America, I cannot close my eyes
Nor sheathe my skin color-
Which is that of which she was
Built upon-
Which was that where my ancestors
Were left under supremacists.

Look out and see the restless
Peoples rising with tides
Flourishing under nothing's banner,
How the planet has shrunken
Destroying proud origins
And lamenting the absence
Of patriotic diversity.

America I cannot look
Out in the wilderness of words
That cross this poet daily
And not fathom a poem that
Crosses borders and enigmatic
Skin tones, that water breaks
Itself upon the stone,
Yet blood would stain its surface,
Yes the sacrifice of fools.

I cannot close my eyes
Nor change my skin,
Here in the land of dreams
And the spinster's lamenting
Polishing blue and red tears.

America, much angst is flowing
From open wounds from yesterday
And tomorrow that comes crashing
At the precipice of dawn's early light.

I hear your pain America,
I watch with a selfish pride
At the pain we share,
The differences that unite us,
The words that explode in freedom,
Your stars are not lost
Upon the impenetrable sky.

In your depths you are one,
In the bitter difference of eachother
Filled with children and uncertainties,
We shall not fall gently.....

America, I cannot close my eyes,
I see the beauty of our nation,
America I cannot change my skin,
Nor would I care to.

America, beautiful mutilated rose,
I am convicted as a patriotic
Fool,
America I cannot close my eyes....

America, I will not.

I am 37:
Writing a poem I wonder of the words
And an echo forms into my very fabric,
I sit in my chair and the pen begins;

I am 12 years old
And mother is dying in front me breathing
Her last breaths as a bullet takes her from me,
I see the quarter moon and pray for mercy;

The quarter moon stands in a night
Filled with wonder and
I am 32 years old when I find out my
Daughters exist, all that came before
Comes together in the moment I find
Out they are mine;

And the moment is an algorithm
Of change that never really changes,
I am 15 years old and she looks deeply
Into my soul and tells me she is ready,
I enter her,
The time is phosphorescent;

In the afterglow
I am 47 and I have not yet begun
To live, but my days are ending
Because I could not control my urges
And the alcohol eats my liver as my daughters
Cry for their father;

My daughters cry for their father
Reaching out to me,
And I am 34 years old when I see
That this is something to cherish and
I immerse myself into the moment
And all things seem to stand still,
Timelessness, yet it all must pass
To become forever;

I am 37 years old,
All stands still.....
The years passing away.

Month of January,
My words wander through
Your snow to gather
Crystalline Icycles and fragrance
From burning fires.
Come Winter, my love,
The grey days of chill
Warm the heart,
A blessed scape for holding
My lover drifting in white days,
The flakes fall as you approach
And form a memory,
Frozen in my eyes as though
The season were brought upon
Just for this moment.

Look, in my eyes,
Yours,
An angel walks in the snow
So that the cold sun could
Shinedown upon you,
Cotton and your rose petal
Cheeks, smile at me as
You shiver and kiss the crimson
Of your lips,
The season of Winter,
A reason to hold you....

Your body is a Heavenly crime;
I am caught like a mountain
To the sky
And I am certain of your Angelic presence:

I am absent of myself when your naked
Light forms another plain like
A light of bright silhouettes dancing
At the precipice of eternity,
The night in your hair as
The moonlight dances a seduction
That makes Angels fall.
The nape of your neck to your shoulders
Where I mapped my world in a
Cascade of kisses and I am sure
I saw your wings in the dancing shadows.
A thousand sighs around your
Waist as I trace forever with
My touch,
The tongue as it tastes from
A fountain of your flesh:
Daily I drink of you.
Your thighs like a petrified miracle
Tormenting my eyes,
They close that I might drown
The other senses between them.
A painful tenderness in your body,
I make love to an Angel.

Bridle of desires,
Wing above the storms,
He that steadies the Current,
Lord of my life
Gather me unto You
That these words may be holy
And worthy to praise thee,
Christ, God of my life.
King of Kings
With Your perfection in wisdom
Who rejoices in the little children,
He that is the Word,
Heavenly Shepard
That forms the stars and the skies
With a gesture
Saving those from
The darkness that looms,
Guide me into the Life
As I follow the immortal light,
Merciful One,
Jesus Christ
Distiller of men
Allow me to praise you
Son of God,
Savior of my life.

Harvester of words gathered in the
Trenches of life between
The dawns early fire
And the dusk of our gathering,
A reminiscent corridor that takes
A reader and places them in
The belly of your understanding,
Digestive reading.

And we become all things
All at once
To find a meaning to the wonderful
Chaos,
The stubbornness
Of the human condition
Gazing at broken things and finding
Light in the void of humanity.

You poet
Armed with a language unique
To the written word of your being,
The benevolent ruins of time
Assaulting the moments
Gazing into melancholic skies
Bringing them to read our hearts.
Bringer of wisdom from our own
Stupidity,
Spinning the compass to one another,
Bringing closer the faceless
Soul breathing in words,
Syllables like embers raining
On the angels watching us suffer,
We compact the understanding
Into a small requiem of experiences,
Ripping the face off of the world
And giving it our own touch:

I, you, We,
Poetry the birth of ruins
And dissolves into forever,
Poets, bringers of languages
Never spoken like dictation of spirits,
Time before time,
After and before collide
Birthing the momentous inkling.

Take it,
Its yours,
Poets living in the dream
Suffering the expense
Of the reality,
Constellation of our suffering....

Poets, living martyrs.

There is a poem that awaits
To be discovered,
A seed of thought that wants its
petals in the wind.
It was born of a woman I made
Impossible love to,
Heralded by her missed touch.

The verses are kissed with her
Destinies and embraces,
The light she left in my soul
Tells me of a place
I will write;
A Nightingale's dance under
The tranquil Moon's glow.

And only I know the words,
But they slip into dimensions
Unknown to me;
As though they take flight in
All my dreams.....

Under endless recollections
I sigh a thousand times from
A fountain among highest heights,
That of the waters of  memory
That evades me.

Heavenly body,
Unseen like the unwritten,
Unkissed like the eclipse,
Down the pit of the universe....

There is a person here,
Alone in their sorrow,
Wishing on bright lights
And stuttering prayers,
They are alone in a dark
Few can see,
Alone in a way where no one
Can understand.

They opened the eyelids of the stars
And found there a lonely star,
Without beginning,
        Without end,
Without planets,
Without any friends.

And here a lonely heart does wish,
The star unseen like scripture
Cracked on a tablet of stone,
They have branded a star,
With a darkness so bright,
It matches the sadness in the heart.

The words so deep
They reach about like a lightning storm
That reveals the nature
Of our joyous sorrows.

This is the poet that escapes
From dull crevices and fixed niches
Into a sky adorned with metaphor
And fantastical illusions.
It's a gathering of Weeping Willows
And under are flowers of death
And dark romancing light.

It is like the march of an invisible
Parade bustling down the day,
Each one thoroughly entertaining
With the prestige of words written
On their invisible skulls.
      The hunger that ends but is
Never satisfied,
A miracle backwards,
A solitary confinement with the universe.

And in the middle of sorrow and joy
Is love
Between two bodies,
The romance,
The fall,
Something that brings about melancholic grace
To a fallen angel
At the cusp of mercy of mortality.
The pen and the poet
Bid farewell daily to this world
And everyday reinvent it
With audascious hope....

Poetic reality, oh miserable happiness:
The sea of stars in the eyes of a poet.

To the North, a broken dream remembers,
To the South, lost memories,
To the East, what will never be,
To the west, a rain of embers.

To the North, fallen angels crying
To the South, tears of sorrows,
To the east, not looking for tomorrow,
To the West, hopes are dying.

Maybe the direction, or the pain,
Might trace the place
Of my tears of rain;

A spinning compass eats me inside,
Looking for myself,
Nowhere left to hide.

There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.

In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen stroke,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.

In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.

And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.

Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.

Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
Hell seems too real, the Power....

Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.

The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.

Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.

I walk the city, the city clean
Where the sun is brighter on this side,
I keep my head straight no to be seen,
Though all my guilt can I cannot hide.

When the dove sings below me I can hear,
When the child suffers I do understand,
Where my conscience bundles up its fear
Before the child does raise her hand.

I carry no hope or miracle for the child
But I probably should spare the change,
To leave her in this city wild,
Would a dollar or pennies ease her pain?

With head straight forward I continue a march,
Pockets jingle past the innocent poor,
Walking past my burning heart,
I wonder if Heaven for her will open a door.

Growing out my hair,
But it's hard when I look like
Wolverine's father.

And where is your life
After you have faked death?
(I can hear the whispers)
I send myself notes to find
And surprise myself with.

Even though I lost my friends,
Even though I am just a shadow
Of my former self,
Suddenly here in the mist
I see them all nameless.
And in the mist where madmen
Believe in dreams and scare
Away hapless prayers,
Suddenly I cant tell if my
Arrogance was elegant
Or simply a fools sacrament.

Perhaps-maybe
I will pulled the switch
At my own execution and stand here
Alone searching for love
Among the thorns,
Alive but Ded,
And maybe someone will give
A **** enough to stop me
From further looking like
The insane narcissistic man
I believe myself to be.

Still I feel compelled to teach
A parrot a badword or two,
Never again will anyone mourn
Over me,
Sad because the tears brought me
Such a sorrowful joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still I carry on.

The sun has stopped at midnight,
Its sky caught in a tapestry of stars
And there are certain shadows
I recognize.

I am hidden with the secrets of my desires,
Alone with the guilt of my soul,
The lost wings of the Fallen
As I wear a burden around my neck,
The fountains can never quench
The darkness,
The tears are a storm inside me,
Because I have fallen from the highest
Peak into the lowest abyss.

My dreams are hidden here,
The colors lost to me from the
Stilled light,
Behind a sea of failures
I leave the sky behind me,
I surface at a destiny sealed by the past,
Like the ignorant bliss of oblivion.

And I weep at the boredom of it all.

Don't close your eyes,
The wind has just begun
To sing her song,
The rain had just fallen
To tickle the windows.

And the sounds are an enchantment,
The song of the humming storm
As the night reveals herself,
She is a wondrous traveller
Who catches falling meteors
And turns them into flashing lights,
She waters the ground intent on
Life giving life.

Don't sleep,
The rhythmic nature
Of her kissing the glass,
The crystals she hangs to
Shine in a morning dew
For a magical beginning!

Don't sleep,
She rumbles a world
To isolate the imagination
Between the mind and a pillow
She lulls one to a different world.

And when you do sleep,
Your dreams will be as a lightning's
Child free into the sky
Shooting up into space
Where dreams are born.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a syllable from a broken phrase.

Ive written about my experience
With a daughter i lost in my youth:
Amber waves in the still
Of my soul,
The story in my perception
Truth be spoken,
She wasnt really mine.

And my heart is stilled,
Born into my life
My love could not be seen
As fatherly,
A choice made
And years fade into the torture
That is my mind.

17 years after the four
Of loving her,
The love of my life,
The Ded inside the poet
Reaches into my reality
And once again all is
The chaos.
Ambers wave.....

I raised her for the first four years
Of her life knowing
She wasnt mine.
When my ex and i separated
I lost Amber too:

You reached into a well
Of souls and captured
My whole being,
Ambers waves like a beach
On Sunday morning's
Glory,
Life is in me to hear your voice,
And the truth comes
Like the last gasp.

Amber is my exs daughter,
She cheated on me and we assumed
Amber wasnt mine.
So four years i loved her.
She was born at 6 months old
And weighed only 2.7 pounds.
I reached out four months
Ago for some reason on facebook
After she friended me.
I asked her if she still talked to
The man we though was her dad:

Time is a hammer
Always pounding and memory
Is the tear we dont shed,
It all comes out at once
And the weight of regret
Can be lifted,
The soul cleansed,
The hope invigorating
And life is a dream within
A dream within....

She couldnt tell me anything
So her mother gets on messenger
And tells me she is going to call me.
She tells me Amber is mine.
That I was her father all along.
The stillness in my whole
Life lifted.

And the beauty of life is
That the unexpected
Is always the best anything,
Knowing is like a perpetual
Repetitive insanity,
Regret a broken record player,
Depression a choice within
Not to fight even when
You lose,
Ambers wave came like a
Dream awake.
The reality is,
If this is real, never wake me.......




My heart is open again.
Life is so beautiful.
Amber was born with cerebral
Palsy on the right side of her
Body, shes 21 and she found
She had a great big family
After feeling so alone.
She fights everyday and is in college
So when i met her she amazed
Me with her fight. Never
Giving up i awoke from
My stillness. I have a daughter
21 years old!!!!
My little girls have a big sister.
My still born was a metaphor
For my life being stopped after she wasnt in my life.
See my facebook for
The pictures of my long lost
Daughter. Life is a beautiful
Craziness.

Granted men
Have every right under
The God given sun
To be as they wish,
Ignorant and bold,
Sarcastic and cocky,
Beautiful and ugly,
To be assailants to the kind at heart,
Those needing acceptance,
The lonely few with good souls,
And it is granted.

Where is justice
But in a verse,
Behind closed doors in your
Most private collection,
The guilded fist to air
In a drunken rage to what
You had seen earlier
And how we wish we had spoken
Up.

Granted we know it was wrong,
And as we have done nothing,
It was granted....
Oh to have punched his mouth,
Instead I bit my lips,
And they bled too.

In the end
I was, but I will cease to be,
A thought on the project called life.
And the thirst for answers
We don't know to ask,
Abandoned by time.

I am not what I was when I was born,
I have become someone else
In the elastic anxiety,
Which was really nothing to worry about.

What is beautiful
That is infinite,
Fleetingly we were all magnificent
In the oblivion,
        Death is a contrast,
Unlike life where nothing is guaranteed,
A revelation to our defined being.

    In the end
We we figure out the answer
To the questions that should
Not be asked,
Posthumous wisdom.

In the carnival of the Barrio
The moment's invent themselves,
Another world apart from
The lunatic normalcy,
       Confederation of fire,
The nomadic nocturne spiraling
Into the darkness,
    A magnetosphere of addiction,
A high voltage need
That crawls on the very skin.
            
        People in a drama:
A woman limps bursting
Into the eyes of the unseeing,
A hand for a hand,
The emotions stir inside,
Coins fall into her,
       Clusters of emotions,
Spinning webs that scatter
The hearts,
She skips off into the cityscape.

I see a people in a tunnel vision,
Perhaps I am part of them,
I speak as I watch the addicted;
       A forest of needles
       In the arms that reach,
A man whose youth is alive
In the body that's seems so old,
     The endless hand that reaches,
Falling without falling,
The night insisting on his existence,
Hands full, he runs to deal with
Himself.

The desolation of the addicted,
A couple holding hands
Walking the street,
He lets her go into the sky
And she is picked up
By a raining comet,
He waits for her return,
Money in hand,
To the nocturnal lament
They become as they pass through
The eye of a needle.

The streets were once rivers,
The houses were once gold,
But the night takes the shimmering
And turns it away from
The additicted nocturnal.

The canvas is half painted
And the strokes paint
A masterful sorrow,
Beneath the quarter moons
And the highest light of
The sol,
I begin to see the balance
Of all that may never
Be painted and the depth
Of my passions
Is an abyss of hope.

I lay beneath a crimson
Light,
Centered deeply,
An echo of what might've
Been.

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

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

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

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

Man, so tired of it,
Like a long day's journey nowhere,
I'm waiting on the moment,
But the moment just don't care.

I'll stay and do my part,
Because misery loves the company,
But give me something,
This love is almost done with me.

     Give me a reason,
     I'm standing in a corner,
     Give me what ain't there,
     Still here for her.

     Give me a reason,
     Baby we watching time pass by,
     Love me baby love me,
     I ask the hourglass why....

I'm smoking my last cigarette,
Almost done with the pack,
I'll be going to the store now,
Don't think I'll be coming back.

But if you share with me
Share with me a smoke,
Baby I'll hold back with you
And maybe share that one joke.

    Give me something,
    I ain't asking for much,
    But frigid don't do nothin,
    And nothin I can't touch.

     Give me a reason,
     Say anything just one time,
     Say anything,
     I'm running out of rhyme....

Reasons why,
We can't be done
Reasons why,
Baby you're my only one.....

The city never sleeps,
Creatures from the moon sniff
Out daywalkers and panhandle
Their heads,
This is the city nocturnal
And the broken hearted dare not dream.

Under the protest of the stars
A corpse rises alone like an idle fable
Complaining of the sun he left behind.
He cannot sleep in the graveyard
Because the dead walk at night
And the city becomes an empty space.

There aint no dream here,
They all fall down and water the earth
Like sleepless flowers,
No like dead lilies,
The boundaries like fugitive hope,
They dare not sleep,
Only the day is for dreaming.

he wanted to be the
redwood tree among the giants
but she refused to be
his sun

he wanted to be the lion
hunting in the wild
but she refused to be
his jungle

he turned every direction
and became dizzy
and looking for his balance
he turned to her
but she refused to be level

he tried to become a romance
but she was too hurt
he turned himself into light
but she always carried
a blanket of dark

he decided to become
a man
and though she refused to still be
a woman
he decided to love her
anyway

1.You shall not confine beauty, that which is in the eye of the poet charged to show it to the world.

2.There is no poetry better than the other, although your words are different you all bear witness to the soul's confession.

3. You will write freely not to incite popularity but to give truth to this art.

4. You shall never use poetry as self vanity but for exploring the spirituality within each other.

5. You will not be confined to the repetition that you have used in poetry, poetry is an exploration of the self, therefore the words are too an evolution of discovery.

6. The words will be therapeutic and truthful to the self so that you can see the truth in the world to bring about the compassion within.

7. You will bleed your self onto paper and very word will be yours for everyone else, there is no poetry without others to read it.

8. The words shall be as a confession that does not inspire sorrowful outlooks, but it shall inspire into action those who knew no better than before your suffering.

9. Being true to yourself first and foremost is an absolute; if you lie to yourself then how can one be a true person, much less a true poet?

10. Each poem will be a gift to the world, but it will never be greater than your dream and will always be inferior to the most marvelous of dreams which is the art of poetry itself.

Lovers become quiet
When their bodies are raging,
The most perfect silence
When entwined and becoming one.
They search eachothers soul
Because each is lost without the other,
They fight and abandon
That they might reunite passionately.
Their spirits are free
And lurk the earth finding others
But not themselves,
Led by the estrangements of the heart.

They are like crazy peoples,
Lovers are,
Because they fight battles alone
Against the world
And submitting to the moments
Of lustrous passions
And in pain because life
Does not recognize such enigmas.
Lovers can only love,
Led by strings of violinists
Who take them where they have
Never been,
Going and going back again
Into the ****** of music
That plays quick beats and sad tunes.
Lovers are perpetually hopeful
Always wanting and taking the
Next step in a ladder to nowhere.

Lovers make mistakes
And do not learn from them,
Or sadly love the pain so much
They go back for more.

Alone in their own darkness,
Lovers find eachothers
Like tiny embers of burning
Souls filling the vastness of the void,
They cling to one another like
A child to a mother
And then rebel like a youthful
Suffocation.

Lovers are not stable,
They believe in God
And dance with the devil.

Lovers are alone,
Because they need seclusion
So that when they are free from
Themselves they can find something
Else to love,
They are in inexhaustible oil
To the lamp in a dark ravine,
They count drops of rain
And save their tears like memories.

They are empty and full,
Philosophical fools that love
Even those who reject them
And chase the uncapturable bird,
Flexible hearts of desirous fires.

Lover are the truth of humanity,
Crazy beautiful things
And they go loving
And hurting the beautiful life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am from everywhere,
My homelands nowhere.

In the final night
Take me to the Constellations.

Now while the words still flow,
While the world is a despairing beauty.

While I am full of life and laughter
And I do not fear the end.

Now while the day is at its peak
And my calloused hands grow stronger.

Today, not on the morrow,
For I do not know any better, or want to.

In the final hour let me die,
Not of death, but of life!

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

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

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

Like cigarette burnt to the stub,
Like an empty bottle of Jack,
      Kinda the way it's been.
Like reruns of Seinfeld on a Saturday
    1a.m. slot.
And nobody notices, yeah my days
Have been like that.
     Like bloggers on a subject like
Star Wars and little
Pimple faced teens arguing lightsabers....
     Pertinent subjects have lost
Their way out of my life.
      There is a whole lot of nothing,
But like cigarettes burnt to the stub and
     An empty bottle of Jack,
Like days fading on a memory card
With 300 pictures,
      And the ashes that get swept
Just this side of the puke
Of the armchair.

It is better not to go to Eden
Empty handed, solemnized,
Among the mutilated people.

Even among first fruits, now withered,
The words of poets with their
Pompous thoughts and politics,
They must have thought themselves
Great for survival of the flood,
Groaning at lesser poets in their eyes.

The ominous black thoughts,
They have worded destruction on
To the new poets whom might steal
Their light in a ghostly place,
So that they do not return and we
Are stuck with the same moderation
While falling under an evil spell
Of repetitive words mixed with
Bitter allusions.

When the site turns to "goodbye"
Instead of hello, inside an old enclosure
Creaking with the same ole and their
Followers hoping to be hearted by
Mediocrity and sleepy eyes,
We all lose a little of what this place
Was.

And I will enter the poem hated,
Earning respect the way it should be,
With my words that cannot judge,
With my hearts that have eyes and
Have read your poem,
I will humm along the spider's webs
And see if I can see the hope and reason
Of why any of you write these
Wonderful confessionals.

In the relentless nature of renewal,
The crying of new born poets,
For what is given and taken
In the words of you ,
I will be here,
Renovated alters for your sacrifice,
I will ring the bells
With fluctuating tones,
The affectionate words of your sorrow,
By the light of your dramatic hearts,
There is a poet who does not take sides,
I am here to read and enjoy,
Either in the light or the dark,
The intimate poetry that is you.

Don Caliente,
From the distant places where
Men are men,
And rumored ,the women are also
Women.
And so he has come riding his
Motor scooter with his khaki pants
And thong sandals,
The checkered shirt that drives
Deer wild, and just enough unbuttoned
To see the neanderthal hair below.
      He is smooth with the chikas,
The scent of raspberry floats
In the air, his favorite snow cone,
And it drives women wild,
Well the children anyway,
They begin searching for the raspa man.
   He is considered a ladies man,
Some call him stalker,
He just likes to be consistent.
    Yes Don Caliente,
With his golden smile,
Others argue its yellow tarter,
But still he smiles away!
   His metal nerves as he approaches
The married women,
His rubber jaw as he gets knocked
Out by the husbands,
   Ay! Don Caliente,
No is never an option!

Each vulture has its ugly profile
As if abruptly God did not feather
Its face.
Yet its pure flight with enflamed
Eyes that see the dead as they leave
The body, it perches among the oak
Under the hilly peaks.
His featherless face like a hanging
Veil from the face of the sky.
There among the fields of death,
Wings like a sudden dark cuirass
He cruises like an ancient idol
Wrapped in air,
His talons like daggers into
The sacrificed.
He goes deep into the sky enveloped
In splendid light watching souls
Leave the enormous earth.

I wish that the color of my skin,
Full of spectral bliss,
Were able to mold the world,
That whatever I touched would
Fill up with sunlight.
I walk the delicate desolation
In the twilight of the people's lives
And they seem so sudden,
Like a brief Dahlia bloomed and gone.
Let me for one moment take
Them to a poet's mind,
Change the climate of their hearts
That they might drink the sun
Of audacious hope
In a balcony of conscious sight,
Sinking deeply into the better humanity,
Let them break the devices
And speak in words what
They have lost to typing and even writing!
Oh for them to know the quiet passions
Of the universe of a poet's mind,
Oh I wish these spectral hands
Could color the world;

It remains a hopeful metaphor.....

I am alive buried in an avalanche
Of thoughts, every depth
Is the cavernous nature of being
By myself, living by myself,
And looking for myself
In the wade of the dark waters.

I cannot accept this me.

I write, I perceive, existing.
There is a thousand mirrors
With echoes in the labyrinth,
My voice
Cannot listen to itself.

Why am I screaming.

I feel like a prisoner
In this chamber
Of a universe's mind,
Thoughts of a playful dahlia,
Maybe I am naive.
The me inside me
Cannot exist without
The me that does without
Thoughts.
Two way existence
In a one way mirror.

I don't know the reflection.

Wounded man
Of a voiceless persona,
Who am I to know myself
Against a labyrinth of mirrors,
Each an odd reflection
Of a past that becomes infinite,
Buried beneath a thousand of me.

Because I am not perfection,
Nor could I walk in its shadow,
I choose to see the Man.
I'm a born again sinner.
The curtains at a close and the
World a shot away from killing
Itself, I would not turn to perfection
In the dellusional mind that is man.
No,
I like my God as a man,
Beat up like me;
Wearing His scars in public humiliation.
I can relate to this Deity,
The imperfect manner of his sacrifice,
The degredation.
This Guy understands what its like
For most of us everyday,
So let Him bleed and suffer,
He did so in a short life.
He catches a glimpse of what its
Like for us everyday in the imperfect
World,
The glorious sinners we are,
And I walk with a suffered Jesus.

Your vision is stuck in my eyes:
The time you stared at me,
Waiting for me to cross our destinies,
As I crossed, nervous and anxious,
Your smile withered all doubt.

    It's wild, you know,
The depths of those memories
    I hold near me always.

   And from the depths of my love
A taste of your lip gloss climbs
To my lips stilling my time,
I don't know what glimmers
In the kiss, but the fragrance
Stayed with me to this day.

I take you with me
Everywhere in peace or wild times,
In the memory it trickles
Unto the maddening day.

Your the same wild girl
Today as when I first brought
You to my side.

It's stayed stuck in my eyes,
The vision of you walking home
As the old school buses, sluggish
And scattered yellow passed
You by on the infinite road.

     I wasn't following you, I smile.
You don't know how crystal clear
     I remember you.

From the bottom of my soul
A fresh evocative scent forms,
One I can see ,touch, and hear,
I could smell it even today,
I take it with me everyday
Under the maddened carousel
        Of this life.

I am the same wild guy
     Who brought you to his side years ago,
In those moments we are forever.

And who the hell cares?
I will not close my eyes
Or shut my ears to the world.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock-
     I am a born again sinner
Clamoring with a restless species:
Yeah that means you all,
Flourishing in misery
Over the shrinking planet-
     Babies making babies
And I see them all becoming depressing
      Fires, like little stars flashing
For a tiny moment the exploding
     Searching for the abyss called desire,
I cannot say my name,
      Who the hell cares
When the world is a buried sphinx
Under a questioning of programs,
    Asking:
" What's this life for!" in blue tears.
        The blood flows under
Closed wounds,
   Yesterday and today when the revolution
Was never fought and the thought
Comes crashing down against
     The youth in the dawns troubling light,
    Children, it never stops!
The dream dies at the impenetrable sky,
   Children with half smiles
And a sigh of anguished breaths,
     Collection of living dust and bones,
Into the bitter night the dove
Itself cannot rest,
    I cannot say my name,
At the right hand of oppression
    Flourishes an anger building
Like a mutilated rose roaming
    For a sense of destiny.

I fall, you fall,
      We are convicted,
Living in a shadow of nothingness,
    The forgotten scent of the dream,
These strange sounds that flutter,
     My God give me a destiny,
But I cannot say my name,
    I remain a face in an ocean
Of solitary faces,
      We look out on the road,
There is death passing through,
     A tiny rumble in the heart
Then cries:
      FREEDOM!

There was no death
But life without her,
Til the sunset every morning
And the deepest yearnings
Echo the slains cry of vengeance:

I glanced at the midnight hour
And found the yellow secrets,
A shadow lay as a tear
And the moon cried beneath
The last kiss.

Where is my heart,
But six feet under
Wherever you are.

Where is the poet whose bugles blow
Through internet screens and invisible
Imperialistic royalty?
Might your words blow like trumpets
At Jericho?
March, march upon the walls
That which takes the heart at its very beat,
Take back with passion all that
Fear has robbed,
The power in the people that remains
The basic fundamental movement
Of this world,
Let be known we stand,
We stand and will fight,
March on poet saints,
Let a the martyrs before you become
The crystalline clarity that beckons
Deep in the soul.
Behold,
The words become a movement,
May they incur the people,
Then it becomes a battlecry!

I grew wings
For you,
And became an impatient moth
Circling your fiery brand.
      
And I became like water,
Your thirst from the storm,
Daily you drank of me,
The drought in my body.

So I became a wild dahlia,
And you cut me from the stem,
The flower that grew had not yet
Known what it was to bloom.

    Devastate me,
I am blessed with every wound
Your love opens, blessed is your knife,
And praise the alter, I await.

      Cut me a thousand times,
     I am your crimsoned lover,
The rose blood is flowing with your
Everything, I bleed deeply.

      Instead of a ring of promise
Love, I will make a ring of thorns,
I will wear a necklace anchors,
They would drown me into you.

      Devastated:
You will see me smile,
You will see me hurting.

      And when you realize the love,
You will cry for me,
And you will be mine forever.

I walk between life and death,
The hours when the days are like
Stakes to the nocturnal heart.
   And I know a walk among tombstones
Is a like a fresh death when the earth
Is covered with scarlet and scenic
Flowers,
    I can already write my death on
The slab as clearly as I see the onset
Of the dusk upon my sun.
   And I know to be dead is but another
Interminable word,
   Like the carnival rides of my childhood,
Lost in a crowd but thrillingly unknown.
   Tonight the stars speak a hope
In a new year, and all the years disappear like
Geese to the North,
   Like Gnarls of teeth locked in a mongrels
Cry behind enclosed yards.
     I am ready to die,
But instead I will write death and
Write a verse to make one think
One knows the true beauty of life,
    Like the insufferably brilliant
Deaths of heroes told in myth
And legend,
    A dissolved illusion to the real illustration
Caught between worlds of perceptions.
     I see death on a dance floor,
A psalm sung and written by me
As my soul whirls the words in spectral
Atoms and lost in the momentary
Eternity.
       And I remember I'm a just a man
With Latin blood spitting
From the womb of my mother.
    And I am on the same side as my heart,
The hourglass fades,
The brutal eyes of truth facing me,
Fierce and unredeeming,
I dance with death,
And there is nothing I can do now.
I have nothing to prove I was here,
Except the poem
And even the words will fade.
Except the song I wrote for death,
It plays over and over
And death dances eternal.

Here in the dusk of the day I dilute
Myself into anything:

I am a hummingbird and I go fanning
The flora of the forest,
I move in a slow motion when I watch
Myself fly,
However I am also the wind which carries
Each feather in a flight of fancy,
And soon the Luna dances into my
Fluttering wings and I am lit
By the mist of living water as the moon
Makes them tiny falling stars,
A galaxy is lost in my wings,
And soon I am the rain in the night
As I cover the earth in liquidity
With my falling ways
Giving life to life,
And while the rain I covered
My sad human form walking in the
Afterthoughts of the hummingbird,
As I move into the darkness,
And I remember I am afraid
Of the shadows.

When summer came in 98'
And the eyes of the momentary
Eternal swam into the Canyon Lake,
It was then the sway of skin
Took me to the place hungry eyes
And kids seeking stimulation went
To cool themselves off.

Under sky bright
I saw her with hips of light,
A second beer and I was grown
Into a man worthy of any woman.
No adults with experience
To guide my ill advised tactic.

A smack on the ***.

At first she turned in complete anger,
Her curves had stiffened her body,
Combat mode and my buddies
Giggling in the backround.
I saw her beautifully frightful hand,
Her slap before we met eyes,
It was mighty and meaningful,
But when I turned from the wallop
To my face,
We met eyes once again,
The most timid of smiles
And a soft apology from me.
She smiled and slapped me once agin,
It was then I knew....
It was then I knew.