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.

My bloodline has been fighting
Terrorism since 1492.

In the eye of we the peoples,
    In the overblown blasphemous
Political whirlwind,
    We have dug up Rage:
In the empty theatrical deities
     The idols explode
And spit on the origins of forefathers,
      In love with their own *****
The fountain of verbiage overflowing with
     Truncated quotations,
The people leeches become sharpened
By lies and pockets filled
By industrious rats,
     These juggling ideologies
Play the frustration of the suffering
    Like strings on a stained violin,
     Paradise of caged freedoms,
Stairway of repetitions,
   They paint Messiah over
Their foreheads,
We drink of the fountains
Of bitter water,
We crown the snakes and surprisingly
Ideally we are shocked
To be bitten.
    The fire speaks words of water
And the river ends in a fall,
     Canes and Abels,
Over and over ,
Into the storm we run,
Spinning darkness from light,
     As we drink
We must ask:

Where is the other water?

Swat the butterflies whose wings
Decieve the poem and inscribes
Its colored brilliance on gilded flights;
There is no grace to his clunky
Flying and brings repetitive hooplah
To the natural poem and steals
Its personable voice.

Every language has a flow of poetry
Whose inner soul derives of the
Course of one's harmony and rhythm,
And using a star of butterflies in every
Poem brings about the very sameness
We all suffer from daily.

See the beauty in a vulture
Whose glide is magnificent
Spreading his wings in silent
Flight above rolling hills.

His beauty is not that of the
Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably
Graceful and finding its natural
Poetic flow is deeper still.

Only your presence is real:

I can see your shoulder, left,
Exposed.
You eat a peach folded on the couch,
The summer it began
As a diaphanous drop
Of wine spilled under
Your lips,
Through you the transparency
Of the world,
Under motionless present
Your timeless gaze,

A quiver of light,
Your naked shoulder.

The foam of your body
As the wave hits my shores,
Living waters,
I swear the world is your substance,
You hear my footsteps
Throbbing in the shadows,
      The silken flattery
Of your smile,
The hour glass of your figure,
Suspended between us
I kiss you,
The rain does not wet you
Because you are a flame,
     Your lips taste of wine;

Our bodies stretch the dawn
Uprooting the world.

I assume that you never
Knew the pure love we had
For you,
Your tiny body could not take
The world so we imagine
You went straight to become an angel.

You did not take a breath
Of the air I still breathe as i waited
For your cries,
That made two of us because
I could not breathe as you never
Made a sound.

I assume that you loved your
Mother so much you could
Not bear to be apart from
Her,
That you left to watch over her
In spirit qnd essence,
That she still leaves flowers
For you shows me she misses
You .

Of all the things you will never see
I hope i have seen enough
To know that i tried to live
For you,
That of all the days and every
Night we never had,
That my pain still lives,
As well as my love,
That i will be with you one day
And you can show me
All that i do not know
Of the Heavens and glories.

Your light shines somewhere
Too bright for this world,
I know that when my eyes close
For the final time your
Light will guide me home.

Over the wide cold earth,
You walk back to the door,
By the fleeting pain I endure,
I don't know whether to open
Or close this chapter.
     You come lukewarm in color
And shivering with guilt,
My heart yearns to open the door,
From a word yet to he spoken,
      The essential within which was us
Before you left,
You wear a coat of tears as your
Hand placed flat against the door,
     I feel its presence
And place mine the same.
How much of the soul
      Do you want to **** in me,
To forgive you, to hold you?
Should this be the final sky
    From whence ocean tides once
Touched us, even as gentle air,
Should I open the door in full anguish
In this flowering sorrow,
    My heart nostalgic and broken?

Crystalline flows
Upon trenches ruby
Red,
Take the hand diamond
Rough,
It is only time that passes,
The soul is a cavernous drum
Beating the glorified
Fire,
Pulsating waters
Among oaken palaces
And withered nights,
It is the elemental nature
Of the poet
that brings the
Memory
Of dead stars.

Words are the wombs of a thousand verses
Opening a thousand lives.
A man sees a woman;
Let his love unfurl in a sonnet
Of the trembling soul.
Invent new eyes to see the beauty
In the words of different
Souls giving life to a lifeless thing.

We are the words of life,
We invent new worlds,
We become the memory of the world,
But we are not the dreamers,
We are the dream realised.

Poets, why talk about birds,
Let them soar in your poems!

Because through poets one
Can see beauty in all things,
Life and lifeless;

We are tiny little gods!

I, who longed to be someone else,
To weigh my words in the scales
Of judgments, to read poetry,
To hand  out my own,
Will see the world invade even here
In this place, once thought to be
An Eden of words, a place to begin again.
I see that I am at last here to face
My destiny, carried by the ruinous envy
And hatred in a war of words,
The intricate labyrinth that are verses
Designed to weave their way through
A site where philosophical change
Of the human condition can be
Discovered and even nurtured
Through words is being held hostage
By those who would not sacrifice ego's
Grasp to better the world around them.

I am an honest man,
With my open book of lies
That my poetry is a kind of reflection
On the life I have been blessed to see,
That poetry is the key to dealing
With all my years, to see the perfection
In desolation that was the beauty of
Some mysterious higher power,
That in the lampshade I write the
Eternal nocturne and I see the world's
true faces, I wait for the circle to close.

And the war of self should not spread
To those whom seek refuge from
Inner shadows, to spar with words is a ridicule
To this artful mirror.
Bow the wars of the self have spread
To poets, and the truth of poetry
Is not that of hope, but something
Much more powerful, the true nature
Of the person, which is animalistic
No matter the pretty words.
And the truth crosses my throat
As a jaded knife,
Poetry wars, oh the humanity.

These are things we do not
   Speak of,
A class of violence that breeds
    A certain endurable suffering.....

  It is in the curious nature
Of survival
Which caresses the poor
And listens only to the nocturnal
Whispers of savages,
   Crude and tameable
It is accepted outside of the unacceptable,
     Where the deep concerns
For low income pass through
The eye of a needle and they
Can shout from a safe distance
With charitable murmurs
Enthusiastically hoping one
Makes it out of the ghetto.

     Home is where the heart is,
A heart of the unacceptable
With victims below middle class,
     Chronic renewal of violence,
Another ethnic man with darkness
On skin is dead,
The eloquent news states,
The futile concerns from outside
Keeping the animals in place.
   The permissible violence
Is lamented in segments and tidbits,
    It is good only that the poor
Might stay out of the unacceptable.

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

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

I stood here
Amongst the grey underneath a vivid
Rain,
Mist gathered like a flock of
Wet embers on open flames,
Existences.
That a cloud broke
From its tears
And left the suns
Long stride holding dear
The moment;
That I stood beneath
A crimson shade;
A bittersweet grace
Among the days that end
In the afterglow of life.
For whatever reason
A gratefulness yearns.

When one was never two
And the reverse doubled
Becomes positive,
I remember links to an
Abandon page
And the effluent nature
Of the voice,
Spoken at odds at the edge
Of yesterday.

Where have we gone,
The soul is A tired old man
Forever told in a web of time,
Take this away,
Numb the years gone cold
In a river one ends
And begins in the sky's
Tearful rejoice.

That I took a deep breath
And found a complicated
Sigh;
I often wonder of the
Two existences,
When life can smile
At death's birth.

Stroke soft the curves
Of the forbidden servant,
Follow paths of the intention
And know not the rose touched
Is a petal in a cyclone:

**** the martyr
And feed the the dogs,
They serve a purpose beyond
Your grasp, under the foot
Of your heavy needs
And spiteful words.

Speak;
And the ***** do grasp,
They will not let the spirit free
When pain cannot be released
And the world would be great
If we could share beauty like
It shares its misery.

**** them softly with pretty works
And speak the réflection
Inward,
There you are,
You are what you say after you
Do the favor and the world
Is owed to you.

Oh pain.
Such glorious levels you reach
Within the ugliness of reflection,
How you see and how you feel
Is how you choke and how you
Hold,
Pain, all that can be remembered
Not in the moment,
But in a lifetime.

If our love was not
The sleepless lover
Alone in torment,
Alone and questioning;

If the armour were not natural
As it is spiritually connected,
An abyss filling and emptying
At the whim of the lover's presence;

If our love were not
The perfect dream in a life of sorrow,
The missed lover pounding
At the door they closed behind them;

If our love were not some
Anonymous destiny,
Like a godless world guided
By chance lost without
The other but forced to
Live;

If it were not hunger,
The missing touch,
A pillow held tightly, alone;

If our love was the sky
Raining embers of burning joy,
Both a volcanic passion
And an erupting void;

If my touch was not
On your skin,
Then these hands would
Never have touched glory;

If our love
Did not evoke Eros,
If we did not become miracle
And the tragedy;

If my eyes had never lay
Upon you,
Then they would have never ooened;

If your body did not
Humm the electric for me
And only me,
If the hundreds of kisses
I can still feel pressed upon
My like moist and pure
With its eternal surrender;

If our bodies as separately
As together joined in this world,
Naked and glowing,
Two becoming one,
Our last breath the first into
One another,
Then our love is real
And a dream,
Eternal and momentary.

I escape from the hole,
      All is far away,
The night is undead,
   The living are not alive.
I walk interminably departing myself,
     Today is easy,
Right now is not a word.
    The restlessness circles my being,
The poem seems to follow,
      I whisper a secret to the verses
And the stars become dotted inklings,
     The night is enormously quiet,
But my mind is resounding words,
      They beg to come out,
My walk will take forever,
    But I am already home
Scribbling the lines to this poem,
       A walk becomes a metaphor,
This poem becomes reality
Shutting doors,
    The poem becomes me,
I have no name to call myself,
     I am ravaged by the words,
I write to see myself.....

And here's to life,
Life I didn't know or take,
A cup half full,
Half empty with tears.
The pain and sorrows
Of yesterdays and tomorrows.
All the wasted years....

I am not the abyss,
I am the space that filled it with hope.
I am not the pain,
But the road less taken.
I am not the brokenness
But the redemption of today.
Hope, the infinite soul that
Resides definance of the emptiness.
I am not alone.
I am not ded.
I am Dedpoet......Alive!!!!!

The dove has flown away into whiteness,
The doe filled with an unborn verse.
Live, little poem- yet to be written-
And the words gnaw away like a dark wolf.

The eye of the world is on you,
The ink is drowning on my page.
The pearl of thought escaping
My oblivion born into a dark innocence.

Little poem yet to born
Up from the nightingale's journey
Into a subtle abundance,
Like an invasion of white lilies.

From my graveyard of angelic thoughts,
Flowing like a blind star,
The creature that is born
Like the Apple untouched in Eden.

After the human dream is gone
And we are born again in mythologies,
The sea, the forever sea will remain.
What is the sea? What brought forth
The liquidity both violent and old,
That which gives and takes life?
You are the sea, I am the sea,
And everything is new again washed
In the waters, blood and all.
The sea which is kissed by the
Reelection of the night
And drenched by the star during the day,
The ocean, vast and enigmatic,
We return and she will never answer.

I pace myself in search of a moment:

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

I savor the journey.

Why not the sorrow
Instead of hopeful constellations
From mythical legends,
Instead of the lost Gardens of Babylon,
Beauteous notions
Of the heart's grandiosity?
If everyday is a struggle,
If each day we try to fill
The void we are born with,
If pain is all too real;
We are born into the struggled,
To be friends to enemies
To make ourselves whole
While trying to find the existential
Moment of truth in ourselves,
As we gulp down joy
And sweat about under the sun.
The sorrowing cannot be claimed,
Though its air chokes you,
Though it eats your luster,
There is the other that one rarely
Finds, joy in the light.
Sorrow is too frequently a visitor.

With the sun settling down,
The huge candor of the dusk settles
In on its spectral enchantments
And its usual "Only God could have done this",
Portico: Where the day is meditated
And the sigh of humbled gratitude sets in,
As the stars form
Across the eyes and her hand
In your own,
It is simply good to have a moment
Between the day,the sky,
and everything in between.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeper of the better places,
Take my soul,
Into the skies unfamiliar
Gazing at earthen seekers,

Why is not where I am,
Where is why I look,
What is where you are,
When is but a sun's tear.

All I am in hopes and expectations,
Unsalted under heat,
From whenst I came
Is home to my spirit.

Star,
A new home for the weary
I plant myself in many skies,
The dream I became,
Seeking a new sun....

Hope.

Walk as the circumstances
That surround me, run me;
I  loosen the reins of my illusion,
And control is a word.

Where the river begins
A mountain captures,
It's cold up there
And though hope springs eternal
I will only be here for a while,

Breathe,
Deep Breaths,
And the universe will survive
Without me,
I reach still....

In the arena of hope
Willing to die in the moment's
arms,
In the commonwealth
Of the unreachable.

Hello,
To your smile that killed
My suicidal daily,
When your zest filled my
Inner clarity
And gave form to destiny,
Not anyone road,
But your soul that touches many,
The guft that is you,
I bit of the nectar that your
Light feeds,
I am grateful
Even for the pain of missing
You now,
Friend of my deepest wound,
Cut me and I bleed your crimson
Catastrophe,
Because even your worst
Was the very best I
Felt,
The narcissistic venture,
I stayed because you allowed it.

You swear by life and its beauty
In ten thousand poems
And breathe the inescapeable moment
Purifying your existence
On this foreign plane.

You consume the fleeting mortality
In the dim half light that is time,
You make love with arrogance in youth
And butterflies in tow,
You recline in your chair
And remember the dry dust of days,
The procession of years on this
Great yin and yang flight.

And death is a sleepwalking dream
With intimate knowledge of your
Deepest desires and wants,
So that one version of you
Might tell the other version
Yet to be
to live life to its fullest
In the emptiness that surrounds all.

And the current on which death rides
Will take us to the door of wombs,
You will see the  Depths and the Heights
And pass the One
Into a flurry of ashes that pass
Like glittery dust,
And to die
Is but a rebirth,
Into the madness once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My eyes cover you
      With a warm rain
Of stares,
     The morning comes
Like a singing spiral,
      Your body of foliage
Opens like a meadow
    As you arise from bed.
The gilded light
    Sifts through your blouse
And your body burns
    Through the silhouette.
Coffee,
          The vertical hour awake,
Your laughter is everywhere,
      I take your hips of light
And make love at the cliff
     Of the day......

I will die enormously in San Antonio,
On a day when my poem trends
For the last time, on a day I can
Already recollect.
I will die in San Antonio
- and I won't fake this one-
Perhaps on a Saturday,
As today is Saturday in Midwinter's
Grasp.
    It will be a Saturday,
Because today I have written this
Poem, these prophetic lines,
I have been inter-dimensional
For too long, perhaps this fleece
Of flesh was meant to die here
In this verse.

    Ernest Gonzales is dead.
He beat himself up like a depressed
Boxer with an emptied punching bag,
Though he rarely fought back,
Life beat him like an ugly dog.

These are the words,
My witnesses, on a Saturday
Reading these lines, the pain
In my chest, the rain, the sorrow,
The lonely roads.....

In every century
You will hear of a comet lost in time;
Haley's was here an eye blink ago,
And the rivers replenish the oceans
One and again.
There will be a small light in the sky
That you will not see tomorrow
Because it is now dead,
And it died millions of years
Before the luminous rays hit
The first womb of Eve.
     There will be children grown
Into formidable singulars,
     And each one is barely here
When the sun yawns, another passes away.
    And when the sky is full
You will count the stars
With your child, just to teach them how
To count.
        The eclipse will haunt one because it is
Like a darkness that comes to visit
       In between one decade and another,
You will question yourself to see
    Where you were before.
And there are premature moons,
     Babies of the cosmos,
And you will name one after your daughters
That brought you to look
Again at the hopeful skies.
    And when you are done here,
As you leave for eternity
To the Blue Sun,
You will look back
And see the tiny miniscule miracle
That was a star being born.

I met her by the garden
Standing in the middle of bleeding
Roses and burgeoning flowers
Caught in the order of the wind.

She spoke to me:
"Write me anything
And put your soul
At the cusp of the poem"

I wrote her a mountain
And became like a lost
Petal encircling the climb,
Half rhyming in a maddening sonnet.

When I finished the poem
I found her reading my words
And tumbling down the mountain
I had created for her.

I made a bed of lilies for her fall
And she never thanked me ,
" Now go and sley the whitest deer
From the deepest depths of a wintry solace"

I clamored in a sley and rode
Three reindeer to a wintry solace,
I found the whitest deer had snow
Upon his face and a half smile.

In the insanity of whiteness I
Killed the deer whom shed a tear
At the notion he was slain
For a hopeful love.

I came down from that cold place
Into The garden where she awaited,
Her face turned white as snow
At the beauty of the slain white deer.

Half enamored with me,
She gazed upon me like a hopeful flower,
"I cannot leave the garden,
Go and bring me the dove under the veil"

I went straight away to the eternal place
Where love meets secretly,
The dove like a saffron  sacrament
Hid shaking under a veil of secrecy.

And I plucked the dove from eternity,
I showered her with a burst of feathers
And she was smiling picturesque
In the middle of the garden.

"You are almost there my love,
Still I cannot leave the garden,
Bring me the flowers whose color
Is like dreams, I am your woman in the garden"

I could not fathom the request,
What dreams may come are never
Colored one stroke or the other
But painted eternal in the minds eye.

These flowers did not grow on trees,
But on the very soul,
I cut them from spirits,
I cut them from my hopes.

I cut like a wounded lover cuts,
Blind at the pain,
Direct at the intentions,
I cut deep from my own garden.

And when I returned from cutting
The flowers from my own soul,
She was no longer there in the garden
Leaving all I had given.

Burdened upon my very self
I followed her and found her destination,
She was preparing a feast of lovers
Reaping all that I had sewn.

I followed her into the garden once
And again, she goes as an eternal
Flower made of gentle air
Through vast flowers and secrets,

I follow where none else can follow,
Into the love of a woman
In the farthest limits of my heart
Into the maddening love again.

The sky is a mirror
In a labyrinth of regrets.
I hear myself in youth
And shake my head in older age.

But I am not myself.

I pull my hair back to my feet,
All the echoes that
Reflect who I was,
Or am,
Or trying not to be,

But I cannot find myself.

I am trapped with everyone
Telling me this and that
About myself,
But who knows me better
That ME?

I am a wounded animal
In an extraordinary cage,
Sky full of mirrors,
I say regret,
Others say remember,
I say forget,
Others say don't,

Because I am not them.

Me, myself
And everyone else,
Sky full of mirrors
And only the memory remains.

I ne'er listened.
There was a beat.
Couldnt move
My two leff feet.

When she asked
Couldnt say yessum'.
Hiding behind masks,
Regetful lesson.

Im still here
With a small chance,
Now er' never,
May I have this dance?

Man, whatever bleakness has named
You, I have never seen your face.

I imagine you rugged and more....
More than I had been for her.

I imagine she sees strength in you like
A stone on a mountaintop: loftily perched.

And your hands that have stolen my embraces,
I imagine them smoother than my calloused
Fingers,

My jealousies grow as you see in this poem,
It kills me, every verse that I imagine you....

Are you like this?
Is this the unimaginable lust she has for you,

Are your ears ringing now,
Do you even acknowledge me as her man?

Tell me, tell me if you held her through death,
Did she cry herself to sleep in your arms?

When you see your destiny,
Is she among the constellations you foretell?

I am sure you are quite the lover,
You who now kiss the woman I had before,

You who hold her in adoration,
Perhaps you know why I wanted to live,

Because you have stolen all good from me,
All the hope I had from this verse,

In petrification of my soul
I confess to you I am a broken man.

What divine intervention will seek you out?
Will karma let you be as happy as I was?

In a myriad of solemn thoughts,
I am at a loss for the wrath I hope vengeance has for you.

But treat her well,
Kiss her methodically and with purpose,

And maybe she will show her angelic eyes
Which promise forever, quietly whispering:

I will be here with you always,
So that when the promise has penetrated you,

The divinity you feel at the comfort of her
Lifetime of promised cherishing,

Maybe she will find something else
In another promise of another soul,

Only this thought eases the heavy bitterness
Left in my procession of days.

For now move forward,
Because I am paralysed,

And to the other man,
The burden of me writing this poem.

Should the sky fall,
That is to say that you feel a crisis,
Just saying,
Grab a star and put it in your
Pocket, hold on to your continent
As it drifts,
Drain the ocean to the deserts
And gather unprecedented cactus flowers.

Should sky fall
Learn the world as it all falls by,
I mean it's just a thought,
Take the time to shed copper tears
And rain the wounds over
The heights that fall,
How much would be left of a splintered
Moon, planets whizzing by,
And yet here you are still
In your pity!

Gather the energy
Among the falling birds,
The comets with animals scurrying
About claiming new territory,
See! They make the best of their
Sorrow!

Lower your sorrows,
I tell you now,
The song of your sad poetry,
The rumors of the Earth's demise,
Calm your skies,
If it is night, look up out the window,
Count the hopeful stars,
And - I'm just saying-
If they are falling,
Catch them!
Then all your wishes and hopes
Are finally coming true!

Where the first candle was lit
At midnight mass,
You greaved forward the light
And blessed the joint,
Took a puff and inevitable
Like the cries of the kids
Chasing the raspa man,
Said puff puff pass.

Over summer 95 with
An eternal cusp of weathered
Youth we drove the neighborhood
In the Accord I was given,
At times I believe for graduating Jr High, your unbeatable design
To get us laid was never like the fated quartet moon
That you held in respect almost
Soldier like.

   Remembered C-5 Galaxy and the base we could never get into,
    A roar of sunset glow and the
Colors we flew for our street
Wer more than the rainbow
Could bear,
   A spectrum of a place and
Time that only
A whispered gallantry when
    You took that knife for me,
Always the duo,
Once alone,
Taken with the ways of men.

    I did nothing  with my
Pano, the red handkerchief
That all the homiez through
In a sea of red,
I swear I heard the Taps
Being played by Carlos Santana,
I took a breath and lay
Out a cry,
     One that still runs the barrio,
Mi amigo,
Once the road in a present dream
Taken like the winds
And a memory's glance,
    You are there
And I still,
My Friend,
      Westside intangibles.

The days can raise colorless
Born among mysterious everybodies,
The Sad Ones carry shreds of darkness
With them tangled in the fringes
Of their lives.
They cannot drag another down,
They give happiness where
None can be taken,
They can illuminate
The saddest people and take
Their pain like an offering.
They walk among the souls
With silent faces and drowsy
Existence.
The Sad Ones
Disperse into the Winters' depths
Where winter honors grey days
And starless nights.
From their secrets or pains
Come a gathered endurance
And can illuminate with
A wisdom of regret and sorrow,
Like colored plumes of dark flora
They roam spinkled among
The masses to bring the bright side
Of things they know nothing of.

They have wings,
The Sad Ones do,
Gentle but firm wings gilded
In murmured words never spoken,
Winds of the lovers never taken,
Watching moonrises
Over sighing waves.
Their home is a lonely peak
Where clouds sit on mountains
And forever remain,
There they reflect on the sadness
Of most kisses and symbolic love.
And they are forgotten when
The people encounter them,
Though misery loves
A little company, the others do not
Stay in the dark.

The Sad Ones,
They are dreams forgotten,
A smile returning,
The bring about the light for others
In their dark lonesome hearts,
They are hidden away like memory,

And they keep other smiling
As they sigh above the moonlit waves
Sighing in the darkness.

Bottom feeder.
He looms under tables
Awaiting sloppy eaters.

At midnight
Scurrying about
With buddies in tow.

Fast paced,
Head too small for his body,
Sneaky fella.

In the kitchens
Of single men,
He feasts.

Hidden from the world
He speaks secretly,
Awaiting midnight snackers.

A rolling hill
With suffocating oaks
Under the dire grey of sky
Pass along the dire straits
Of the Ded.

And the Ded do speak
Like silent auras wandering
In poetical forms,
From the Ded they embrace
The pain and sad skies.

Slowly they walk the desolations
And bring forth the balance
Of the darkness's and a
Black rose blooms.

Once alive the Ded searched
For hope;
But the self absorption
In the heavy skies
In the mind's prison
Hold a still terror,
The Ded walk among marble slabs
Of light.

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

The dawn will come:

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

The dawn will come.

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

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

The light has a pulse.
There is no in between of darkness.
This perception is the only reality,
What we touch and see
Under the limited spectrum
Our eyes are allowed.
         My eyes see nothing,
My hands feel worlds,
         My thoughts create the shadows,
In the shadows I cry for the light,
        The light scatters my world,
On the other side
        Light cannot see me in the dark.

I can't find a metaphor
To illustrate the happenings -
The death that demolished my hope,
A tornado of things darkly in my mind.

All in a moment when CNN broadcast
The latest mass killings,
Inside my bones the weightless dust
Lifts off my body like ash.
I sit in a bar,
No I sit in a chair with these flaring
Interminable news,
I miss the silences,
A formidable peace followed
By a singular moment when I
Can enjoy myself against
The flaunting horrors of the world.

Is it designed this way?
Death with a volley of dark stories,
I want to stop fidgeting and ignore
The tears, the sadness,
Oh the maddening crowds!!

I drink to my disgust,
I drink a concoction of inner peace,
And I smile and ask myself,
Is there any joy in tragedy?

Perhaps, maybe
There is a man that truly loves a woman,
And they will love each other
Forever in the light
And happily under God's watch.
Perhaps, maybe
They are fed up deep inside,
Sickened of the repetitive days
That fill the emptiness with
Nothing and out of that nothing
They **** each other slowly
Everyday.

All is invisible,
The unspeakable silence
That penetrates the ears louder
Than the love we make.
And the things left unsaid
Unite the hope of the two
That it might be spoken
To fill the abyss that grew
From the light of their love.

And they live life to the fullest
And think they had a good run,
They are lovers and tireless
Husband and wife.

Perhaps, maybe this is the only truth
They may ever know.

This is a poem of ***,
Simple in nature, I am writing about ***.
Facing the day filled,
I stroke your thighs in the womb
Of the day, we birth the dawn.
Full light comes to
Our bare bodies
Entangling light and dark.

This poem is about ***,
The profilic and harmonic presence
Of a thousand fingers probing
Each other, the kind of animalistic
Pleasure that brings together
The link of man the beast,
God, oh God,
The sensational foray into freedom
Of the body, into the wild!

Oh, sweet sin of heavenly pleasure,
The silent screams!

To the feast!

Before the fog aligns itself
To clog the vision behind your mask,
Before the death of life clouded
Your trust in the Heavens,
Before the desolate wave of sadness
Clouded the very star that guided you,
Before the savage tears you shed
When the lie killed your truth,
Before the door closed in the night
And you drowned in the silence,

You left behind a fleeting light
That was created nust for you,
But as darkness falls the words
That were like children,
The days that were like
A thousand lakes under the sun,
The words that scattered like
Light through the crystal memory,
Came forth a boundless vacancy.

And the night is torn apart,
Deep into the hours where
Memory and names do not matter,
When it seems the hope has sailed forever,
The words will echo deep
Into the mind and eternal
Poetry will be born unto thee
The death of the present will
Be owed to the loss of who you once were....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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