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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eros, the ever hopeful.

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??

I barely know your name,
I have seen your face,
A sorrowful divinity,

Delicate like the pain in your eyes,
Small, sweet, yet somehow broken,
The tranquil pain says so much.

Your hair drinks in the light,
And your hands hold a smooth
Grief that grows deep and kills,

Eventually you will see a poem
And wonder if you are like that,
If your beauty is calamitous,

If your rose petal smile
Cries with humble tears
When you look at distant stars,

Wether you see white doves
Of dark Ravens ,
Or even both in your sleepy heart,

You who hold the adoration
Of the blind man,
In love with shells,

You- beauty of the sorrows-
Have a sweet hole in your heart,
Love complete, body and soul,

I confess your picture is a spectre,
It exhausts my soul
And I open my arms,

Would you run to me?
Would you just half smile
And cry a tear for what will never be?

You have a divine thirst,
And your eyes carry a myriad
Of fluttering whispers,

Words that float to me,
The wrath of your being,
One day to find one another.....

The bitter heaviness of your name,
Angela....Angela...... Angela,
I whisper to broken air,

Your picture is a feast of beauty,
Yet I cannot hope for more
Than a haunted glare.

I sink myself into mortal grief,
The paralysis of you,
Angela....Angela....

You leap to life
When nothing is possible.

Enormous earth
Crawling over water,
The eagle's flap is a whirlwind
Across sudden forests,
Tops like pointed greenery
And formidable roots.

She is caught in the moonlit aureole,
Shimmering like waves on stars,
The wears her flattery,
The echoes of enchantment.

Stilled in a frame, through a window,
Adrift in the generations of home,
Wrapped in memory, a picture
Remains,

Visions like a poet in a new world
Held captivated by the blue sun
In the diamond reflecting reflections
In the depths of the endless Word.

I was on a ship in the dead of night,
The sky black with tiny sparkles
And un-named constellations,
For a long time I stood staring
At the night sky and sometimes
At the blackened dark sea.
I gathered my imagination
And made shapes of all sizes and kinds.
I had visions of lovers reaching
But never quite touching;
I saw the mercy of a man and his
Dog in the woods finding
A lost child.
And suddenly in the darkness
All alone I heard the ocean make
A hiccup, a small fish I glimpsed
Under the moonlight.
Suddenly I realised the fish was making
Constellations too,
In his own world
In the sea making shapes as well.
And when I searched the sea
Once again, I swear
I could almost see the fish swimming
Through the stars
And through the moon,
And the reflection of the sea
Was a galaxy all its own.

I met her by chance
Standing in the middle of destiny
Governing all eyes who passed,
All who could not adress her.

The solitary star she was
With her own kind of light
That goes on fiery,

It runs from the night
And lends beauty to day,
Like the blaze of a dark Star,
Birth of a second life,
Ebony girl,
I rip myself from the serpent's tooth,
I awaken from a thousand days
Of forever and she brings
Me forth from oblivion,
I utter one word between my lips,

Ebony

The word of nocturnal beauty,
I wish to plant the seeds so
Loving, so caressing,
They grow inside her heart,
I bequeath it all,
Should it all be just a dream,
Running or flying,
She flanks the reality
And  pours her own brand
Of living waters,

Ebony girl,
Your lightning sweet and tremendous,
You give my clouds wind,
Warm me and hold me
Closer to the fire
Of your chest.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

There are thousands of us here
In this small part of the internet.
We are thousands,
Voices of all natures.
I wonder how many in all
The corners of the world?
Here alone are thousands
Which plant seeds of philisophical change
And the evolution of our society.

How many words will it take
To declare the state of humanity
As the world goes deaf and blind?

Every once in a while I see a poem
With a national headline,
Some black kid shot by a white cop.
Then the poem disappears,
The poet and his or her fellow
Writers retreat inward
Jumping into nothingness
Of feelings and self loathe.
We carry a banner with a million
Words and nothing to say in unision.
Oh God, is this the path of the poets?

But suddenly I realise
And I see I am just as shallow
As the next,
The pulse of the world will not
Beat with poets,
Though poets can be the racing pulse
Of change.

Let the poets unite on common ground!
Cry out against something in unision.
We are thousands of voices
That cannot yell.
How many of us here on the internet?

How hard is it to rise against
The machine and bring
About change truly to the soul,
To see ourselves rise up
With our words?
What we speak we will write,
What change we write
Will give birth to humanity.

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

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

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

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

I would like to share with you my enduring
        Memory with guns,
Never forgotten, a difficult story.

In my home Summer of 93 was born
From the dry sun and certain colors,
      Not the forsaken flowers,
But the rags of gangsters,
     The survival of the unfittest like
     Certain carnivores on a plain,
Tired of the slums from people whom
Live unmajestic lives.

     For a summer
Bullets had no names weekly,
A repugnant visiting crisis and I lost
My bed to fear,
One longs for a night with no bullets
Flying by,
And a dream without the oppressive
Gunshot just above my head board,
A consolation in the morning's sorrow.
Everyday a new hole discovered,
Everyday thinking
"I'm lucky to be alive"

    No.
All my heart aches
Because one night a bullet had a name,
And the bullet came for Mother
Never to return to the earth,
     In the blossoming summer
All I knew was death,
     Death with a barrage of gunfire
From the breast of destiny,
     Full in my heart was vengeance,
12 years old and lost in the womb
      Of the Barrio.

Like a madman,
For I was no longer a child,
The bullrush of thoughts come clean.
    Memories without veils,
Like an angry widow resting
In indifference, with an evening
That arrives with an eruption .

     A penetrating glare from my eyes,
Between youth and death,
I will tell you about my enduring sorrow,
     And a 12 year old carries a gun.

The Sun flames a lumen just below
Horizons breath,
Flinging the air at its
Frosty breaths
The need to cry
In dew drops on a cradled nature,

The light is the end of me,
I become cemented,
Enable the chorus to sing
Forbidden in the words
Never sung,
A boy hungry smiling
At at the epitome,

I feel pathetic waves crashing
On sullen rocks,
Pity me not, I i already cried for
Myself,

The hands do not reach out to me,
I cast no shadow,
Approach me ,guarded,
I dont know who you will meet
When we do.

Poetry, my companion poetry,
Always with me in the grind,
The one I speak to in the solitary
Confinement.
         You were born out of life
That was silent until I met you,
From the fountain of words
That I am drunken from.

       Your grace in the theoretical
Chaos is what keeps me focused
As I trace the oblivion into form,
Together birthing inklings of
The journey.
     And you are the voice of wombs,
The beginning of my dreams,
The ending of my awakening,
      At times we collided and formed
The polyhedron shaped mirrors
Always conflicting the original reflection.

     But you are my friend,
All that is real in this surrealist
Pavement, I am not myself without
Your balance,
     Both crazy and sane,
Still I have not known the difference,
And I have no cover without you,
I become a picture of a child,
     Lost in the city,
Lost among the sea of eyes,
All staring at the orphan.

I am not the night nor the stars,
But the dream experienced.

I am not the touch or the hand,
But the soft kiss of the lips.

I am not the life or the death,
But the spirit of us.

You are not the sun or the moon,
But the light of my eyes.

You are not the rose or its thorns,
But its red like life blood.

You are not the door or the room,
You are home.

I am no one without you,
I dont know what else to write,
Only that where you go I will follow.

I could swim in your oceanic eyes;
But when you give me that look
You lay dynamite on my iron skin
And you open me like a wound:

Spirit of fire that burns
Like a blade of sunlight
I sacrifice myself as I die
Into you, you ancient name of fire;

And your temper between the jaws
In the abstract geometry you propose
Lays me in an impassive torture
And you load ghosts of yesterday
Into Tomorrowland,
My cry and the cries of the torturer.

Be it the first dawn,
The last dawn,
We are bigger than the night
But the dream of us fits on the bed,
The bed of rain,
The bed of storms,
The liquidity of our bodies
As the moon wakes and asks
For our spirituality,
Souls entwined, we tear the night apart;

But we aren't always in the mood
At the same time,
Vehement bodies on invisible clocks
We can't see ticking,
You speak in Winter,
I speak in Summer;
Our words vanish like
Syllables of vertigo;
We are lost between the argument.

For all the good and the bad
I would make love with you
At the precipice,
Hanging at the cliff;
To fall in love or fall to our death,
Each is a timeless matter
And through it all I
Know that I am alive between
The polar shifts.

Every death is a soul,
The soul knows no time;
And yesterday is here
With dew renewing
Under same skies
    The voices that echo
And the same stones
Thrown as a child
Still exist
Day of night
   Under a strange star-

  Your loss is an eclipse
Of a lonely sun.

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 grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.

Alone,
Alone with nobody,
I walk down the gilded path
Of the moon
Snuffing out every hopeful star
Like those so far away
They blink in and out of existence.

Sorrow bleeds my mind,
I lament in soliloquy
Like a forgotten friend.

The dark night of melancholia
Spilled like a confession,
A dream grieved
Under the languishes of existence.

My heart adorned with memory
And tears suspended from time,
Her scent faintly in the air.

Oh the sorrows
In the Grey hours of solitude,
They slither like snakes
In cold Autumnal gardens.

I turn out the lights,
My hands stirring the pen
As I write the aloneness and her
Virtues at the delicate lips of night:

May Poetry understand
The beauty of sorrow.......

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

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

I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.

Every prodigious step
Toward the angel's ascension
Brings the Omnipotent tear.

Descending like stars overlapping,
Birthing a dark constellation
Chasing a Holy Ghost.

Behold himself in reflection
Twice as a rich man,
Once more a beggar fluent;

So comes a behemoth on winged
Sandals that which twice befell,
Unveiling the holiest of sins.

Father before me and after,
Is immortality unveiled
Like parting from Heavens gate?

From the highest in a chain,
A slave to every master;
Much defined is the mortality.

The Dead have no glory,
For glory's sake to remember
A Victory in transcendant stories.

Seek no more the Holy
As though running from fear
Of the sin,

Tis the same above as below,
Man o man, the futile pawn
Of the Mysterious Game.

And filled it with your fatal presences,
The best a Texas Hill Country
Morning when the bluebonnets wept
While our bodies entwined
A sparrows song,
Your eyes enveloped the light
Of first day and I swear I could
See through Heaven's eyes,
When we shattered the noctirnal
And stroked the suns burn
Merely with unified cravings,
The deer crossed an unspeakable
Verse under the parting night,
I collapse in fatal gratitude
Taking willingly
The thorn of your memory;
Stuck intimately with the rising sun
And born of the wound
Was filled a cup
Encompassing the four things
Love:
Pain which your lips
Promised never to cause me :
Passion which endured as much as time
Swallows the years and closes the
Mouth of the things we remember:
Memory which sustains my soul and erodes my body:
Loyalty to the deceit that in some
Place when we were as perfect frames
In Time's womb
Eternal and everlasting
Where I pray as a Pagan
To return where no one can,
Still my cup empties with gratitude
And overflows tears I cannot
Contain within the spherical
Shell of your precision,
Cut deeply;
And with a despairing gratefulness
my cup runneth over.

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?

Woman,

     You ask that I write you a poem everyday that you are away from me. I willingly spill the words from my soul, I sacrifice myself and fall upon the sword of the pen, the drops of blood like rain from God. And they fall to paper, all that I am, all that I hope to become within you, in a poem to you, at the moment so far away.
       Today, alas I have spilled so much of myself that I too require a filling, a need that sustains me like my words that feed your passion for me. I need the touch of your hand as we sit upon the portico resting on that sunset purple gold, that which lights the stars when darkness falls.
       I need the soft of your lips as they graze the nape of my neck, the stride like a galant mare across fields of shimmering lilies, I need the kiss which fits me like gloves in the cold depths of morning one feels as they take in the first chill of morn.
      I need you like a poet needs words, I need your depths that fill the abyss like the blood fills the body, or the lover fills the woman, oh this wanton desire for the touch, the kiss, the experience of being with you.....
      These are my words, these are my sonnets of infiltration to your soul, a haiku of touch, a verse of making love!
     My love all that is poetry is required by your presence. Simply put, the motions of our love.....that which must be experienced,
       we are the poetry in motion.

               Missing you dearly,
    
             The poet who lost his words.

The streets come alive when so many
Sleep softly into their dreams.
      The newer L.E.D. street lights pierce
The secrets on the Old 90.
    The women that the sun does not touch
Is aglow in the moonlit pavements,
Because she is a nocturnal,
     To be seen by those who cannot see
The bright sun, she shares herself
With the secrets, only known to those
That never stay.
    
       And to better fit into the list,
To better know the secret is to become
Something other than what is expected,
      A desertion of your standardised
Places, where scars can be hidden,
Everyone can dress as royalty,
     This is more common and natural,
Becoming the creature we all seem to
Leave behind.
     And here there are lovers,
Beckoningly fighting one another
For a chance at one night,
An embrace in the eternal momentary.

    And the thirst is deep,
The desire is a window to the stellar
Places, a deep freedom in the nocturnal,
        An occasion set for nightly meetings
Of souls with shadows that seem to chase,
       Street people on the Western venture,
An exchange of souls at home in the night.

Deep into consideration
I balance thought and option,
I wonder if the weight of the self
Crowned moment will get to me,
I rush, I sweat, I sit,
I wonder what Im gonna wipe with....

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dozing the life in worthless ink:
It is the ink that calls forth something
Deeper hurling itself forth from
The depths of everything that is
   You Poet,
          You Poetess.
Your thoughts that gallop and gallop
As your you birth inklings but fill
Nothing and return to stagnant water.
    
A second ago your poem had
A hundred hearts that cheered
And the words were over their faces
As the rootless poem of me, me ,me
Was given and the lightning was
Given out of habitual commonality.
    
I invite you dig up Rage!

Rage, not only against the dying
Of the light,
For yesterday is tomorrow's
Memory, tomorrow is today,
I invite you not to die of death,
     But to die of life!
Fill the words with rage,
That of the current event that
Moves nations, birth the poem
Of sacrifice, become the metaphorical
Martyr, you are a Poet Saint!
Rage,
    Deep in the immense crystalline
    Soul that cries to fill the void,
Become the tree firmly rooted
But still dances with the fury
Of the wind!
Rage,
   Speak the truth of the world,
   Fight with words of the inequality for
   Those that cannot speak,
   Become their rage!
Rage,
   There a homeless child
   With no lucky star of her own,
   And the words will fill you,
   They will devour the abyss
   And you will rage against
   The flowering of nothing's bloom!!
Rage,
   Dig deep and see the world
    With words that become differences,
    With a shining of the light
    Where darkness was before,
Rage,
   And the words will become you,
   The poet and the sacrifice,
   So be it if the poem only has
   Two hearts, unpopular as it
   May seem, it is a reflection
   Of the guilt they carry.
Rage,
   You Poet,
You Poetess,
    The world needs Poet Saints.

In that moment your soul sailed
Off into the profound unknowns,
With heavy eyes watching you go
And God's rain falling on those
You left behind;

There in the flint of the final star,
Becoming yourself once again
Into the ocean of stellar waves,
Your shoulders that burned before
Have found their wings once again.

You shall birth a Nova's light across
A stream of unknown universe,
Filling the empty space that was
And is now no more an oblivion;
You become a solar being.

You have vaulted the quiet reaches,
The timid space between stars you
Have birth a system that will grow
From your presence, and when the seed
Has grown to have it's own shores,

The first delicate breeze of your airs,
The birth a your new amorous Earth,
You will become a song without words,
An orchestrated living constellation.

And the long embrace we feel from
Your absence, the abyss left from
Your departing, it will be filled
And as we look to sky for Hope's
Sake, we will see a new place
In the night sky.

Your star will say, " I am here",
You're light will press against the
Eyes of those you left behind
And the arms of your light shall
Embrace everything we miss.

You will find yourself in new waters,
Know yourself in the sun,
As your soul catches the solar winds,
Make sure the star you birth
Winks for the eyes of those
Whom shed your tears.

The present is still,
But the mountainous rage against
Thoughts and realities collide and I
Realise they have been there since
The beginning:

Look at her,
Ageless in my memory
As the light and the dust settle
In a dance,
     A windmill of her love,
The walk of her figure under said
Moonlight,
Oh the anger entangled because she
Isn't here anymore,
          
     The present is still:
The floodgates of bullets whipping by,
     The nightmares flashing,
A fallen angel before my eyes,
The child cries God!!!!
And to a child mother is God,
    Gone with the waters,
I drown in a tortured river.

     Between what I see and what
I know now I become a dazzled
Flame dancing in a spherical nature,
     A battalion of storms
And the rage within me marches on.

The present is motionless,
But the rage of regret
Is a fountain of reality floating
On a cloud of reflections,
      Where has my lover gone?
She left and it was the best for
Both of us,right?
I agreed to disagree with myself,
       Under grey skies
A flock of crows dispersed
Just before the thunder.....
     In thoughts I chew my nails
Down to my wrist,
The fire burns inside and charrs my heart,
My black jewel
Asleep between her *******,
How I miss you woman!

The present is still:
My daughters cry Daddy!
Echoes of they who are not there,
The transparent moment  is a petrified
Storm,
The sky becomes a deep abyss,
Black clouds over black days,
Daddy isn't there.
Fist strikes the flesh,
     The storm is human
And it rages on inside me,
The precipitation is a drop
Of solitude for every deep thought,,
    My eyes open and close,
Phosphorus regret with downed eyelid.

The moment is still,
But the storm rages on.......

So you are
A phosphorescent relic,
A relic that spins together
Nights and mornings alone-
Spinning in the mind like
Perfect spiral in a landscape that
Overflows with your magnetic sphere.

And the orbit
Comes and goes,
From my eyes to a tear,
From a tear to the sky with blue
Waves of current that wallows
Where you were.

Hear me,
Fallen star of my night,
The whirlpool of your hair
In solar winds,
Deafening winds,
Heavy winds,
When your blue sun brings a storm
Whirling in magnetic memories
Hypnotic and joyous.

Speak, speak Pulsar,
When the earth recites your name,
Pulsar, cry for me,
With your esteemed Aura like a lost
Nebula
At the crest of the world,
Searching without finding.

     This is the hour,
Because your dead star
Still burns and makes light,
And it still shines
And someone,
Someone like me must see it.

      Pulsation in my ethereal being,
I believed in dark stars
But don't believe in reading those
I see,
Pulsar you were hope in the light,
And now a radioactive desire
Of my past.

Oh but we tore the night apart,
We constellated passions
And danced upon the penumbra
In the galactic sea.

     Begin again,
We can sail away on the moon,
Turn the world into a playground,
Begin again Pulsar
Within an orchestral sky.

    However you were gone,
A blue giant in a tiny galaxy,
And I was only a firefly,
No, not a firefly,
An ember of a fire that burned
Out a million miles away.
Ressurection of your light,
Wage the gravity towards me,
       And I say Pulsar,
I remember when we were in the same sky.

    You are the infinite memory,
Your lies smell of Heaven and nothing
Else,
And you are a reflection on the horizon
Of the sea,
The glimmer of my yesterday.

      The sky will open
     And the sea shimmers,
       The moon moans,
     Pulsar, sweet memory ,
Magnetosphere of my pain.

" There is a name of God on every
Child's lips, and the word is
Mother"

    I looked upon her body
That began to leave itself
Suddenly into some stairway
I could not see in my grief.
    
    Mother of the Light,
You took the dawn with you.

The gilded heights that took
You, not the blameless bullet,
But the fleece of flesh you wore,
Now shed to spread your wings,
       Watch over you children's
Children mother of biological blood.
   Cover every atom, every electron,
With your mist that went away in
A flash, your delicate nature be blessed
Hovering over the earth.

    Ceremony of children,
Loving a mother never stops.

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.

What remains
Of little words spoken. ...
The dreams far and away
Taken like thieves,
Only a little stays
In words written upon
A wonderful tombstone.

Thunderclaps in the ears,
A crown of grey hovers,
Sordid and sorrow,
absurdly familiar with a half smile.

Ironic and inflated with nerves
Of rubber bands, atrociously
Used to the jester's tears
And the slow agony of its entertainment.

And we stand when it hurts,
Pace when we are worried,
Let us walk the daily grind......

Through it all we cry and fizzle,
Drowned in the warmth of the tears,
The pain is familiar, the saddest clown!

Dear Roaches,

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

        Your housemate,
         Dedpoet

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

Hugs....
How you've known I needed
Them I will never know,
But what can I say, I do.
And when I read your reflection
On my words,
I cam stop what Im doing
And read my poem again,
And then I cam hug myself,
You calmed my climatic
Mind from shattering
Its self against the wall
Of my own making,
And that wall,
Well I can calm it down.

What is it about Patty M?
A simple seemingly pure
Heart in a world where fake to
survive seems to be the order
Of the day,
And when her words
Like mine, I can hug the
World again,
Because Patty M hugged
Me when no one else could,
Her words are not metaphoric;

She heals my broken self,
Because she meant it,
And I know that something
Is real about that,

So here's to you Patty M
From the Ded Poet:

H.    H.  U.     U.   GGGGG
H.    H.  U.     U.   G
HHHH. U.     U.   G.    GG
H.    H.  U.     U.   G.        G
H.    H.  UUUU.    GGGGG

Lord,
       God of many names
       I come as a pagan
        So that the right One
       Might hear my moans....

You are not a God that is either
Republican or Democrat,
You are partisan and unheeding
To their propaganda,
You do not need the popular vote,
Nor do you speak lies in speeches.

About the monsters You left in charge....

They speak sweet nothings in Your name
While they rush to cameras when
A thousand die.
They secretly take in the money
For the poor and raise funds
For their bunkers when the
Day of Reckoning comes.
    With their atomic know how
And the fear mongering tactics,
  Tney seek to rule me imperialistic,
They seek to destroy me moralistic.
    
    Will you deliver me from their policies,
   Save me from their budget cuts,
    Confuse their sinister programs?

When the day of final Judgement comes,
Send me an Angel,
Be my refuge from the socialist control,
Keep me safe from their propaganda
Mind alterating political promises,
Save me from their campaign commercials,
      Keep those who seek You
Under your safety and
Bullet proof vests.

I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:

    Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
         The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,

Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,

        I am my city.

Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life

          My city is me.

The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.

         We are one.

I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
     My church,
My heart,

My city full of dreamers.

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.

I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;

I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....

Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,

A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,

I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.

Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,

Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,

The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.

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

The Beginning

Beginning
At the duck pond,
A little boy alone.

And a small paper boat
That sailed a way the monsters,
And a soft voice comes to him,
A little girl asking about his boat.

He says the monsters are gone now,
So she takes him by the hand
And walks away to the playground,
He never looks back at the paper boat.

And the eternal present sank the boat,
He played with a new friend,
An understanding of monsters
And they became each others peace.

The Middle
Times that shine in youth
And there she was at prom
With her peace she still held
His hand like the pond before them.

They danced as the years danced,
The youth soaking in all firsts,
He kisses her under the stars
And promises forever in his eyes.

She lay at the blanket before him
Ready as a flower blooms,
They make love as a sacrifice
Of virginal clarity of truth.

The End
Was still the youth, but college
And adventure called them both
To different places and different
Times were to become a reality.

She kissed her kiss of forever,
He held her in their final summer,
Never let me go she whispered,
And he held her ever tighter.

The summer ends,
And the Fall as life is a fall,
They say goodbye and promise
To stay together forever.

              
              The Middle


The beginnings
Of a twenty something man who just
Lost his highschool girlfriend,
And the girl became a woman,
All is a guarantee too change.

The promise was so much to take,
He held on as long as he could
But her dreams took her away
And he became a normal guy.

She meets another man,
He holds on too long,
She marries and has some kids,
He let's her go in his mind.

The Middle of life
Is rarely how one recalls it,
But the time of his life was with her
And he never marries.

She divorces a man that never loved
Her for who she though she was,
Her thoughts drift to her lover,
Her first love, she begins a search.

And time is a force,
A force of her heart when she sees
His face, the pounding that it took,
She realised she never stopped loving him.

The end can be happy sometimes,
And he gets a letter in the mail,
I'm in town, the note said,
Come see me.

He rushes and sees her stilled in time,
As beautiful as ever, they make love
As the first time, two weeks together
That made a lifetime apart worth it.

But she had kids in another place,
He could uproot the life he had,
They say goodbye once again
And something about it felt final.

    
                  The End


The years pile like snow in winter,
And winters breath came and went
Like the seasons, now in his forties
He realised all he wanted was to see her again.

He sends her a letter to meet him at the pond,
She says he has to come to her,
She wasn't feeling so well,
And he flew like a dove in its miracle.

Her children come to greet him,
And he felt like they should have been
His from another life,
The reflections of life's mirror.

The middle years came,
She had battled cancer for years,
He stayed with her through the battle,
And married her with no regrets.

He was with her only two years
But it was the most fun he ever had,
At the hospital the doctors new
That visiting hours didn't apply to him.

As the cancer ate her last days
She made him promise one last thing,
He said he would find her
Where ever souls might go when they leave.

And the end can be a beginning,
He stands at her grave,
He holds her flowers
With tears for everyday.

He went home to where he began
His life, where they first met as kids,
He holds her picture in his pocket
And a sheet of paper he begins to fold.

He puts her picture in a paoerboat,
He sails it away into the pond,
He remembers like it was yesterday,
At the duckpond, a little boy alone......