All the silence does not mean
You are alone,
It is the world waiting for you
To listen;
And in the darkness you are
Found by the light
Of your hope.

And in the tears of your
Pain you are born,
There you become stronger
And it creates order.

Pick up your flesh as your spirit
Lifts,
And speak your happiness
As if the tip of your tongue
Was the mountain's peak
Speaking at the sky,
The burden is a caged bird
And only the conscious can set
It free.
And sing to yourself so that
You know you are never alone
In your body.

Know that your crazy is beautiful
Because it makes you YOU,
Wear your skin like
Your cozy blanket and cuddle
In the warmth of yourself.
     You are not broken,
But scattered like the night
With pieces like stars shining,
    Open your pain and yourself
To the wound of the world and heal
Whatever you choose.

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.

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.

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.

Did I win or lose?
Perhaps-maybe nature won.
One less spin cycle,
Gallons of life water saved.
In my intellectual hemitage
I find a difference can be made,
Oh underwear,
Spirit of nature,
First I wear you proper,
And the day is good.
I walk forward into the morrow
And turn the world backwards.
Yes the tag now goes to front,
And wedgies aside, all is well.
In the instantaneous moment
Ina departure of normalities,
Confronted with a bundle of reflections,
I move into day three,
Inside out.
The days have dispersed,
I wreak of the third day,
Still a difference has been made.
I take off the underwear,
Crispy and tainted,
With a lump in my throat
And a little hope I made a difference,
The underwear is sacrificed to the hamper.

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

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

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

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

5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

12. You write  Peyton Manning farewell poem.

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

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

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

You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.

2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.

3. When Cupid calls you corny.

4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.

5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.

6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.

7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".

8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.

9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.

10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.

11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.

12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.

13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.

14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.

15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.

16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.

17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.

18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.

19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.

20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.

Inventing the day,
Circular possessions,
All I own cannot be touched,

Everything lost in a fire,
Blazing nocturnal,
The slab of marble becomes
A tin marker,

Watching with stillness
As fleshes mesh with time,
     A poet remains:
The spherical elimination
   Casting lights on dark
I find my axis
      I find myself the epitome
And the footsteps
      In the puddles resound
In my minds echoes;
My body is a transparent verse,
        Night unfolds , I
Can see myself again.

      Listen to me as you listen
To the water,
     I am the unhindered thunder,
The shadow in the light's
     Ignorant glow,

      From my footsteps rise the
Steam,
I am still The DedPoet,
    As you sleep in your bed
I invent my new homes:
   Nightly I bocome a
Poem of The Nocturne.

Policeman:
You, hands above your head,
Turn around, no sudden movements.

Black man:
Officer I......

Policeman:

Shutup, on your knees, hands behind,
Your head!

Blackman: Sir I....

Policeman:

   Shut the **** up! (Taser pointed)
-Handcuffs the black man -

Policeman:
Now, what did you want to say sir?

Autumn comes when my sadness
Arrived like a cold blanket
Of leaves,
The fleeting sun with short days
And rainy sessions of music
Too melancholic to feel
Any ray of sunshine.....

But I like my pain,
It holds firm to memories
That tie it all together,
The glow of a quarter moon
On my drowning lips speaking
The way I used to hold you,
The way you wore me like
A robe folding every curve
Around me:
How much the depths of my soul
Want to see you in a certain
Light, passing me even as air,
Yes,
The pain with final skies
Which calls for anguish in a flowering
Darkness leaving me
Nostalgic and scattered,
Yes,
I like my pain,
That is how I know it was real.

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.

A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.

Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the  restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.

Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.

Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.

I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:

The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.

I'm eating bean and cheese,
Suicide bomber attacks airline;
I spill some salsa
And the body count isn't in yet.
There is no suspense here,
Just tacos and the horrible news;

I change the channel
And look for my huevos rancheros,
Terror does not exist anymore
But the salsa stain remains.

So Im alive,
But I died a little inside.
Because I am dead
And now alive and reborn
Into a thousand words never written,
I will become no one again.
Did you metaphorically cry?
Sad as thinking how well
You truly knew me?

" But we were poets!"

And so you live and die by the
Stroke of the passionate lie
That are the words that well
Up inside like a brutal indignity,
Outraged at my shamelessness
Did I ever truly puncture your heart?
I am Ded inside,
And I dont know you,
But I just love your poetry!

So we sever the ties from reality
And divorce the facts
In a hopeful serenade to the deaf,
See how I magnify the ignorance
With brazeness?
Such splendid grandoisity!
And a poem is just a word,
There is no poem without action.
I am me,
No metaphor needed,
Just who the hell do you think
You are?

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.

I am Mexican:
       Brown and forgotten inbetween,
       Brown like the dirt poor I am.

Iv'e been in hard labor:
      I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
      I am the backbone of the working class.

Iv'e been poor:
      I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
      I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.

Iv'e been a hustler:
      Every penny earned off my back
      Makes dollars for "their" pockets.

Iv'e been here:
      I am no *******,
      I am the American dream,
      Still I must show identification.

I am Mexican:
      Brown and four generations deep
      American, I am still
      The immigrant face.

The air I breathe,
Which gasps and sighs;
My journey of choice guided
All its winds and there were
The words my soul had yet
To Melody.

Along the sky, next to
The petals stolen and the birds
Feathery flight there was an Angel
Sobbing in blue and whose tears
When hit on ground did stroke alive
Many a lily white bloom.

And the air I breathed
Caught the Daughters of God
In mid flight and split the tongue
Into words for  Poet Saint to verse
The world in birth of inklings.

Near a sonnet yet born
A coronet of masks lay drawn
Upon the faces of nymphs I saw
The fiery lust behind open waters
Chanting to sailors revealing their
Naked spirits and seducing in words
That seemed a song from some
Romantic whale.

In the orchestra of stars,
Breathing in constellations up
Upon a pedestaled Word,
The sumptuous flows of winged words
Played like sweet violins and the chorus
Was mine to orchestrate,
Both slow and methodical,
Paced and volatile.

And I breathe,
The breath of lovers like a steed
And a mare upon whose back
Sits Eros shooting arrows into
My very soul romantically evoking
The man in me who believes
In the songs of love,
A woman whom sings them aloud
And along the moist of her lips
Sits the poem I have yet
To write.

Oh deep is the breath,
The Lovers combine in perverse
Yet controlled light,
The naked souls are entwined
In a living light of crystalline
Bodies mankind deep passionate
Starry eyed poetry.

Ah the winds that be life!
Times of sorrow that fill the void
Like restless cries of a motherless
Child, and a walk among the tombstones
Brings about the rage of death,
Both tranquil and terrifying,
These words are they that bleed.

I breathe the words in open air,
The Shepard winds upon
My ink, the poem dances light
And lovely adorned with sighs
And sorrows, would bes and regrets,
The tender ferocity of the winds.

My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
   " Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)

Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....

And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.

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.

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.

A sorrow and my words,
I remain the same,
Alone....

Together before like an opaque
Tear under impressions
Of time in my time,
Thoughts rein in the future
Of course without her,
    We spoke of love
While love was written
Under the quarter moon
And the night  peices
A masterful passing....
     I cannot stay here
In your company theoretical,
The memorial entombed
Into the fibers of every verse,
A past sudden,
And I remain there,
Such a melancholy being,
    Though u kept me
In the moments
I remain there in the future
Without you,
Passionate to the narrowed
Views,
Enormously grateful for sorrows
That weep today's passing,
    Oh I remain in the moment,
You reminded me to be there,
Little did I know
I would be left behind
And I don't love her anymore,
I linger perfectly imprisoned
And the words bleed,
Joyous for the mist in my eyes,
Alone with your memory
And her name is.....

But a few thoughts
Scribbled in seclusions.

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.

Take a ride with me,
Give me your ear, your eyes;
Like stellar days of old,
I will tell no lies.

     You see my days weren't complicated,
When the rivers ran red,
    It was a bullet or the money,
Family gotta stay fed.

Your silent gestures cannot fathom
What was my everyday,
Like the hardened hollows of my soul,
I took my gun to the park to play.

    This was my life
From my chest into these words,
    Every link in the chain,
I am tied down by haunted verbs.

  Kindle old fires
And set your daily a blaze,
I survived with deep wounds,
   To the past I am a slave.

Give me my homiez,
All dead and gone,
Give a sip of that Henny,
I'll drip some on the lawn.

  This is me,
Just an old ****,
I'll remember the tombstones,
On bent knee I the marble a hug.

Today I am whipped
Among all the sorrows,
But being a survivor
Give me hope for all the tomorrows.

The westside,
Like a weary night *****,
No coming back, no coming back,
I can't take no more.....

Pick out a casket
And don't remember my name,
Anonymous me,
A Dedpoet who carried the blame.

Silence is listening
                   For the music;
Knowing when to be still
                   To hear one's self.

When the body stands silent,
                    Everything moves;
Silences are the noises,
                   The echo of everything.

Without being heard
               The silence becomes visible,
The footsteps of the light
               Can be heard in the meditation.

The silence walks with you
              As the world makes you silent,
The idea is to hear the music
              That is in the quietude of your peace.

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

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

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

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

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

She is the last of her
Frailty, that shadow
Of girl interrupted,

The whole of her burned
Like a great scar on a heart
She once knew.

The anamolous woman
In another world,
A woman used and left behind,

Though one cannot recognise
Her face, through her
Demeanor she tells of another life.

And she declared war
With a ravenous intention
On building great walls,
Insurmountable

And with no doors
She leaves but a window
For him to find
And glimpse what she guards.

He will fall for her
And break like water against
The rock,
The jagged rock never smoothened

And the walls will shake
At the oscillating moment,
She will see a silhouette of frail
And timid creature,

She will sedate the emotion
And the walls will grow taller,
The embodiment of independence
In a story lost to the pain,

She will walk the earth
In a stir of echoes past,
The walls shimmering dark glow,
And the woman scorned does roam.

Where I belong, or destined to be
Is not exactly clear like
Crystalline doubt with fear in tow.
No,
Not on the ridge where I stand partly
In sky atop a roof not there
In its geometrical theory.
With the straight line
Like hammer to wood
Curved yet target laid,
Walking sticks on top of sticks
I nail my presence to homes
Yet homely to be made.
Not on the porch where lemonaid
Will be poured and yet to be's
Will extend on in time as an
Echo lingers of what no one sees.

I build a home
And leave a peice of me unknown.

Time of sorrowing,
My words wander through
The vast emptiness of dark stars
And blood stained carnations.
Come my black hearted lover,
The great sorrow is our forest,
The blessed truth of a drifting
Reality beyond the villains of love.
A raven flies from tree to tree
And greets the infinity of your soul,
Which is just as nocturnal
As the black rose unseen
As though a queen was dying;
Oh beloved embrace your darkness.

Look, I see your eyes deep,
Free your fiery hair to the wind
So that it may shade the sun,
The wild magnificence of your
Womanhood which is like
Silken flattery of crimson kisses
From the moist of your lips.
I will catch Oscura,
The Dark Star and enchant
Him with your black eyes,
The sweet season of the nocturnes!

There is a cavern
That surges with a dark glow
And beautiful dark elves play
There in a spring of water
Naked and playful,
They caress the darkness
And you are their Queen.
You were there since before
You were born in the crystalline
Lament of the dark glow
From the days of antiquity
When the first words were yet
To be spoken and you flattered
Even the Poet Saints.

Oh Dark One,
The shadow of your breast
Under the howling moon
Where dragons sing a fiery
Hymn over sonorous waters
With wings of scales.
See the dark stars glow
Blood red to honor your beauty,
It is the harmony of the night
In a cluster of lightless constellations,
The fragrance of nightingales
And the souls dancing under
Your very eyes.

Do you see the night?
I am one with you lover,
The pale moonlight swells
Under my manly throat as I
Speak the forsaken language
Of the night, the soft kiss
Of the dusk vibrates within
Me as I ****** your body
To the music of the dead.
Close your eyes lover,
Blessed darkness awaits
As the universe pours itself
Into our bodies and bound
Us into the sacred night.....

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Reading,
         Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
    I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
       The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
      You all become real.

   Archives of the souls
    Instantaneous connection
        Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
    Your words
Invent more words,
    Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
    The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
    And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
     Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
     The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
    The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
    Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
    Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
    It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
       The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
     It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
      Your secrets,
           The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
   Beginnings,
Endings,
    You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
      Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:

The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.

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

With hope for you
       I whispered your name

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

The night is dead,
       A million cells dispersed
Into the atomic universes.

   (Pieces of me)

She turns over,
       Takes the smoke out my hand.....
    Puff,
Ahhhhhhhh,
    " You can leave now"

Everything is nothing,
    And in the mathematical juggernaut
Of life making life,
     One in a million will make it,
I will die 999,000 times:

And it is 65,000,000
Years ago,
A single asteroid with an asterisk
Kills all life to set free life,
       I am a root carnal
Subjective interlude of the lustrous desire,
     The **** of my *****
With no humanity,
    Come and go,
One night standing
    On a galactic precipice of infinite
Possibility,
      But what separates the animal
Is heartbreaking,
Because the animalistic nature
Takes me to the moon
And I am just a man,
      I leave behind what?

" Nice meeting you"

A fatherless angel 9 months into
Forevermore.

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

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

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

Begin here
The forbidden hope of the poor,
The firmament under shimmery
Skies sailing dreams on the moons
Glass light.
Begin now,
What dreams may come
I become many things,
I am the man who loves,
However I am also the man
That hurts from the same source.
And I can't help being all the things
A heart desires,
Two hopes on my chest
And soon I am the world
With my solar ways and my
Lunar thoughts,
Moonlighting on the precipice
Of the promised,
The fugitive love that conquered
The momentum,
I proclaimed myself the undefeated,
And I,
Here and now
Become a bird
With a song of  flight
And all the treetops
Like a sea of greenery.....
Listen, my wings flapping,
I alone will dream and conquer,
The infinite hope inside
That yearns for my humanity,
And that makes me king,
For hope is the glory of all men.

I guess the spirit never really dies-
Words help me remember
How everything was a rainbow.

And the spectrum -
A variety of freedoms,
A clumsy learning,
A horizon ending with friends,
A stick, a ball, and a soda.

I'd write the summers,
The humidity's tender sweat
Which I guess became a cloud just
For me whose shape would stir
My imagination as the sky fell for me.
I'd write the best of friends
That never turned away adventure,
The forest in our neighborhood
With the wind rippling trees as
Autumnal tenders blew memories
To the future.

I want the words which are forever,
Immortal kids running like flames
Over ripples of time,
Hearts that never aged and innocence
That never failed,
I'd write the poem of a little boy
And candy wrappers surround.

I'm a little boy poet,
I want to write every joy,
Every new sorrow with a veil
Of child like mourning,
To write the light in my eyes
As I saw my first crush,
A fathomless rainbow to remember indeed.

This poem is pointless,
I cannot experience them through
Words,
I think I'll go play with my daughters
And drift away into spectral grace.

Notes, musical keys, rythmic changes-
A modification of the Word
Which purifies her soulfulness
And expresses clarities in the fog,
The hint of Dickinson in her words,
The scent of reality in her reflection,
     The words become a path:

One wet summer I heard your words,
The vibrant sky breaths
And the sun became as embers
Of poetic sacrifice,
Through reading your poem
I became as a double being,
Movement began
A sudden dispersion of birds
Followed by the Humm of water
On stone,
Murmurs of infinite moments
Painting them all like some
Poet Saint,
The words became a lineage
To the unfathomable depths of you,
In the helix of hours
The beat of the sea and the stilled
Shimmers of light on water can be found
In the edification of her poetry;

Master strokes,
Like a naked liberation
Of a diamond body beyond
A turquoise sunset,
A co concubine of words
That form constellated meanings
Among the pnumbra,
Reminiscent of the March of hours
In which the words come
And a fixed glitter in her eyes form,
The form of woman,
A form of dizziness
Like a dance of wind and water,
I read between the words,

    Vicki,
         Vicki,

I imagine a lamp in the middle
Of the night,
A pen and a womans scorching
Words as God had spoken
The First Word,
Like a moon in heat in midday's
Grasp, she counters every word
Of expression
Like a cell for my tortured soul,
She became my solitary star,
I wander in her hours,
Hungry for more words,
A memory inventing itself,
Masterfully,
She makes the sky walk the land.

Whether I'm out on Military Drive
With my Ruca cruising the street,
I can't stay alive
Without that special meat.

I'm talking bout early morn,
Looking for a place for some comida,
When you need that taco like food ****,
You need it in your Vida.

Yeah, you have buevo ranchero,
Or maybe some bean and cheese,
But I need me some vaquero
To fill my Mexican needs.

So make me a taco,
Make it chorizo and egg,
I'm just a typical vato,
Cmon, please don't make me beg!

And now you know about my favorite dish,
Eating Mexican is like a granted wish.

When DedPoet faked his death
He let go all drama,
All the non sense poets seem
To get into because we think we
Are connected.

I DONT KNOW YOU.

And I just want to write poetry
Without me in it,
Without your emotions stirring
An imaginary ***.

I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND.

I am a fellow poet who studies
This craft,
This art,
This therapy that saved my life.
And you and me we are just words
In the the beautifully unstable
Majestic poem that is all in our
Heads.

I BLOCK POETS WHO STIR POTS.

Because I just want to write
Without all the drama.
I feel your eyes pointed at me.
And I could care less.
I faked my death to ****
Any thoughts of friendship,
I am Dedpoet,
Im here to write,
What the hell are you doing?

....and in your gigantic presence
With your miniscule body
You are the mirror
Of the deepest stars
Past the spaces between
Spaces,
Into the mist
Your red tailed gaze
Into the echoes
Of Babylon's Gardens,
A grace in a dance
Of your broken life,

The glutton behind the father
Who took you,
The tumultuous perfume
Left with scars behind the drapes
The neighbors couldn't hear,

The sadness in your soul
Inside the woman who
Loves me,
Slender hopes under the lines
Of the dream's eyes,
Your ears never caught
The exhausted bitterness
That only heard an immense
Change in the future,

I am here woman,
As you bite your silver lips,
Arc your metallic spine,
And the bronze shine in your
Otherwise copper hair,
I become a Magnetar
In the metallics of your body,
Mighty embraces will kiss
The crystalline eyes
With lips on fire
And singing redemption's lullaby,

Together killing your past,
Your hands hold distant visions
That bloom living roses,
Who tears are of lost lilies
In an ebony pond,
A fertile present
Gives birth the momentous,
No one can change your past,
But you're a basacrifice
Void of alcoholic bliss,
The grapes before
Now dead forever
Is a sober feeling.

Magnolia of mine,
Like a flowerbed of omnipotent
Desires,
You bloom the ***
With a martyrs sacrifice,
Your hopeless days are gone
And  I am grateful for
The circles under your eyes,
The vain of your existed
Pains,
Your heart transfixed by the
Newness of our love,
Though you still look at the old
Curtains,
The confused and turbid tumult
That bore it's hole
Into your ways,
I have come when you began
To love again the life
Over a darkness under the
Nights skin,
Tearing away the darkness,
A dawn song has spread
Over the horizon,
And your light is a melancholy
Of stars,
From your eyes grow
An ocean of time,
And here we float with hope
I can only Revere
That all the worst
Life gave to you,
A fleece of golden grace

And I can only be thankful
As your sorrow
Has birthed a certain kind
Of grace with the
Pieces left intact.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't belong here
In this flesh
Going to this dirt,
I belong to
the fire, the wind,
The sky.....

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.

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

Steady into the night:

Grippin but no set trippin,
Grippin but i aint whippin,
Limpin cuz its straight survival,
Graduated good but awaiting
My survival,
Arrival;
Poet of the nocturnal,
3rd degree burnin eternal,
Inferno fire of this life,
Made out the suffering
Now fighting for my life,
Strife on the daily,
Killin expectations thats why
They straight hate me,
Fate me, destiny on the bubble
Finding out life bringing
More struggle,
Trouble in deeper to the heart
Bringing out the gangster
And in the end Im back here at
The start.

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