He died on a Tuesday.
And I know he must descend
Like vertigo on on a sunshine day.
And must ascend to a new place
Where the infinite beyond he visits
In waves of willow trees
On rolling hills past ancient
Words spoken only in holy places.

And the soul is on a journey
To no particular flesh, laying
Waste to karma and decidedly
Has become new dust to swirl
As old as the soul, so very young
To God infinite.

Outside of time,
A place between spaces
Through cracks like windowpanes
He celebrates his life.
Along the way he will pass
Those who have passed before him,
Whose words have become like
Eternal moments,
Whose lives have known the temporary
And the beauty of unknowing.

Perhaps - maybe...
His soul journeys on into forever
And back again,
Open door of wombs to what
New dreams may come.

He died on a Tuesday
And returned to forever.

Its not my short legs,
Nor in my overgrown beard,
It's not the big nose
Or small pockets women fear.
It is the corny poem
For which I stand,
The kind of hopeful
Romanticism the women
Can't stand.
If is not in my furry kisses
Nor my nonsense of style,
It is the dork in my walk
That keeps them a mile,
I am a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenal dude,
That's me.

I do not have the body
The women might want,
The kind where my bipeds
I'd flaunt,
I haven't the coin
To release the swag,
Hell I'm still playing
Nintendo 64, not much to brag!
My T.V. is till a big box,
I have no women,
I got loneliness on lock.
I'm just a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenally dude,
That's me.

I'll finish this poem
With my last pathetic rhyme,
Maybe a chick will like it,
Like me this time!
I'll get a haircut to match
The style of now,
I'll become phenomenal,
I'll get there somehow,
But for now.....
Im just a dude,
Unphenomenally,
Unphenomenal dude...
That's me!

There is a humanity which never stops,
Each an elementary piece
Of every human.
        Look at the sun which gives light
To all the darkest crevices that
Think they are hidden.
     See the nature in its flawed beauty
Through your innocent eyes which see
What you perceive as
Right and wrong,
      See how the river splits and still
Finds its way downwardly as well
As all the mimicked frenzy
As bullets fly laterally.
      It drowns itself in the moist earth
And eyes turn away to find beauty
Elsewhere in this lunatic frenzy,
     See how pretty the tombstones are?

And when you can see this light,
Then and only then you
Can see the darkness which hides
In its luminous lie.

I walk the land of my fathers
Which is the land of the dead.

They are dead in this land,
They are not alive nor do they speak.

And then I see the ashes of cigarettes
Flying in the air
And smoke from my lungs
Exhale any destiny.

Do I live for them now?
To live as an example for dead men?
Shall I make a world they do not see,
A destiny set forth by corpses?

If I should not need a reason to live,
But to define myself based on
A man's lost wishes for the son
To fulfill his unfulfilling dream,
Then I shall erase all heritage
And find some other destiny.

Even the living,
Those whom I know to leave me
Behind and turn away like a memory,
And if they looked at me truly
Would not recognize me,
Would I base my reasons to validate
My existing the way I choose?

Perhaps if I carried my gun
Like some madman's projection
Waiting for the justice to take me down?
Even more so,
The men who carry guns with a justified
Perception and rake
Killing fields,
Would this bring ultimately the truth
Behind an existence of self?

No. The sad fact is that humanity
Does not have enough humanity
In consciousness to redeem history.

Maybe if all would become idealistically
Precise in a view of moralistic richness?
Change the course of men and women,
Change the animal inside us?

But this is our battle,
The battle itself - again-
We come to the struggle based on
The concept of ethical standards set
Forth by dead men and women.

So then, after this,
Do we put God at the front of
Our malice, change what we
All have done in the silence?

Don't feel so special,
Don't feel sk miserable,
Cry a thousand times and smile
At the moments rarely recognised,
Its all the same, you and me
And them and everybody.

We are here now,
Superfluousness nature and emotional
Animalistic definitions of a raindrop
In time.

No one is here,
Only in your perception,
Which by all accounts
Is as needy as mine.

Mother, soil of my soul,
Did the oceans stretch out
Until the rock was hidden?
    
      Did the sky spin its depths
      From the pale moon that suffers
      Your beauty?

Did the lakes come from
Your crying?
Did its crystal dawns enchant
The angels to fall from Heaven's grace?

       Did the rock lift itself so high
       That they adorned themselves white
       Veils atop to kiss the sky?

Did the forest become born from
Immaculate conception like
A ****** bride?

      Did the winds of eight directions
      Grow the storms that grace
      Your melodic gardens?

Mother Earth,
I walk the valleys of your curvature,
The miracle of your perfection
Where the river begins,
I find my answers surrounding me.

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

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

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

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

I do not feel alive so much as when
I am Dedpoet. I do not suffer as my
Alter ego, but I do suffer as a simple
Living being. I do not feel alive as a
Christian, or even a Muslim, or at times
When I am a Pagan. If my name were
Edgar Allan Poe, I would still feel
The sufferings, but not so much alive.
Today I suffer from something deeper,
And being alive is part of the dilemma.

This suffering comes and has no explanation,
It is a sorrow so deep that I feel it was
With me alone in the womb. Where is the
Excitement of life? Where is the fulfilled
Feeling of completed goals? Is it because
I have nothing, so nothing comes
Full circle and becomes a reason?
My depression comes from everywhere,
Like four winds of sorrow spinning
A compass. If I was shot down and taken
From this place, my suffering would
Still be the same, if I came back
Reincarnated I would feel this abyss
Even only in a different body.

I look at the pain of a dying man,
He says goodbye and rights what he can
To those he wronged, But I can find
No redemptive cure for this emptied
Hole inside myself, I am simply in depression.

I always believed a higher power would
Give me a miracle cure for this suffering,
But one's belief is merely the precursor
To death and another life when the suffering
Would end in the divine promise, which is
To say we must be here to suffer and believe
The next life will he a better one. I look at the stars
And wonder about light and dark,
But I have no epiphany, today I am depressed,
Simply and utterly, no matter what happens,
Today is what I feel.

I function sometimes
I function in fear,
Feeling,
Kneeling,
Whisper of a broken
Savior,
My tired soul labors
Along at the speed of
Life
The species known as me
Death eternal,
Internal declining,
Lightning flashes,
Passes to ashes,
In a life flashes
Love deeply
Totally utterly
Self aware in a solitary confinement
My life is out of alignment,
That the seeds were driven
From a scattered field of
Sun flower,
I want to watch my son flower,
What is a life
but a a lighter shade of black,
I want to go back
But its a point that half time,
I only have half the average,
Light embers in a fading dusk
Poetical emotion
Up without horizons,
Stay surviving asleep
While im awake,
Life turning to faded dreams

Illusion is that there is no illusion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I accepted here throughout
The poetry world?
Though I am a liar
(But you all know my pain)
And a sociopath,
I still love the make beieve world,
Like dreaming I was naked
In an NFL stadium
And had to run across the field
To a door that kept on disappearing
And reappearing on the other
Side of the field.

I know myself better than my
Psychiatrist does,
But the truth of the lie is
I love the words more than myself,
And the mass darkness I live in
Is filled with a universe of
Make believe.

So I write the Galactic Sea
And yes I am a crazy person,
So I defiled my name and the dream
Became reality.
I believe in my words
And I am hungry for these truthful
Poets who sieze poetry
At its throat and follow
Their scripted verses.
(I hear repetition has much to do with insanity)

Sure I am hungry for love
But Im in a relationship with sedatives,
The sadness of these poet saints
In a mammoth sized disproportionate
Reality,
Ive read my psychanalysis
And it turns out Im a poet with dreams
Who knows the difference
Between a star and a lightbulb.

Woman forms, beastly forms,
Crystallized forms of memory,
Vague but fluid, luminous forms
And a knife at the alter....

Forms of Poet Saints in a mist
Of wandering brilliance,
The beauty and the sorrow
Of bloodstained carnations.

Transcendental harmonies
On lips of Virgins,
Dawn's hesitant light,
Sobbing in the psalms.

Ethereal emotional spirits
Scattered among the tombstones,
Suspended hearts in memory
As a Mystery says goodbye.

And the verse of the light
In the final stanza reveals all
Purity and chastity of the soul,
Saying goodbye to a fellow light.

One:

She sings in her bed
While she stares at a picture
Of her daddy.
On her lap is a razor
And her monsters cut away
At her lap, laughing.
The girl sings her song
In the empty house.

Two:

Her sky was a daddy,
There were birds and clouds
And the air was pure
In his hands.

The clouds caressed
Her face and her face told
Of a sadness,
Like a cloud her daddy
Wasn't there.

Three:

Heart full of dreams
And eyes filled with water,
I will share the girl's secret:
Daddy was taken away,
Her daddy was locked away.

Unfastened in her defenseless
Blood, she annoints herself interrupted,
She has the scars,
You can see the scars.

Her song sings:
Daddy do not abandon me.
I am alone
In the tears and the blood
I am home, alone.
You are not here,
And it hurts me truly,
You are not here.

When I was young
And a stranger to the world,
With an empty canvas of imaginings
And rhymes,
A fiery red blaster at my hip,
My spirit submitting to the innocence;
My remembrance holds in its selective
Elegance an always evolving memory,
Distinct and treasured
And my soul renders itself
To the innocence of the
The infinite possibilities
Of the moment.

A room, a bed, a closet,
A familiar setting,
A window and a storm.
The night without stars
And a thunderclap of wonder.
There are many people like
This, all around me who get
To know the storm.
The sunrise, the mist,
The birds at song under
Wet trees, lukewarm morning.
Here there is a woman alone
With no man, many like me.
And all that is and was
Or will be wants what the heart wants,
Love.
The night comes again,
A room and shadows long and
Madly the same.
I swell with a thought of a woman,
My dream comes to me awake,
I am alone but she accompanied
Me through many lonesome nights
Even in my imagined reality.
We had loved and made
Love many times now,
I don't know her name
But I know every curve of her face,
Her transparent slip....
The rolling curve of her thighs,
And while so close seems
So very far away.
I see her ****** in the shadow,
I long for her body,
No I long for her soul with me.
I love her more than I know,
But I don't know her,
Her wings clipped like some
Fallen angel,
Her flesh deeper than the touch,
This is more real to me than
Anything else I know.

Tonight, in a room, in an insanely
Familiar room I stand alone with her
In my thoughts,
I sweet song arises in my head,
We dance in the pale moonlight
And then I was interrupted by
A passing car,
And I knew the car was real.
Illuminating from my mind
I return to the last dance,
Forever the first.

I write her into reality,
Every lonesome verse filled
With an unknown woman,
She that I love deeper than
Any abyss,
She carries my soul away from
The room, the closet,
The familiar night.

When I am in the middle of a storm,
Or some cold overflowing,
I write the words to keep me warm,
I write the pain unknowing.

Home is in the verse
Where all the sadness combines,
I feel as a lifted curse,
And take back life that is mine.

When the winds carry sorrow,
I poetise the pain,
I no longer worry about tomorrow
Or wether it will rain.

So home is in the words
And I go away to life,
I can become a flying bird,
The metaphor flying away from strife.

There is a thought
Inside a man
Who swears the idea can
Change the world.
On his forehead the sweat draws
Itself to the contours of his
Face in confirmation,
The essence of intentions with
Only good in mind.

And when the thought is brought
Out into the open
The idea breathes itself into existence
And takes the form of a polished
Feature of morality.

In the idea the light shines in the darkness
Of the world and it becomes
An ideal that leads men into
Action based on the purest intent
At the very center of the idea.

The idea becomes cannon
Like a holy scripture found
In the darkest deepest cave lost
To the oblivion and found by
A flame that feeds itself
With fires of ideas and burns
The whole of himself for the sake
Of the thought.

In these men intent and action
Can be seen,
Born of an idea with light at its
Core and purest intention
Of the heart,
And one can see the idea burns
The whole of a part of the world.

Grand,
This day, unfolding like a fable,
And the kiss felt ten fold.

Grand,
This tiny life or big universe,
This little man or some other perception,
Living in the now.

The tile is cold at my feet,
I swallow the sun that swallows me in,
Shimmering light through the curtains,
Bright
             Renewal
                        Of the form.

Grand,
I am just me, this life
Into the great big world.

I want to tell everybody,
But I have no control,
Infinite smallness of my grandiosity.

The doors to my heart are open:

Mother spoke to me,
Breath of God,
Because I know the difference
As a child and losing God when
Mother was taken and my
Soul cried to the quarter moon.

All the hours pass
Through these poems of her,

And the words still speak
From an altered spirit deep
In the forest of my youth,
A secret day Mother of six took
Me to eat alone,
Alone with oceans,
And stars,
And all the hope a child could bear,
Where Mother looked at me
And smiled,
Her smile contained all that
Was good of my childhood.

And Mother,
Her amazing grace of words
Spoke as God,

She held me with one arm,
One secret morning

With oceans,


With stars,

All the hope a child could bear.

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

Everyday the tide
And what flows in I cannot
Control,
Everyday awash and I
Know that my love is real,
Because the pain is real.
Amazing the hope is the rain
And sun has become the hurt,
Fate has given twist,
Everyday I see the lost
And when I find them
Only a little of what once was,
Remains.
Everyday like the wind on my face,
The perfect imbalance tips
Under empty,
And once I was full of hope,
Only now it has become audacity.

Everyday the tide,
And the waters rage
Beyond anyones control,
Everyday the poem
Takes a few words away
From my tired soul,

Everyday
I
Still
Have
hope........

Glorious suffering,
Born among the mysterious poor,
Shredding darkness with tiny
Bits of light that illuminate minutes,
The crests of moments, colorful,
Spreading across a grateful soul,
A manifestation of grace in poverty,
Streets of the nocturnal
that disperse into industrial days
Where they sweat the blood
And honor their young,
The poor have secret places
Gathering in the heart,
A rhythmic harmony in the simplicity,
They hear the birds,
Embrace the wind
And kiss the sorrows goodnight.

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

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

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

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

There would be no beauty after Winter.

From within the screams
Of silence
Every wall shadowed.
      I am the eternity
Of my moment,
    Alone with nobody,
Come,
   Maybe the words will set
Me free,
And the void is a deep cloud.
   A walk in the mist,
There you will find me
Lost, finding all the questions.

Take aim and fire,
The predjudice reminds me
Of decades past long since
Buried,
I remember that crime dealt with
And repetitious grievances
Arise with postulated gratitude
As if brand new,
The sanity lies thin in erroneous
Generosity of reporting,
Give me a latitude
Elongated and a new world
Arises in the same ole
Problem,
Here in lies the code of insanity
Dressed in indifference,
Lost in ignorance,
Disguised as news
Repeating the same mistakes,
Conflicting interest and a life
Is a terrible waste
In the elitist game of revision.

The compass spins
And the wind blows from all seasons,
We have just been born,
Ageless we are:

In the beginning
Entangled in eternity
Our destiny written on a star
That burned before us,
That lights worlds after us,
Out love cried out to the
Tortured Aloness and closed
The abyss filing eachother.
    
Explode!

The floodgates of my touch
Over your luminous silhouette,
Water and fire collide
Raining embers of eternity,
The present is stilled
And the fountain of reality
Stops as I take your hand;
We are the the precipices
Where sky and earth meet,
Dawn and dusk,
A spherical momentum.

The real love,
A geometric journey
As we invent new places
In eachother,
Echoes in dreams wide awake,
All points from full moons
To quarter suns,
I love you from all points,
Your diaphanous presence,
You are my world.

I read a Thousand love sonnets,
Oh what grandoise thoughts I had of
You Pablo,
Somehow sitting beside an open fire,
Highly romanticised visions
Running through you in
Crystalline clarity of the human heart.
       Oh what wonderous mythic thoughts
I had until I went grocery shopping.
I see you Pablo Neruda in your
Naked truth,
A sun setting fatigue over you,
You scrawling about a list of food,
At first which I thought was the Poem.
     But this could not be the Poem,
Words cannot fluster a man like you,
     I followed for a while ,first in awe,
Then in a sad curiousity.
  What happend to this man
And the allusions of such brilliant
Women in white dresses that must
Dance through his corridors?
      He walks a tired walk,
Slowly approaching another figure.
And there was the plain truth
Of a plain man with the adventurous heart.
    " Did you get the pork chops?"
She asks him in a worn down voice.
    "Yes dear"

And in this stroke of reality
Where dreams come to swift the soul
Away into the portico on some purple
Glazed sunlit dusk,
    Or the woman seeking the warmth
From the benighted snow next to
A porcelain fire which seemingly
Births tiny star like embers that light
The eyes of the lovers,
    I realise that it is the escape that is poetry,
The words are groanings of the deepest
Nature of the person,
    And the truth is not necessary,
For the poem sets us free from what
We all seem to already know.

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

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

Is an existence
                On many planes.

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

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

You **** a reindeer while checking your hellopeotry account and driving.

2. Every Christmas Card you send has one of your poems in it.

3. At the family gathering you make everyone listen to one of your poems.

4. You write a poem about a romantic elf.

5. You send Santa a sonnet of what you want for Christmas.

6. You go to the mall Santa and ask him for one of your poems to become a daily.

7. Instead of gifts you pass out poems to loved ones.

8. You write a haiku about yellow snow.

9. You feel great sorrow for the turkey you are stuffing and write a poetic eulogy.

10. You buy yourself a brand new pen and pad and give it to yourself.

11. Instead of cookies and milk, you leave Santa a sonnet.

12. You ponder Rudolph's red nose and how rough he must have it.

13. You wrap the gifts with your poems hoping someone will actually read your poetry.

14. You write a poem titled "Black Friday" and make a wondrous philosophical poem about how the maddening crowds beat you to that 41inche flatscreen.

15. Instead of Christmas carols you stand and perform spoken word in front of neighbors homes.

16. You hold your kid's gifts hostage until they read your poems.

17. You write a poem about the holidays on hellopeotry.
(Yeah you know ones coming)

18. In a fit of poetical rage, you write how the elf's must be set free or get paid for what they do.

19. You write a farewell poem to 2016.
(Yeah you know its coming)

20. Last but not least: you might be a poet when Santa has you on the naughty list for writing cheesy poetry.
(Im guilty)

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

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

Torn into pieces
Every bit of you complex-
Desirous nature to please

Come one come all
To the show
Of pleasing others eyes

Be it far from yourself
To be yourself
For retribution is swift
On originality

The world calls you,
The one that pleases the others,
Not you but the other one

If you are not yourself,
There is no other
To be accepted outside or in

If you were poetry
Then I don't exist,
And if I don't exist then
Neither did you and this
Is a lie.

We are only lovers,
The flesh of the lips
Tendered together for hopeful kisses
But not to be alive in
A melancholic grace of days.

And there is the other,
That which is the world
Of two lovers in the grinder's
Days together in this struggle.

And another which speaks silently
From the ears of a listener
And takes refuge in
Something else away from love.

And the other
Which is the word written,
So that you know you are not poetry,
Only the verse of words magnified
From a hopeful wound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep now, my daughters of fire,
I have removed the teeth from
The flowers, in your dream there
Will he a crystalline home
At the bottom of the sea.

Your hair like morning dew,
Glistening like constellations,
I have prepared your bed
With sheets of earth and a quilt
Of smooth butterfly wings.

Sleep now, my daughters of fire,
I will watch your dreams from here,
I will be the star you follow home,
You will play in a sea as blue
As the day sky as fish wink at you
Both in a meadow of coral meadows
Riding the sea horses to visit golden fish.

A heavenly body will watch over you,
Sleep now daughters of fire,
The night dove has come to sing
You to sleep, a celestial dream awaits
You, and when you return,
A father will be just as grateful.

I walk the day in a bliss,
By nocturnal night of a star's kiss,
I always dream in perfect spirals,
Spindrifting awake through life's trials.

I always dream,
Even under the wide open days,
Upon the ocean
Like crashing ocean waves.

Upon the pain of everyday,
I let it all go,
I joyously stride
To places unknown.

And in the after thought
Of the day gone past,
I dream again
Upon forever a dream,
they do last.

Most endearing beloved,

    Today at Midwinter's eye, I saw you under
The sun, a drop of light as it were under
The shimmery snow you stood upon.
And in the image of God we were made,
I'd like to think he made the portrait
Just for me, a delightful immortal
Image that dances even at night around
The round moon of January's cold.

    I cannot give you more than
You have just given me as though
You bestowed upon me a spoonful
Of star, and as I walked I saw your
butterfly's journey, the ringing of
Freedom's bell, I rejoice in the perfect
Memory as though an angel would pass
Here on earth to witness a miracle
And then swiftly return to eternity.
     But what I can offer you is the music
Of sky upon water, the depth of a diamond's
Gaze; the birth of Springtime in your
Eyes,the eternity in a flash which is the
Whole of my life, I offer you the foam of
The beach where we will make love,
I will swim in your rivery hair and not
Drown, I offer you my soul dancing
In a forest with tree flowers and adventure
On the rainiest days, I give you a child
That has not been born but knows
You as Mother, the miracle is you love.
I give you the ground I walk on, and all
The little birds and animals you can fathom.

Take these my humble gifts,
    My love eternal,
              
            Dedpoet

P.S. Also take the skies and all the stars,
All that I wish for you.

Perceptions,
           (The heart desires,
             Action at a distance)
The slow burning
Needs when the eye meets.
       Was she there before?
       The manifest destiny of its mechanics,
       How world upon world was stacked
       Until finally what the heart
       Wanted comes to be.
The fire's ancient name
When the name burned
As the first words spoken
Into existence.
      Quantum lovers to the atomic
      Extremes, the matter cannot
      Be mathmetised, fate rarely explained.
Great the string,
Silhouettes of her body
In a thousand bodies,
Only one looks his way.....

        Fallen star
        In the endlessness of many worlds
        Beneath the eyelids electrified,
        The girl, only the girl,
        I see through a tunnel
        Like destiny in a wormhole.
Tiny energetic particles,
Trillions inexact,
They lay motion into desire,
The motion becomes a walk,
A walk become a word,
The word becomes them both.

   They explode like comets
   Too close to the star,
   The spirit intertwined,
    Evaporation of perceptions,
    Both accidental and fated,
    The quanta come together.
A series of waves
That take part in duality,
Two lovers, immeasurable destinies,
Coming together,
A scarlet queen,
A quartz king,
Fire on the head of the energy.
      Silent in the moment,
      He holds her hand,
      Connectivity on the sub atomic level,
The wheel spins,
The procession of the heart
Began as multiple universes collided,
The love devours all destiny,
In a rain shower of possibility,
The boy meets the girl,
They fall in love,
In this love quantified,
All the matter and energy
Swim in a pool of desire and need,
Never can it be measured,
Destiny is but
A prelude to a kiss.....

The street Yes teaches the soul
To lose all hope and fight
With standard flesh in parallel
Reflection of drowning realities.
The street Yes teaches the heart
To break and gratefully piece itself
Back together like broken sidewalks
Uninterrupted in the geology
Of parallel violence.

The street does not teach tenderness
To rise with renewed passion;
A Phoenix phenomena pounding
The chest and crushing the solitude.
The street does not teach
How to cope with happiness
Or the success where none was before,
The street always educated,
Heavily, for its burden.

Who I was
Is not who I am,

     Quarter Moon
Beams of Where's
My Daddy tears hit
And the lonely nights
Have taken toll on me.

Where are you now
Little GIRLS?
I want to see you,
I need you,
I'm better now.

It's ok Daddy,
Echoes of the crescent
Regret arc over my soul,
And the hint of seeing
You again drives me to think
You still remember me,
You still love me,
I regret everything.

Just because I'm your father
Does not make me a good one.

If you want to get into the society
You must die to yourself
And swallow alot of pride,
The education is interminable.

Here is what you must do:

Become authentic and genuine,
Speak as the world speaks as
If it were from another planet,
Be shiny in your darkness,
Consult with other dead poets,
Know the difference between
A haiku and a senryu
And not count syllables on your
Hands,
Fall in love but be aware
Your heart will be astonishingly
Broken,
Carry a pen and paper even
If you are going to the lake.

And if you have loved and lost
I suggest the following:

Read a book in the middle of a park,
Look dignified while doing so,
Walk around in soliloquy,
Bite your nails in public
As you write;
This suggests a deep thinking
Moment is occurring;
Talk on the phone at home
With a new friend for hours.

If you really want to be
In the society
You must know how to dance
When there is no music,
Wipe your nose with the inside
Of your shirt,
Laugh at the abyss of life,
Cry at the grandiosity
Of time,
Look in a mirror and have a staring
Contest,
**** the paper you write on
With sonnets about ***.

Remember also that you must
Conquest the metaphor and allusions
Of yourself,
This involves but is not limited to:

Falling for a circus acrobat,
**** roaches and then write the
Experience as a poem,
Become part of a vicious cycle
The break it,
Able to appear and disappear
On demand,
Kiss a baby that isn't yours,
Ask a newly married person
For their phone number,
Go to the Pyramids of Egypt
And see what the big deal is,
Cross the street using only
Your peripheral vision,
And finally to become a full
Fledged member,
Well that one is easy,
We all do it anyway.....

If I was a real poet
I would write about the world
Around me, the living problems
We share commonly.
I met your eyes on the way,
They prefer the pitter patter
Of small minded half empty cups.
I desire the beauty you write about
But I hate that we escape our world
With distilled words of selfish
Inward feverous double edged nothingness!
Oh, if I were a poet
I'd be humble
And facing tomorrow with hope
With fortitude of today, unflinching,
Uncompromising with no promises.
But every reader needs an escape,
And I'm happy to provide ignorant bliss.

It begins here,
Undecipherable death.

The dying of the light
With tearful glazed eyes.

Here the soul is at a pause
Waiting to be set free,
A hurried rush to Awaken.

- the body fights to last breaths

Drowning in the world
Drinking life's waters,
The soul swims free.

Far ahead,
A darkness in the light...

And the soul has eyes that see
All things all at once in the lives
Lived underrated and unfulfilled.

-the body wants to live

The shadow grows deep
As sky black becomes a fertile
Ground upon which the soul
Glides watching a piece of everything.

Upon the immensely empty darkness
The light surrounds it,
Suddenly the soul realizes the abyss
Is within, calling itself humanity.

- the flesh craves life

Like a forest of insomnia
Suddenly awakened by a fire,
The soul sees all its lives lived.

The life is dried up,
The river has no source
And the living waters are dried:

Vanish soul,
Awaken in the corridor of wombs,
Be born again and fill
The bottomless being,
   The pregnant life
Of a tired soul awaiting the depths
Of understanding, confusingly conflicting.

- the body wants to feel

This is the bottom
Where souls meet and find
That the darkness resides inside them,
A silence befalls all-

Become the ocean that fills itself,,
Contemplate the premature death
Of stars that we constellated to
Our hopes and dreams,
Piece together the eclipse of understanding
That had escaped you until
Now,
The spiral concludes,
Immortal soul that cannot find
The light,
Children of the Master,
Return and fill the void,
You will hear in every life
That you have filled one cup
At a time,
And when you realize that your
Ordinary was extraordinary
Then the void is filled
And we return to our celestial navigation.

-the body wants to live

There is no distance between stars,
They catch the eye and the hopefuls
Wish upon a glaring dot,
The skin of night has not yet been
Pulled close enough to visit.

Time is a hunger,
The space between us,
Light years!

And to think world peace is
Unattainable in this modern world,
And yet some guy with a bazooka
Sits atop a mountain at peace
With the stars....

Oh the anxieties of the empty abyss,
We fill them with constellations
To make sense of the world!

Maybe one day we will return to stardust,
Time will Jo longer be a hunger,
We will need no one but our light.

Earth is Rock,
We feed upon the notion that we
Are alone, and savagely question
Our faith in the skies,
Shall we fade without ever truly
Knowing one another,
If you don't know me,
Did I ever exist?
Did you?

And we dream on a solitary rock
Where our soul wears the flesh,
But we must dream on the stars
During our ordinary lives!

What voice would reach you,
People who speak destruction,
With end time tones or in
The poetry of Bukowski?
So primitive in modern times,
Simple and complex;
Angels and demons.

You are the people,
Future devastation of our
Children with its spilling blood
And still praying to some peace
Loving god.

You are strong but empty,
Proud by unsure,
Cultured and diverse,
You oppose:
One another.

You are ****** and Jesus,
Mohamed and Napoleon,
Breaking the world and healing
The sick,
(You are your own worst enemy,
And your only friend)

You think life is ******,
That progress is martyrdom,
That the future is not on this
World;
             Yes.

You people are grand and powerful,
Whenever a belief is found
A profound shudder of ideals
Shakes the world,
And an enormous backbone
Of righteousness in the name of;
And the stars are yours,
Wether in hope or in a last dying glance
Before death,
Wealth and prosperity
Join faith and religion
To conquest one another,
Raising reason to live, to die.

You have consulted God
Which preserve your right to make
And destroy and to ****,
The footprints of blood money,
(Whose name is a star spangled
Atrocity)
Catholic,Muslim, Christian, Jewish,Hindu:
All humanity.

You are a bed of roses with
Thorns exposed.

Oh precious people,
Where has your humanity gone?

The day advances,
Goes round and retreats
Arriving infinitely:

     The calm of a poet does
Not exist,
The words appear with urgency
Behind a chaos of thoughts
Flowing like water,
Spilling the prophecy of no one.
      The journey is the density
Of humanity whose misery
Shines with brilliance like
A moon full of itself,
   They go appearing and disappearing
Like happiness under shadow,
They make no presence except
Being in the moment,
Even now there is a drunk
Homeless man singing under
Shade of life's tree;

Life's tree which branches
To find the light in the darkness,
Which spews seeds of hope
Filling the abyss,
The same skies which petrify
The man in the repetitions of
Days , the days of sorrow,
The days of light, the days
Of moments, under the same sun.

I journey through the minds
In galleries of people that resonate
Understanding, words that heal,
Words that begin and words
Making all transparent,
We have become mirrors that falter
Within the self ,dissolving dreams.

I go within my eyes,
Eyes that remember a river
Of bodies that flowed into a
Lake of my touch, passionate waters
Celebrated in a mystery of lust,
The looks of your eyes reflect
All that is real, you are a memory
Distinguished like cherries,
Red like a falling sun,
You are the edict of magical
Thoughts on the Autumnal night
We wore the colors of our desires;

I tear myself apart
To make naked thoughts come to
Life, among all the waters,
Among all the fires, like a bird
With wings of fire burning
The air I breathe, I conquest my
Dreams, fulfilled by words;

The words fateful and careful,
A harvest of pain,
A field of sorrow,
All that makes sense,
I go upon them as if
Leaving my body to the moon
Imagining better, better, better,
The words shower like rain
And the liquid runs deep into
The thirst, being born, they make
All that was, they make all that
Hopes to be and fills the skies
With wishful stars shedding life
Upon itself.

I come face to face with myself,
Poet whose passion is deeper
Than his talent, whose words echo
Like repetitions of poets past,
They are all i have, all i need ,
I write alone, no one is here,
The day ends, the light ends:

The night advances
Goes round and retreats
Arriving infinitely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm up with the down,
Friction of the chi,

    Balance in the chaos,

Spoken like

WORD

     Prism  owl
Moon shape
Blood shot
And words just speak,

Spoken

Like the wings of a flutter fly,
Clip the wings,
          Utter die,
******* I
     Am feeling
Like a mad Lora Lee,
    Inspired cordially,
Notoriously Ded and risen,
Hate it love it,
    Specters of the prison

Self .......help

And I'm feeling me,
On my feet
Life not kneeling me,
Onion layers,

Words

Peeling me,
Dealing me out
Because I'm poetrys *****,
Yea I said it,
You read it,
Never regret it,
Fetish for word.....spoken,

Feel me.

Above the spine of snow,
Calm ,white; and here floats
Ice crystals from a dead storm,
And there in the snow a child wins
With a snow ***** chance.

The frozen scapes- grey nostalgia-
With a peculiar memory
Recalls itself in its snowy drifts
And mania like senile tundra.

To add the sum of January
In enthusiastic forms of child play
Like a snow man in fleeces,
The memory is fused.

And far away,
Dreaming maybe of an abstract
Freeze in the heartfelt snow
A child is warmed by the memory.

I hear a sigh
Across the sky,
Filling the stars
And fulfilling life....
No sigh; it is my daughter
Waking from sleep.

It's midnight and the silence is speaking,
The silence is full of words, words interruped
By thoughts. The words expose themselves
To the wind out of my open window.
(I am on the third floor) I float off my bed
And to the open of the city, there beneath is
An Ashe tree under the yellow of the moon,
It seems to slow dance with the subtle
Beats of the nocturnal, a streetlight
Pulses. In the distance all is an orchestral
Silence as the city breathes, suddenly
Within the abyss inside me I feel a welling
A passion deeper than the unexpected lover,
I am paralyzed with words dropping me
I to the foliage of the unwritten, threading
A song like the electrical humm of the power
Lines, a hymn forms, a nocturnal lament,
I am alone with everything.....

2. I refuse the lamp at my desk, my body craves
The dead man's sleep. The silence grows bold,
It rises like a full moon in me, it grows louder
Suddenly the meadow is alive under some deep
Horizon, the moment is an awakening
Of words, the need like an insatiable appetite,
A sweat sets upon means a cool breeze
Kisses it's lament flowing into my very
Being. It is passion, the unchained melody
under the maestro's sky. I fathom the world
Around me, I cannot remember walking
To my desk.

3. The lamp light shatters the fragments
Of the night, they turn Into words as if
From the fleece of my flesh. All is the silence, every
Word pouring like a sea of ink crashing waves
To paper. The silver of the city reflecting,
The poem is not a poem but a confession
In the dark exploding syllables like
Secrets in a prayer. My hand is guided to
Paper and I cannot form a single word-

4.The melody is gone, only the idea of the dream
Survives reaching for a thought, it slips
My grasp, my own vanishes, the words
Disappear, the inklings gone: love,
Lust, live, life, lend, loop, locked? A prison forms around the words, my thoughts hover like vultures, the carcass
Was a poet Saint, he died of the thirst floating
In an ocean of words he cannot drink,
Salt in the mind. A sacrifice he was to the
Depths of thought, silence creeps in again ,
The Enourmous Night, inward, deeper
Into the soul, penetrating.....

5. The nocturnal presence returns, a flattering
Sorrow in the silence, the thoughts disappear,
I cut off my mind from the world,
Reality is dead and I killed it with the
Gesture of my pen,"I am here"
The silence kisses my lips, the gathering  inside
Myself thwarting any thought, the scorn
Of the verses sets my hand on fire,
My pen is the heat of the sun writing
On a slab of Jade, I am no longer me,
But the perpetual silence that birthed a poem,
The syllables are born and I am
A prisoner of words.