yesterday,
And my song will be heard tomorrow,
      When the nights are darkest,
Still among the ruins I must sing,
    The notes that scratch my throats,
This I cannot reach I still covet
   Because their lyrical dream
Lives inside me,
    I sing for my life
And everyday in it,
    I sing naked in the shower,
Early with the birds,
   Because I sing I know
I make the world mine,

And if I stop the song,
     I would wonder,
Who listened all these years.

The world does not know your inner
Thought canals,
With the weight of your self on your
Lips, sometimes you
Cannot speak,
Then in a few words everything fits
And the empty feeling goes away.

      You are not a reflection of you,
You are here writing reflected
   In an irresistible mirror,
Stilled as if looking at a statue,
      Wisdom in awkwardness.

Yes you astute when you
Are alone under a lamp
     Writing yourself,
You know the statue better
     When you step away from the warmth
Of your own judgments.

       In your stew of words
There is wisdom's discomfort,
      Your eyes dazzled
As you discover your own
Secrets, as if you are a
Lonesome gypsy,
        Make yourself between the words,
Find the time to read them,
       Grow wise to yourself.

I can still remember checking
To see if it really rained purple:
      And I still sang the sadness
Of my heart with a droplet upon my face,
      As if a tear from Heaven.
As a kid he reminded me to surrender
    Not to the popular choice,
But the hard one of just being yourself.
       I don't know much about his life,
But the influence he had in moments
In mine make for a mid spring song
     Breaching the memory of
A memory and a melody forms....
     And yet so many years had I not
Hear him,
    So much time that passed,
My thoughts swayed away to life,
     Prince was just a memory's song,
Yet upon hearing of his passing
My last seemed to pass with him,
      His songs,
The influence,
    Just being himself,
A symbol of melodic substance.
     I will remember him well,
And I hope he is dancing
Somewhere in heavens Purple Rain.

A scroll of the Earth
Under sky black,

I.     The tongue's first syllable,
The waters foam of crashing waves
Kissing the dusk at the edge
Of the light

II. The make love on a bed of leaves
     The moan becomes a verse,
     The lovers a legend written
     On a night of raining embers

III. A thousand touches,
      Finality's many eyes peer
      The fragility of a ******
      On the invisibly clear word

IV. Pieces of the heart
      Mended by words of the soul,
      Speak as the hour speaks,
      The moment is truth

V. There in the languages, split
     Tongued virtues, reborn in
     The words, speak the lovers,
     The only language spoken
     Is that of the silence between
      Bodies.

To emerge from the body
Is to become the soul:

Master the body
As a flame in it's newness

Watch your dreams evolve
Into a fire of desires realised

Devour the moments
As a truth of this life

Watch the children of innocence

And carve out the tree of your life
Under its shade as naked as the soul

Its not my short legs,
Nor in my overgrown beard,
It's not the big nose
Or small pockets women fear.
It is the corny poem
For which I stand,
The kind of hopeful
Romanticism the women
Can't stand.
If is not in my furry kisses
Nor my nonsense of style,
It is the dork in my walk
That keeps them a mile,
I am a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenal dude,
That's me.

I do not have the body
The women might want,
The kind where my bipeds
I'd flaunt,
I haven't the coin
To release the swag,
Hell I'm still playing
Nintendo 64, not much to brag!
My T.V. is till a big box,
I have no women,
I got loneliness on lock.
I'm just a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenally dude,
That's me.

I'll finish this poem
With my last pathetic rhyme,
Maybe a chick will like it,
Like me this time!
I'll get a haircut to match
The style of now,
I'll become phenomenal,
I'll get there somehow,
But for now.....
Im just a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenal dude...
That's me!

Yesterday in San Antonio
A drunk guy was found dead,
His wings drunkenly glorious
With a beard fully grown over his
White angelic gown.

   He was wise, a drunken sage
With wisdom of the world he watched,
    He knew the world was in one
Big **** hurry to nowhere,
    He told me so when I gave him
A cold one.

    The words that he spoke to me
Are those that will haunt me:
  " Speed produces slowness"

Footnote:
I'll drink one to that,
It was a Tuesday and raining,
A wise drunk, watcher of the world.

I remembered
I promised you a poem,
In fact one a day for our love-
There's a problem though,
I can't seem to get them out:

   Because your presence
   Is like a million words,
   A thesaurus sitting right
   Next to me,
   And what you are to me
   When you are with me is an
   Eternal sonnet.
   But when I tried I began to
   Understand something that brings
   My understanding of us clearer,
   That we are the same in separate
   Places, in the same solitude
   Without knowing each other's
   Pain or fatigue.
   That we are both not people,
   But the wind freed in our selves,
   A gale freed from the conventional
   And we become a sudden verse,
   Nostalgic and naive,
   Stubbornly young and hopeful,
   There in that place,
   When we are together,
   I cannot write the poem
   That has not yet finished
   Being written.