What are you thinking?
What are you thinking,
You kid
Who shakes between breath and rifle?

Answer with
Your disgust
In the this order:
Bullied,
Outcast,
Solace in the dark.

Let's rephrase the question
To help me understand:
Between your breath and the rifle
Are you even thinking,
Thinking while you tremble
Within 50 yards of more youth
Buried in your darkness
Remembering what was taken
From your youth,
emotionally charged
And confused more so
Than your family,
Your family whom loves
Could have ever dreamed of?

I will hear your voice lost
In the echoes,
But not in my soul.
I will see you as a star falls
And is reborn when my eyes find
The one no one has seen before,
       And the moons will cry
At your mysterious essense
As it leaves for another place;
      All the sky eclipses as you go,
I belong to your sky
And I wonder if you are truly gone,
    I think to myself:

How can you be gone,
      When you are still in my heart?

How long I have been in the dark....

A fate less holy,
A mission undefined,
Heart that cries,
Tears that bleed,
The abysmally charged traveller
That I have become walking
Until tendons fade away,
So my knees have scraped
The fugitive hope of the ravine.

        The space of loneliness
        Between these shoulders
        And the tunnelling that
        Devours the necessity to seek
        Out a hope,
        Something to fight for.

Saving grace within the dark,
Because dark is not dark
Without the light to show
Its depths,
its attachments to the misery,
This Earth, home of humanity
Trampled by the inner search,
The strength of hope is the light
Of the world.

Oh but the ravine does not falter,
Its crescent flow like a carving
Knife to cut away any luminous
Idea, the idea that cannot die,
And we are all formed in the light
As we leap into the abyss
In a battle for the sanctum of the soul.

     Where is the philosophy?
     The ideal that love can conquer
     Love, faith of the child
     In the blind advent?
     From the origins of water,
     Many drown in the depressing
     Motion of the blind lights that
     Surround them.

Hope is not sterile,
The idea cannot die,
Familiar to the dark,
Because we overcome,
The obliterated redemption
Is but the whole of the world
Saying you cannot.
Confronting the sea as a rock
To the crashing waves,
Bewildered by marches on the darkness,
Battered and bruised,
At the edge of death,
Purpose is here as we open the light
And reveal the eyes we always had.

     Deep, deep into the dark,
     We have been thrown as swift
     Grenades of light, the explosion sudden,
      The sight revealingly hopeful.

And God is watching the children
He made from dust to confront
Ourselves in a battle of reflection,
Every mirror needs the light
To see the truth of themselves,
Here the nocturnal night
Fights for every soul,
Dancing at the depression,
The sadness of menacingly
Prideful elitism.

    Sweat, these deep meanings,
    Who wants to think on them?
    Ignorance, blissful warrior
     Of the dark,
      Death to the fire inside
      That fashions the sleep or hope,
      The individual loses that which makes
     Them, and here in lies the ravine
     And its war.

Outcast, fighter of the dark,
Depressed warrior,
there is a form of light
In the confusing shadows,
Away from that voicelessness
That does speak,
Shed the ancestral burden,
Leaping from one horror
To the next horror,
Reveal that which is hope,
When you from before when God
Molded you as a form of light,
And though you may think
That you are just a flash,
Remember that every star twinkled
Its light before the last gasp.

Come out and reveal
The fire that yearns,
Feed the hope as a fire
That swells, a fire that burns.
You are the instruments of new
Beginnings, that which
Was rejected, that which was cast
Away like falling winds,
Winds that bkew you to another day,
We pass daily from the darkness,
As if from sleep,
We battle now in the void.

And though we are small
In the vast darkness,
We shine as cosmically gifted
Luminaries, shining as
Fragments in the night,
Eternal hope, a form of light.

I follow the broken jasmine
In the path I know will lead me astray,
Did this huge distance away
From myself deceive my heart?

    I know that my lifeless eyes
    Have followed you here
    Among the Fallen inhabitants;
    I joined you in the abyss.

A wave of punishment daily
Gnaws at this strange ignorance,
My retreat into a dark innocence
Leaves me in a retreat inward.

    You are the dead flower in an
    Arched mystery, I know the path
    I have taken to you,
    Death has shown me how
    To walk its valleys:

Illusion or love,
Held captive by my mortgaged soul.

I cannot write this life,
In my mind we are a draft
Of footsteps with an infinite
Path of echoes that cannot
Be heard or remembered.
     Like rain on better days,
     We step in and out of emotions
     Toward places and moments
     That carve out the spirit.
People: they vanish in sorrowing,
The sun burns through the
Darkness of what I am writing,
And suddenly in this poem
I open eyes that see without
Seeing,
          The soul

Is an existence
                On many planes.

     I am not myself
As I walk on a path of gentle air,
       People become words
And I verse them into existing,
I sink my own pen in their soul
      And they speak in a forgotten tongue,
My eyes are open,
     The transparency of it all.

I assault the vertical experience
And shield myself from
The immobile life,
The prophet of nothing that sees
Through all the doubt and finds
Himself in another place,
I am an abandoned word.
     I see the fade,
The fade is an hourglass of lives
And images in the eyes of lost natures,
I burn, the sun burns, the words burn,
And the soul keeps its solitary
Path in a garden of feverish
Invention,
The mythology of the heart,
Infinitesimal phantoms
Walking in a mist of realised
Regrets, the soul is a martyr
To forever in a foliage of tiny
Deaths, between forever
And the moments,
A soul in solitude,
A conjunction of destinations,
The words are echoes,
The footsteps an evocation
Of the soul.

Reflections
          Reflecting:
The taste of April's melancholic grace
     On your lips,
Your touch like a drop
    Into the well of sorrows;
I reflect your veil of dark brooding.

     A hint of music
On the path of your footsteps,
      You dance to a tune
Tangled in the helix of the orchestral
     Candors,
I reflect your naked liberation.

The scent of ocean in your hair,
       The hint of the sea foam
As your presence is like
A crashing wave,
The weight of your living waters;
    I reflect your essense.

Along the graze of seasonality,
      I see a Winter fade
After the October,
     The sickles of my fingers
Harvesting your body;
                       I reflect your ***.

From the depths of mirrors,
     Like the sun kissing the ocean
Sending ripples along
   Her blue shield
Sending cosmic shivers;
     I yield to your mirror.

You can't finish Spring cleaning
because every old thing becomes
Inspiration for a poem.

2. Instead of planting that garden you
Promised yourself, you write about
Your metaphorical one.

3. Because you're a romantic poet,
You ruined your flowers by plucking
Each petal in a She loves me, she loves me
Not tirade.

4. Every stupid bird is a new poem.

5. April rains bring about the
Melancholic poem inside you,
And you love it!

6. Instead of playing with your
Kids outside, you write about
It instead.

7. Even though you are allergic
To everything, you take that stroll
In the park you write about
So often.

8. Spring's promise is really just like
The New Year's poem you wrote,
New beginnings and all.

9. While digging through your Spring
Cleaning, you find your old poems
And decide to post them on
Hello poetry.

10. The garage is a mess, nothing
Is getting done, but in the poem you just wrote
Is about the hard work it was.

11. You learn the name of
new birds and flowers to make
Your poem fancier.

12. And finally,
You really don't like Spring,
But its a season, and we're poets,
So yeah.

Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.

Under the new garden
A rain falls:

And the thoughts like birth,
Drops of life on life,
The cycle and it's seasons.

And repetition is insanity,
The rain does not stop
And a flood of thoughts drown
The hope of seedlings.

Hands still fresh of earth,
The lukewarm feeling of singular
Gratitude for such a small thing,
And a rain from God;
     Why drown something so
     Wonderful that fills me?

I do not understand,
Today was a good day,
         Nostalgic and scattered
         Anguished at the sky,
         The rain stops cold,
         A realisation forms;
      
         It is the action that is
         Pleasurable, the moment
         One takes to toil in the earth,
         The rest, like the seeds,
         Like God,
         Like the rain
         Is all just part of the garden.

Die into me,

Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
         To your body.

          The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.

I die into you,

      I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
      And read the inscription:

   He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
    The Sacrificial Lover.

Though you are deep into
Your night and the Fade is closing
In,
And the walls seem to collapse
The air around you,

The dawn will come:

Birth of light
Antidote to the dark,
Burst into depressions
That softly take me away.
Hope is tomorrow,
A light of the moment,
The sun can rise on you now,

The dawn will come.

Throughout the soul
Petrified on a slab,
Awakening on the promise
Of phosphorus morning.

In the immortal moment,
Know of the dawn,
From Heaven even
Angels fall.

I am full of the perpetual water,
A thin mist forms around me:

Immense feelings hover here,
Joy on sadness,
Sadness on joy,
The manifestation of my
Drained consciousness.
    
    I am a living wound.

My wings splintered
Among the ruins,
Contained in this paradoxical shadow;
Nevertheless I further myself
Into this fading.

It is real the light,
I can see in from the shadows.

The delicate lips of time
Kiss my forehead diffusing
My ticking bomb,
Alas I am too far
From the clarity of happiness.

Life is a timeless matter
Where only the mist is real.

She went down the pathway
Of the quarter moon,
Its sorrow bleeding with gilded
Protection from a star's hopeful
Glance, she bled darkness
From a deep pain
And her lips like ruby petals
Sang her lamemt:

   As the grey day bloomed
   And my dreams grieved,
   I saw your eyes retracing
   Every desire I conceived.

   I heard the footsteps
   For and ending to my sorrows,
   Such a fool,
   I thought you'd stay past tomorrow.

   I put out the lanterns
   Searching for my heart's grace,
   But now that you have slithered,
   Its gone away.

    Love's virtue dead
    Hung on a thread of tears,
    I bleed out my soul
    And built walls of fear.

    The delicate red of crimson
    Fire burnt me whole,
    There was once a woman,
    But scarlet pain eats the soul.

My little black book is dusty,
The names are smeared and
Most of them were landline numbers.
For you youngsters,
Get on your parents lap and ask em
To tell ya what landlines were:
    And I hate your love poem
    Because I know they are real,
    I need a girlfriend,
    Maybe I forgot how that feels.
    
    I hate your love poem,
    Its really quite good,
    But the t reminds me I'm all
    Alone, alone in da hood.

    I hate your love poem
    Because I don't know any girls,
    And yeah some are corny,
    Some make me wanna hurl!

    So don't get it wrong,
    Please try to understand,
    I'm just a little jealous,
    Alone and doing what I can.

I do not know what is real,
Are there words real,
Real the poem,
Are you real,
you that reads this?

I question myself,
Everything and everyone,
The only answer I have
Is that I am alive between
The verses.

Into the night
Revealing all of the pleasures
With its hand of shadows
Uncovering what one hides
In the dark.

A blow of sky
With it's silence that burns
Between spaces when one cannot
Sleep, the cry of insomniac
Blood straying from sleep.

Into the night
One flees from things;
Or runs to them away from light,
The moist of the earth as
The back touches in a nameless
Affair between skins.

All the lust,
It burns with passion
Like a dream speaker whom
Walks with sinful nature.

And the kiss is a wound,
The fever of the moment
Turns into a black unholiness
That makes one wonder
Why the bad feels
So good.

Into the night,
All that is left from the parched
Thoughts under a bankrupt sun
Touches the inner animal,
Floods the moment
In the dead of darkness
And dies upon the touch.

The wind wears your body;
I open the curtains of your being,
My touch wears your skin,
The spectre of your silhouette
Is a ghost of my desire:

We tear the night apart.

I see the River made of time
And water
And remember that time is
A fork of rivers,
And I know we are like that river;
Dissolution into an ocean of souls.
I see the bleak nature of my mind,
Natural as it is,
I wish to break from this line of thought:

    To be aware in my dreams,
    And to know the fear
    That we call death is but
    Another sleep into another dream.
    To be in the here of the now,
    To rage against the days
    Into the passion of my life
    And celebrate every breath I take.

To find the sorrowful gold
Which is poetry,
Immortal fire of my soul
And rain the embers of words
Upon the page like the
Thunder and lightning in a
Sudden storm.

    To love once again,
    Feel her essence over me,
    As if her body hovers
    Just above me as to feel
    Her electrical current run
    Through every cell that feels.
    
And I know time is a river,
One that never ends,
It shimmers with every
Memory one ever makes,
And every drop is a life the
Soul partakes,
We are born again
Where the river begins.

I awoke covered in sweat,
The steam rising from my body,
The light skims in through the curtains;
A small murmur of breath escapes
Into the enormous solitude
As I think about all that is wrong
With me:
I panic because I'm depressed again,
The light is too far from me
And my body craves the dead mans sleep.
The silence is full of noise
And what I hear is myself thinking,
I cannot run away from thought,
The silence is deafening.
      What can I do in my darkness?
      Sadness of the abyss,
      The hole inside me filled with
       Sorrow's song.
And I break from myself,
I try to capture the positive attitude,
That foray into psychological betterment,
The ragged form of relief...
   OK, I pick up my bones,
   Flipping the switch I see my pen,
   2a.m.,great wings of black full
   Of my epileptic thoughts seize
   The page, littered with pieces
   Of me I fill the paper with shadows,
   A simple verse will not suffice,
   But the immenseness of emptiness
   Has become full of something's
   Verses, write away,
   Write away the darkness....

It comes, it stays, it goes and flees
Hand in hand with your hope,
I reach out my hand and I cannot
Fathom the waters murky essense,
I want to be happy!
What does that mean?
The lights are there, but they seem
Faint and faroff, it swells my eyes,
The tears of an unending journey,
At times I smile at all the pain,
These words, these words of myself,
They sail inward, as if to the source,
The source of what?
    I **** the lights after all the words
    Have filled three pages,
    They bled me dry,
    Tears and ink mixed with pieces
    Of my inner reflections,
    Who will know or even care to read?
The thought scorns me,
I lay down, the silence grew silent,
A release of pain and sorrow,
That is my little death,
My little resurrection,
Everyday.

Everyone has an answer,
But there are too many questions.
Not to be deluded by hope,
But inspired by it.
To know that we are not alone
But by choice,
Which in of itself is the greatest gift/curse
We have all endured.
And the lesser of two evils
Is still wicked,
But the integrity of man is murky
Without witnesses.
And we are the dream inside the reality,
      We sever the humanity
Because a person is not dangerous,
      People are.

It is an ugly thing to think
That we cannot deliver ourselves
From our own ghosts that
Sing the same song.
      But the true atrocities
Are that love in this universe
Is not necessarily a universal thing.
So I say reflect the beauty around you,
The moment's truth and that is real,
That which loves you in return,
The child in their purest joy,
That which is close,
All the littlest things.
And that is a dream realised,
Love that,

Or drown in the gallows of man's
Darkened life.

Why not delve into
The beauty of trees,
The teasing air at your face,
Fragrance of the subtle varieties
That Spring's greenery offers?

     The precipice of the flower,
Rain like gentle kisses,
Its song sings to me!
    Does it not speak to you?

Get out of your hole!
Its fresh outside and you smell
Like mothballs and Cheetos!
Turn off the puter!
Live now, text later!

    Were it not for the natural
Fire that burns inside,
The taste of things reborn,
The sky that never leaves
    And the birds that speak to us,
Were it not for these things,

There would be no beauty after Winter.

I have three words in my throat,
One that I cannot set free,
Though its passionate suffering
Devours my spirit,
If I say it it would flame
The untamed hearts,
Fell the spirits,
But it stands at the tip
Of my tongue.
This is why I am unworthy,
Each maddening breath I cannot
Say it,
Until I see the Man,
His blood coursing out of His body,
The spit at His feet,
The hate at thrown at His Spirit,
Until I swallow the hurt,
Until I tear and let it all go,
This is who I am,
This is my faith,
I must recognize the Truth,
Thankyou Christ!!
I fall to my knees as I let
The faith resurgent in me,
I know that I know,
And so bled the Lamb.

Oh month of bloom,
I wander through the greenery
To gather myself,
I see honey and fragrance
From half opened budlings,
I could not be any more sick!
          My beloved grey Winter mistress
          Gone to the birds
          And their songs that wake
          Me from my depressed slumber!
A bird flies from tree to tree,
And no windshield is safe!
      I salute the thorns of every rose,
      I wrestle with the inevitable
     Approach of Spring poems,
     An avalanche of sweet seasoned
     Words falling from villainous
     Repetition, seasonal song of the
     Lofty new flowers,
     Oh my nemesis Spring!

Softly the soul journeys
When it's night has come,
And that which is called death
Is but a door to new wombs:

At dawn the flesh returned
To where the river began,
In the shadow of wings
She passed away from love.
       There is a path laid before
       The soul when we all go,
       She kissed the Earth
       In all its moment's beauty.
And she rises through the fiery
Air, her soul a luminous
Entity follows to the skies
A wayward journey through
The solar song.
      And the song is a torrent,
     Like triumphant moments
      Of the lover's kiss,
     She takes this with her
      And dances in the pale
     Of the moonlight.
She stops to see the White Sun,
That which created her home,
That which gave meaning
To Spring's new grace and
The Solstice where she fell
In love.
     Now at the precious edge,
     Her being tied to the stars,
     She Rides the light and kisses
     This place goodbye,
     She takes with her all the joy,
     Every day of sorrow,
     All the kisses her Father gave,
     She feels everyone on her face,
     The soul takes these things....
It's not over,
A blue flame flutters in the distance,
From star to star,
Flesh to flesh,
From the power of the immortal soul,
She is reborn in a new place,

The Blue Sun rises,
From the soul a child is born
Like a light that shines the Heavens.

Because on the darkest nights
I see faint rays of the purest light,
And among the fatal deceptions
lost in exalted sorrows,
       I know that there is still poetry.
When the words are welled
Inside a throat like a fire
Waking from its slumber,
Rain the embers to paper,
      The words like a familiar pain,
      Speak as the darkness speaks,
      Take in the honest friend,
      Let them take you to tranquillity.
Because when I am at my blackest,
The poem understands me,
It speaks to me,
Cries with me,
I give my darkest to its white surface,
       A cave serrated by light,
      The words will speak in the night,
      They will light the way
      To new dawns,
And you are never alone
If you have read these words,
Because through them,
We become as one.

She snaps a picture:
They shine like blood diamonds,
A million come,
A million gone,
Lost in the individual masses,
A sea of black faces
With suffering in the eyes.
Displaced for rocks,
Displayed as a photo
In a page,
In a doctor's office
And the white man shakes his head.
His name is called,
And the magazine will stay for years,
Just a photo with no memory.

Because once I hated myself,
I didn't know who I was,
Depression ruled me,
And I never knew life in its forms;
      Suddenly I saw a place,
      Words had shapes and life,
      They held things like truth,
      But most of all truth of self.
See, if you write honestly
Then you can see outside
Of yourself, you become
More aware of the world.
     I figured the world was crazy,
     But I found a certain beauty
     In that too, so I wrote my depressed
     Self, all my pain.
I wrote for me,
to discover myself,
And you know what?
I found that I can tolerate
The world around me and
My crazy self through these lines.
     Now, I don't hate myself as much,
     I try to help others expand their
     Understanding of this artful
     Therapy, and I leave those
     Who cannot see beyond their
     Yesterday in that place.
Poetry is a way of dealing
With life's pain and social
Sharing of the craziness of poets.
But sometimes you see those
Who cannot move on,
Be careful, sometimes misery
Loves company.

Hey there,
Its been such a long time,
My arm is still in your murky water,
And I'm still here waiting for you.
But it's time to let you go,
I see you breathing under water,
And I can't wait for you anymore.
You brush away the hands that reach
Deep into your pain,
And though they know,
You just can't let it go,
So I can't watch you become a fish,
Because my life has to be lived,
I'll miss you and remember you
When you breathed air,
So now I'll let you swim away.

Where are you poet?
You poetess?
I search and become everything:

A pen of the sun's fire
Writing on a slab of jade,
I come face to face with all poets,
The roots of their soul dividing
Themselves dissolving into words
Writing the passionate fire sitting
On pillars of clouds,
A thousand moons surrounding them
Each like some serpent god,
They write the darkness like
Guardians of the night,
A stallar vertigo into the words,
They become like flowers
Of the Resurrection and in a lightning
Flash I am on a terrace of gold
Watching over a field of flora
And the storm's of April's pains
Comes to them each as a moon
In the sorrowing takes each word
And swallows them into verses,
They are the testament of wounds.

And still even more,
All are alone in the abyss they all share,
One man stands tall and says,
"Alone with everybody!"
He smiles as each poet places themselves
In a whirlpool of time,
They find a moment invisible
And make it a mirror,
It reflects forevermore the broken
Images of their past, they piece
Themselves upon a verse of shadows,
A verse is born and a piece of them
Stays in the past.

Suddenly there are those who live,
They are reborn from the womb!
They see daylight in the sorrows
And find happiness in clusters,
A perfect memory where the man
Loved the woman, her touch is like
An immortal fire burning into the focus,
His touch is a cascade of rose petals
On her naked body......

The young poets gather,
The defeat the circular days,
Fantastically naive and flamboyant,
Their moments flare like a sun's
Lost kisses on  magnetosphere's outer
Skin,
The procession of new pain
Fills the paper as they write an ancient
Language unbeknownst to them,
Their blood to papyrus, Sanskrit's
Unified language.

I see the poet's in their middle years,
Strong flavors mixed with heavy grief,
The clandar Is splattered in blood
While their dream sails away in paper boats
Sinking in the sea of forgotten hope,
They sculpt words of deep guts
That penetrate my spirit,
Time becomes a race against their pens,
Their fire blue into the jade
And life is lived on a string of theorise,
They become enlivened in the children,
Enormous mouthfuls of hope
Arisen from soils of regret,
And the perfect words ripen
Like a midsummer's harvest,
They spontaneously eat the fruit
Of life's labors and digest words
With seeds for the planting of more.

I turn my face in my search and see
The years turn golden,
These are the poets with life full
In experience and they write like
Youth writes, but written already
With eyes of indecipherable experience,
Their wounds are closed but written
In fresh blood, I could not understand!
They burn and are not consumed,
Their words are eternal in
Endless galleries of Picasso like
Verses, the words penetrate
Leaving me hopeful and confused.
I wonder if I would ever write
The light and the darkened like
They that balance both....

I find all poets in the middle of forever,
I see their walls of frightful memory,
Their home for tomorrow's bloom,
The self knowledge turning in
On itself and becoming wisdom,
They drown themselves in clarity,
Cling to audacious hope,
Remembering the nocturnal nightmare
Of the past, they are endlessly broken,
Always fixing themselves in words.
And I wrote a poem for them in
My mind:
    
        Poets, you little gods,
        The fire of life in your pen,
        You write the existence
        Forevermore on a slab of jade;
        
       I see the souls and angels
       Reading a book of every poem,
       I see God reading to understand
       His strange and wondrous creation
       Called the poet.

Here we dilute ourselves into many
Things to stop our world
In the middle of its course:

Your skies are caught in dreams,
You bloom only flowers you recognize.
It hides the truth between
Your ears,
It hides the selfishness of your poetry,
The sighs of life in your grey solitude,
Your tongues are thirsting for something,
And you have become a pop cultural
Verse of repetition,
And the world will catch you
From behind your skies,
You can no longer hide in your abyss.
  
   And to state what I mean unpoetical,
   I see the hate rising in a tide,
   The world I know ignored in this forum
   Of intelligence, hate gaining tide.
   Of people ignoring the bigger picture,
   Where are you?
   I see nothing of the tsunami that
   Has overtaken the country here
   In this place where poetry and political
   Topics mesh more than you know,
   This is your voice,
   I implore you to change your flow.
   We live beneath this destiny,
    Beautiful Earth,
    But if we stop our words,
    Are our words even of worth?

So you are a man,
Shackled,
A man that weaves
Together fear and confusion
Beyond what is known skin deep,
A man overblown with
Certain landscapes and familiarity.

What words come out
From your version of Heaven,
From your Heaven to other lands,
The red winds that blow deep
Tickling strings of rhetoric

Listen,
You are what misunderstood
Like a certain star that refuses
To pass light in certain spectra,
Different star,
Wrong star,
Dying star,
And your sky will be taken away
By hypnotic cages
And civilized torture

Speak, speak a confession citizen
When you are found
Guilty and your manhood
Is bled into submission,
     You will see no sunsets,
You will bear a cross never your own

You, man,
Born in the tide of crystalline confusion,
The world is predicted
And the tombs are full of
The innocent by faith

I tell you because I am a man,
And I do not know what kind you are

Problems, they are problems,
Is it you who blow up the constellations?
You dance on the heels of Jihad,
Do you not?
Are you not guilty by faith?
Now that the angels cry,
Tossed into the fray of which God
Is holier,
Tell me, is this fair,
Fair the torment,
Fair the fear,
Fair the justice of manipulation?

Answer me, answer me
Man of faith,
Because I too am confused,
I am bound by love of country,
Yet tormented by ethics and morals,
****** this humanity!

Now, now I must know,
I am splintered into many people,
However I am also your friend,
The day burns with rhetoric,
I do not know you man,
I cannot seem to help you,
Much less help my understanding
And soon,
Soon I am called unpatriotic,
They shall call me traitor,
Because I wish to understand.

All I say,
All I know,
Tell me,
Why have they caged you?
Say nothing,
I can't believe you,
Say everything,
I doubt every breath.

And now I speak as a man,
I speak to you,
I am a poet,
And to write humanity is my curse,
No allusions,
No metaphorical terms,
You Muslim,
You Man,
I do not understand:
    
          On the moon God watches
          On the wind the angels cry,
          And men do not speak,
          They cannot understand.

With a sigh I wake from a dream,
The cold morning fills my eyes
And that wonderful place
I was just now begins to haze.

I question everything,
I  breathe myself into existence,
Here and now,
The quiet longing fills me
As the beginning of this day repeat
As a thousand before them

      I must seize the here,
      Trouble grasping the now,
      My last returns to secret
      Cold peaks.

Did I lose my life in the dream?
I'm here now, am I?
Is this another dream, born from
Loss and pain and everything I
Hope to gain?

I am lost in the morning:
Coffee,
Surely I will emerge from this stupor,
I blink and I am walking toward
My tomb of toiling,
Compensating life.
Sometimes in the middle of my work
I can meditate,
A single mind and body emerges,
The cradle of my being becomes
An iceberg thawing unshed tears,
I am winning/losing my day.

Stop! Enough!
I feel faceless in a sea of faces,
Said my mind
Stuck in its grind,
The hours are vapor.

        Withdraw into ghosts,
        The eye with you always,
        To lose the self is to-

I am the mirror of a reflection,
The reflection does not live,
God the stranger in my prayers,
I myself, the essense of me
Is not my definition,
But if I am what I do,
Am I nothing?
God, lord of my conflict,
I pay my bills and taxes in the architecture
Of your world,
Why am I in slow decomposition?
In this parade of shadows,
Where is the true meaning?

      Child of the dust,
      Time is no promise,
      Do what you can
      While you can do it.

Evening:
Home and my forehead is taller
And taller,
I sense the moment faded
But here,
Life I am your hostage,
I am tired again,
I begin to freeze again,
Luminous cold setting in
On a deep darkness,
Fill me with liquid love,
I drink and I fall into another
Dream/life.

I'm a United States citizen,
Fifth generation,
And I might be sent back to Mexico.
  Because in the here of the now
  The people stand at the crest
  Of the paper moon,
  Its almost eclipsed
  Because Obama was
  Never more than words.
So we look for anything,
We are thirsting for something,
And the Trump card falls
Into place, he's full of ****,
But he's full of **** in
Full public.
See we know the establiment
Needs to be dis- established
Because they sing like mockingbirds
To another mockingbird,
And Hillary the woman
Is still a politician:
    Oh the patriot,
    ****** fool.
    He still believes
    In America!
    And why cry the democracy?
    Why poetise the political?
And the patriot said-
          Because I am what I am,
          For love of country,
          Freedom of my freedom,
          I am the people,
          We are the voice,
          And America once had a dream.

The solar song is born
And a dream is wished

With hope to sky
       I birthed a star

I invented a thousand moons
In maternal orbit

I wished to see you again
Stilled forever in my universe

          The Blue Sun dawns
          Evoking the crystalline moon

I made a new world
        Where mine was before

With my mind I made new oceans
And lovers on a lone island

         I made new flowers
         From all the spectral lights

And I taught the a new language
Of song

I watch this place from the departing
Home

I'm the Stargazer
            With a broken heart

I don't know the name of this....
This...empty thing inside me,
    Though its been a companion;
    Or a leech.
And in the tranquility of a curving sky,
Somehow it still finds me,
    That lone cloud hovers above me
    Drinking the light.
Eventually it will **** me
And end up in words, like here and now:
  
Tell me of the abyss inside you,
The daily grind like bees in
Your throat,
Tell me if you cry when you
Write your inner grey,
Humbly, when you look at stars
So far away,
Are your  lost hopes and dreams
With them?
I know of this truly,
Its an embodiment,
And only the Creator knows why,
And we have not penetrated the why.
   I confess to you the divine thirst
   For something to fill this hole,
   Yet were it not for this hole
   I would not know the blue
   Beside the grey,
   The light that stretches the dark,
   The smile of a moment
   Caught in forever's slim memory,
   The Him,
   The Her,
   The whitest petals from a lily
   Born out of the storm;
And we walk as the grey
And all that we do to fill-
Grey, yes somehow grey,
Between the light and the dark
We flow.

I planted a garden,
Like the ones I used
To run over in my youth,
I figured at this age
That i liked plants.
It took some time
To put it out there,
The fact that I like plants.
I wondered why it
Took me so long to
Realize such a giving
Hobby.
And the garden
I ran across with no
Thought was my Mother's.
How she was toiling
And watching so small,
Her smile stilled in my thoughts.
Her hands full of maternal
Earth, and a hug that
I seem to remember in
Slow motion.
I'm older now,
Enough to know she planted
Those seeds so many years ago.

I read that book with the opposite
Title, Great Expectations,
And I realised it revolved
Around the dream in a dream,
You know the one where after
A long suffered road,
You win.
      I don't win much, I forgot what
It feels like to be that go to guy,
That one everyone wants to be around
When your aura suddenly fills
A room, I was never terribly handsome.
    So I decided to lower my expectations,
    I watch CNN, Fox, and see the world
    Lowering expectations for the future,
    I'm just going with popular culture.
And now, I'm a winner,
I surpass everything I
Want to accomplish.
Like today, I said to my self,
"Self, your gonna treat yourself
To any item on the McDonald's
Value menu"
And I did, A dollar and nine cents
For an ice cream, and who doesn't
Like ice cream?
So I won, because
I seized the day,
Captured the momentum,
And evey day I accomplish
Little dreams,
I win and them some,
Because if life is a marathon
And I'm jogging slow,
I might as well feel the air
And watch everything as I go,
I'm here and now,
Not Tomorrowlands dream,
If I want what I want,
I go and get that ice cream.

And I answered:
To see and touch all that I forgot,
To remember the delta where
Immense waters rushed to
My memory's melodic forms.
     To remember that ***** that
     Broke my heart,
     How I loved her,
     Look at all the poems
     I wrote for her!
To feel the livid wounds
Of everyone fester about
Like domesticated bipeds,
Watch them grow entangled
Beneath a shivering sun.
        To read the crazy beautiful
        Of other people's thoughts
        And get in their heads without
        Psychological babblings
        And manipulation.
To watch the shadowless sun
Create a phantom city
In the concrete swarms,
To stretch every sense
Into the living moment.
      To catch myself from splitting,
      Or perhaps to split from myself
      And call me crazy,
      Laugh it off and cry
      When I read it again.
To embody what I miss
With these fucken cell phones
And internet opinions
With elongated voices
Lonely, their kind of
Misery loves company after all.

      Why the poem?
      Ask yourself,
      What else is there??

And they walk a storm,
Mind's thunder and lightning,
Held down to the soil
Keeping themselves from heightening.

As though sorrow gives off
A fragrance,
They wonder alone in the masses
Like hollowed vagrants.

The morbid crusade that
Wears the grace of pain,
The crule caverns of life
With a black rose's stain.

The glacial pace of thoughts
With so little time,
Weary and tired
On the abyss they do dine.

I can't get lost in romanticism
When I'm losing with nice guy
Scenarios,
But you wish for me to fill
Your daytime novels,
Fantastical kisses on the nape
Of your curving neck,
Your body quivering at the
Touch of your thighs that blind
Me into a thorough seduction,
And yet remain the bad boy
You so diligently deny you want,
Yet here you are and it's
7am wondering just where
The hell I went.

A self crowned sorrow
Wears the plumaged men,
And beauty is in the momentary truth:

    The concrete jungle offers
    Dazzling constraints,
    Into the ruins of their cities
    They become broken statues
    Gnawed by thoughts.
    The sun sets for a last time
    In the lively ruins.

Hearts break, minds suffer.
A man of stone passes
A man of stone,
They unearth lucid dreams
Passing by and only wondering
What resurrection could be had
In a simple "hello".

    To each an island
    In a tower of silence,
    Their light builds
    Shadows that haunt.

They pass the lovely forms,
Green pines on a shore,
Rolling hills of oak,
The swaying wind
Kissing the sea.

     In the ruins they dwell,
     Propping high into empty skies,
     To stretch their senses
     Into the living hour:
     The truth escapes
     Their brimming cups.

The mouthful of universe
    Sprang from a universal tongue,
Armed with the Words in a corridor
    Of birth before the abstract divinity,
The benevolent assault of creation
    In the circular currents away from
No place and no where
     The whiteness bound into the sun,
Lonely tears birth the oceans
   And with a finger provoked eruption
      Of earthly space,
He sings the solar song,
     The words with roots in invisible
Trees, the yellow surf of dusks,
    In the beginning was a dream
Forming the constellation of life......

It is as though the fire wears
Them,
     A slow burning sacrifice between
Ecstatic generations,
    A sort of martyrdom comes in the
Line of each death,
    The endlessly bloodstained embers
Burnt beneath the tears
   Of those left in the wounds of time.
Alas,
    Every seedling is a grain of energy
In the marrow of the earth,
    So alone with so many
Spilling themselves like fountains
In an anonymous well.
     The question remains
As their days become fewer
Like the few Winter's leaves.
        They enter one another
By the eyes,
They speak in tongues of season
      And yet come upon a last dawn
Seemingly with great depths
Of abyss in a solemn heart.
        The dreams that survive them
Are children lost in a mist,
    Stuck in a whirlwind
Surrounded by Dust.

In the prodigal body
Arrayed in the immortal fires,
They that know time not,
Free from men's desires,

They became as Watchers
Of the vessels of flesh,
Unfurling their story
From beginning to the thresh,

The sons and daughters of dust
Exhausted with little time,
The dreams clutters with death
Did haunt their kind.

As the Watchers deep within
The Creator's grasp
Could not figure the hearts
Of these children that could not last.

Still they recorded and even
Made song,
Those of the Dust,
Which didn't last long.

These are the chronicles
Of the flesh and blood,
Like a quickened flower
Born of a bud,

The Immortals knew they nothing
Of their arrival,
What they would become,
Or even their survival.

And so here the legend begins
From desires and lust,
These are the songs
From the Children of the Dust.

On the 13th of December, 1996,
Tupak Shakur entered Heaven
Free styling to the angels whom
Found the beauty in a language
Lost to them when trying to
Understand mortals.

    The angels, amazed and petrified
    At the realness asked:
    " Who are you? Where did you come from?"
   And he flowed like a prophesy,
   What he spat was street life truth,
    And all the world was a ghetto.
    For a moment the angels were
    Concerned, but then the archangel
    Michael shook his hand and nodded,
    From then on Tupak was the first
    **** Angel.

Life holds in it's hands
The perceptions eye,
The path that goes on
And the souls that stay;

Life breathes from the womb
Of on the sleepwalking people,
Life is a birth of clarity
In a world of crystalline doubt;

Life breaks and molds the light
We use in the momentary existence,
Wielding great joy and furious
Strife at the throat of the silence;

Life is the Word spoken to the other
As naked thoughts unknown,
Hooked by love,
Dissolved in ignorance;

The living bound to the dust
As quickly to beauty as the moment,
All are sacred
If only for a little while.

Once upon a time
I was cursed to follow a woman,
Her bed was the alter of my sacrifice.
    I had three jobs
To pay for her extravagant lifestyle,
    I robbed the local convenience store
to pay for her ttaste in expensive jewelry,
    I have checks made of rubber
That bounce from mall to mall,
   I could not stop myself
For I was fearful she might scorn
Me with her luscious lips,
Stare at me with those entrancing eyes!
  It wasn't always like those,
Before we used to date and eat ice cream
At the park,
Drink at the cabana place I know,
We would make love til the morning.

      But the years went by and I fell
In her web of mysteriousness,
She would wear these dresses
With nothing under and flash me
In privately in public places,
     She would contort her body
That wrote new chaoters in the
Kama Sutra, I was a poor boy
Lost in a world of candy.
Then, she threatened to take
Away all the sweets if I did not
Stop talking to my friends,
    And to make sure this came to
Be she hacked my Facebook page
And said I hated them all,
Each by name,
   She was in a jealous delirious state.
     When I get home from work
She makes me kiss her on her cheek,
The her forehead and slap her on her
Backside, she makes me talk
About which dress I will buy her next,
    Of what make her next shoes I will
Surprise her with, a pair a month
As a surprise, aside from the ones she
Expects on demand,
     My ears burn, I know she is near,
I throw up at how much I know about
women's clothing,
I fainted when she bought her
twentieth purse,
She then says for fainting she had to go
Rethink our relationship so she
Takes her mother on vacation
With my recently cashed 401k.

Its been some years now,
I stopped the three jobs and held on
To one, she did not mind
After I passed her credit check.
    But the woman accused me of not
Loving her and wasting her best years
Because I refused to buy her
A car, she could not drive,
So she brings her Mother home to visit
And after a month I buy her a Camry,
      Her eyes flash in anger because
It was not go to the year,
The new models came out next month
But it was the same year as it is now,
So I have no clue what she is babbling
About,
    I then walked out and lived as a homeless
Man for a few weeks,
I slept in the park and found peace in
Hunger, but the law would
Not let me stay there,
So then I went on to pretend I was
A joyous hobo,
And I lived in a small tent village
With others like me,
Many whom had left their
Crazy wives.

   One day I got a surprise kiss on my cheek,
It was her,
She had found me and I was horribly glad
To see her again,
But I thought I didn't love her anymore.
She holds my hand and says
That she will take care of me now,
That all my troubles are over.
She has bought me a plot
Of land with my tombstone
She said,
That I would be with her the rest of our
Days she said.
I told her I could use a break
From all the wild life,
Get me some food woman,
And a beer to boot.
As I wait for my new old wife,
I kick my feet up and watch
The game,
Next to the remote I notice the picture
Of my tombstone from
Some photo she took,
On it was my date of birth,
And mysteriously my date of....

For two weeks since he's been home
He lost most of his conversation
In asking me or himself what needs
Done in the house or around it.

He watches the news alone at midnight
In the dark looking for war updates,
Always up before me to avoid any
Kind of pillow talk or otherwise.

26 years old and tireless
Back from four years of God knows
Because he won't say a word to me,
But I've never seen him more alone.

Last night I tried to make love to him,
He winced at me like he didn't
Know how to he with a woman any
More, which I found at first kind
Of nice, but really depressed me
Later on thinking about it.

Everyday during lunch, Gil breaks
Out his hand gun and rifle,
He breaks them down with such
A delicate touch, sometimes I get
Jealous of the way he handle them.
Still at the very least I like to think
That he knows how to touch a woman,
And he just misplaced his passion,
That one day he will put the energies
Back where they need to be.
We talk everyday, but the ts like
A mechanical response,
J just let him be.

We had a laugh when we shared
A movie together, the first one we saw
When we dated as teens,
He smiled at me like he did before
He left for the war,
He even gave me a kiss that lasted
More than the usual pecks.

In our bed I stare at this man
That I couldn't breathe without,
I try to understand that maybe he
Will come home some day,
Maybe he will remember himself,
Maybe is my best hope.

My Mother was killed, along with
A cousin, many friends like brothers.
Twisters of death's erosion
Scooped me up and led me on
The path of vengeful living.
I had to make something from all the
Death, a pile of flesh staring out
At the quarter moon, so
Unknown that many
took me as orphaned.
     Yes, me, Dedpoet, bearer of words
     Once was lost in the fire's reign.
     I would walk in the rain catching
     My mother's tears for her lost child,
    Hoping to catch the light and be
     Taken into skies hopeful greys.
I became a rock that heads were
Decapitated upon, the house of regret
Stirring the animal inside to prey
Upon that which preyed on me.
Deep inside wept a little boy poet:

      Fallen in the abyss,
      Mother's golden light,
      So far into the unreachable sky...

I was told that if I didn't straighten out
I would be in a cage with no words,
But the words welled from deep springs
Of pain that could be written on
A window using the vapor on my breath.
I danced the pale moonlit nocturnal,
I breathed the night, the point of a gun
With indecisive fingers.
I was thruster into my own war,
Living already in a warzone,
I was the the living shadow of
A Nightingale bathing under darkened
Splendors of city lights and barely there stars.
In the day, the gardens of vengeance
Were planted with fresh seeds,
I was the bloodlust of the West.
The sunlight bathed my heated words,
All the while I fell in deep love,
A collision of an unstoppable desire
With an immovable lust, we engraved
The names of lovers with a scorching pen,
A hopeful poet came alive and the words
Beckoned the Heavens attention....
  
         Little boy, little boy,
         Close your eyes
         Upon the thorns,
         Life never stops piercing.

The days became a hopeful cloud,
The nights were countless,
Splintered into a thousand moons,
The words of vengeful allusions
Fought alongside the love for Her.
Lucky the Raven, nevermore,
I still must be here to remember,
Lucky the dog whom bit his owner,
Homeless now but free!
Lucky the life that dies young,
Never to look back,
Like water at the foot of the mountain,
Here the river begins.

     I am alone, the years fall like grains
     In the hourglass, I have shed many skins,
    I see the losses and the dead fallen
     From uncertain graces,
     What had vengeance reaped?
     I wait for you all in the other side,
     The words I leave will take you there,
     The last place of the little boy,
     He will real the stars and bathe in the
     Sun with a Mother he lost so long ago.
     He will kiss his lover and the twister
     Grows calm, the love will cure the deepest
     Affliction, he will die in her embrace,
     Born again in her kiss, he leaves the gun
     At the foot of the Word, and the words
    Gush from his body from a nocturnal sorrow,
    And immortalised pain will reign here,
    The cycle of life is an embrace of tears,
     Love the enscription on every one shed.

Upon my tombstone
Is the covenant of poetry,
The escape like water
between the fingers,
The distance between
Now and then is but a pen stroke.

I read in a poem,
Sky black,
             Scorched Earth.
But the night is a jigsaw:
I sit on my porch and constellate
The fires, the fathers of worlds
While I think of the words
To perceive what I will never touch.

My spirit ascending
To touch a thousand
Light years of light,
They have never heard a word,
So I write the fire,
Like a son to father,
The poem becomes a legacy
Of flames thirsting for words,
I drink in the light
And give to them words,
They will never know why,
The poem will reach them
As an ember of misunderstanding.

The immortal word
Is a light reflected .
I will write to the stars,
And when the poem reaches,
I will have gone from this place,
I write because I am a man,
Mortal and dying,
My words will remain.

The stars constellate men.