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.

That the days shard through
Memory,
Emapthic broken glass,
Lethargic night
Emptied wine cup
Droplets like shunned moons,
The poem remains
And there metaphorically,
So does all the world.

Tell me if you heard this one,
I was at a bar,
Ok that's it but the rest is mine,
I was at a bar last night
Sifting through slurs
And undulating whimper
On daily pestful subjects
I thought should be left at home
Or be drunken under the table,
           And in the jungle
Of blurr a voice like a tiny God
Came to me and said
Things that didn't make sense
    But sounded so alluring at
Ear's tickle,
   Such words shouldn't be
Wasted in a bar with a variety
Of urban sloths and various
      Creatures that remind
Me to leave the bar at 1
Because I might take one home
With me at 2.
      I took her words
And sifted through them
Like I imagine God would
When He makes a soul,
    Saying, you're going to hell
And your going to Heaven,
    Since I could tell her
Verbiage was passive and rehearsed,
     Such beauty wasn't meant to be spewed,
    Under a tortured light
That shows the faint
Lines under everything
I said to her,
" Baby, shut up, lets make beautiful music together! "
     Little did she know
She didn't have a chance,
     Poets never do against
A musician.
    Suckers!

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

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

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

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

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.

Quietly whispered,
The words spoken without envy;

The divine thirst is for you,
In a myriad of liquids yours
Is the only quenching,
There is nothing as good to the soul
As kissing the nape of your neck
When I come home,
I hold your hands beside you
And gather them in a harvesting,
The touch dominant of my existence.

I will be thinking:
This pleasure is all mine,
A promise holy like time,
You are my Prophesy
Spoken with every minute.

What are you thinking?
What are you thinking,
You kid
Who shakes between breath and rifle?

Answer with
Your disgust
In the this order:
Bullied,
Outcast,
Solace in the dark.

Let's rephrase the question
To help me understand:
Between your breath and the rifle
Are you even thinking,
Thinking while you tremble
Within 50 yards of more youth
Buried in your darkness
Remembering what was taken
From your youth,
emotionally charged
And confused more so
Than your family,
Your family whom loves
Could have ever dreamed of?

Poetry should not sound like a fortune cookie.

"It's only a poem,
Dont read so much into it."
      
             Dedpoet

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?

Under the new garden
A rain falls:

And the thoughts like birth,
Drops of life on life,
The cycle and it's seasons.

And repetition is insanity,
The rain does not stop
And a flood of thoughts drown
The hope of seedlings.

Hands still fresh of earth,
The lukewarm feeling of singular
Gratitude for such a small thing,
And a rain from God;
     Why drown something so
     Wonderful that fills me?

I do not understand,
Today was a good day,
         Nostalgic and scattered
         Anguished at the sky,
         The rain stops cold,
         A realisation forms;
      
         It is the action that is
         Pleasurable, the moment
         One takes to toil in the earth,
         The rest, like the seeds,
         Like God,
         Like the rain
         Is all just part of the garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I retreat into myself
I reap the sky like a mountain
To a cloud,
The rainbow arch of sun rise in my eyes,
Because sometimes I just
Need to be alone,
I hide my dream's failures
In the words like a string
Of pearls sorrow,
The secrets of of my inner most,
When the outer seems too far,
Like the soft touch of a man
In darkness,
I plead the sadness with my imagination,
I hide behind the skies,
Pain becomes tender,
Just now I begin to believe
There is a better place....

Alone I hear the laughter of the
Dead beneath the earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taken by yesterday,
I is fragment
Then reverse the shift
And remain the same.
Before the dawms
And stolen solitudes were
Enlightened,
I saw the person
And alone I'm watching
With the other in confinement.
As is, never was,
Love one love all,
Love thyself.

And the silence between us,
You and the world,
Me and the crazy,
Chewing our nails down to
The bone
Breaking neck paranoia,
With the high so low
It bottoms us into the normal
Where nothing makes sense,
The loss of the addiction
Leaves us in the confusion
Of the world.

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.

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

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

But a few thoughts
Scribbled in seclusions.

My bloodline has been fighting
Terrorism since 1492.

I don't know the name of this....
This...empty thing inside me,
    Though its been a companion;
    Or a leech.
And in the tranquility of a curving sky,
Somehow it still finds me,
    That lone cloud hovers above me
    Drinking the light.
Eventually it will **** me
And end up in words, like here and now:
  
Tell me of the abyss inside you,
The daily grind like bees in
Your throat,
Tell me if you cry when you
Write your inner grey,
Humbly, when you look at stars
So far away,
Are your  lost hopes and dreams
With them?
I know of this truly,
Its an embodiment,
And only the Creator knows why,
And we have not penetrated the why.
   I confess to you the divine thirst
   For something to fill this hole,
   Yet were it not for this hole
   I would not know the blue
   Beside the grey,
   The light that stretches the dark,
   The smile of a moment
   Caught in forever's slim memory,
   The Him,
   The Her,
   The whitest petals from a lily
   Born out of the storm;
And we walk as the grey
And all that we do to fill-
Grey, yes somehow grey,
Between the light and the dark
We flow.

I take you as you are,
Because you were;
Stranger here before me,
Never will I let my eyes
Be seduced by your
Broken road,
Once I was broken too,
And I cannot forget
The past is a glory,
Faithful, haunting,
As it was you were there,
As you are, friend,
I am here!

For two weeks since he's been home
He lost most of his conversation
In asking me or himself what needs
Done in the house or around it.

He watches the news alone at midnight
In the dark looking for war updates,
Always up before me to avoid any
Kind of pillow talk or otherwise.

26 years old and tireless
Back from four years of God knows
Because he won't say a word to me,
But I've never seen him more alone.

Last night I tried to make love to him,
He winced at me like he didn't
Know how to he with a woman any
More, which I found at first kind
Of nice, but really depressed me
Later on thinking about it.

Everyday during lunch, Gil breaks
Out his hand gun and rifle,
He breaks them down with such
A delicate touch, sometimes I get
Jealous of the way he handle them.
Still at the very least I like to think
That he knows how to touch a woman,
And he just misplaced his passion,
That one day he will put the energies
Back where they need to be.
We talk everyday, but the ts like
A mechanical response,
J just let him be.

We had a laugh when we shared
A movie together, the first one we saw
When we dated as teens,
He smiled at me like he did before
He left for the war,
He even gave me a kiss that lasted
More than the usual pecks.

In our bed I stare at this man
That I couldn't breathe without,
I try to understand that maybe he
Will come home some day,
Maybe he will remember himself,
Maybe is my best hope.

The world is a marble
The size of a tumor
Inside the mind:

Breathe, just breathe,
I feel everything
All at once,
I delve in the paradox
Of the devil's advocacy,
You are all against me....

Ok....breathe....
The body shakes
Inside the child whose body
Doesn't recognise the man,
Sweet memory hits like
A punch to the gut
And remebering becomes
A fist fight.

You!

Who?

YOU!

And I speak to myself
Outside like some external
Ghost that carries all
That I never wanted to be.
Holding in and biting
My tongue off left the man
A little boy.

Night falls,
I chew my nails down to the
Elbow, where is the peace
I read in the poetry that
Motions I am not crazy after all,
I am alone,
Yeah Bukowski....
Alone with myself
And I cant stand that
P.O.S.

At the crossroads
Where life takes a turn,
Just in from regret alley
When it starts to burn.
Begin again at the dead end,
Take a detour fall in love
And take in a best friend,
Keeping head just above
Drowning just around the bend,
Left turn,
Right,
It doesn't matter where time lends,
We end up at a choice
At the Crossroads,
We begin again.

An idea forms;
      We become the stillness in motion,
Between seeing and making,
     Contemplation or action,
The words cause us to act.

      We dare give eyes to the idea,
And pen to paper becomes
     A resurrection of presences,
Poetry,
      Like life writing itself,
A day becomes dateless,
     Life lights up these words,
We walk the path of inspiration,
     Truth lived and suffered ,
          Shared rage
           Shared passion,
              Shared abyss,
                 Shared love.....

In the end of the verse
The poet transfigures
Inspiration into incarnations,
Given as a sacrifice of self:

All that remains are the ghosts,
We are siblings in the void.

At every turn
Is the voice's spread hand,
Almost like the echoes stream
In the passionate resonance.

  Let it go.

And yesterday is loud in the silence
In the invisible pain,
Edge of nowhere
And tomorrow.

  Walking backwards
To the abyss of yesterdays,
The spirit flickers
And begins a dissolution of faces.....

   Only the voice remains
And a haunting of regret.

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.....

I was multiplied in a dream
By hollow envious creatures,
The earth became an epiphany
And my eyes set for the sky:

       The sanctuary of grey
Under white for neither greed nor
Want,
         Instant dream washed by rain
With light sneaking to the treetops,
      The feminine touch of a cloud
set in the sky survived by
          Birds set in still flights -

I am a coincidence with angels,
     As I become many
Like raindrops on a head,
      But two heads,
Rather all the heads that walk
     In the mist,
I touch a thought in each
And in each a dream one different
But the same,
     The hummingbird drinks itself
From the pomegranate in the foliage,
        Awhile away
To the sky blue,
      Born again to grey bottoms,
The lone thunderstorm
      Raining in a vast desert,
I am multiplied among the earth.....

       To know the exile of the sky,
Being the sky,
    To know the highest heights:
Angels dance here,
    Sing here,
Cry here,
    Watchers of the secret world,
Souls leaving, returning,
But never ceasing.  
    Water over fire,
Air over trees,
     The smallness that I am
In the vastness of the world,
I write the sky for a moment,
      Walking under the sun,
I am multiplied like dew drops
In the cycle,

      And peace fills every step.

Sub-atomic strings,
Each flailing in a solar system
        Deep under eye's
Reach,
    Taken at present
With a grey gloom under
  A Fall wind's coming,
      The first steps
Like a toddler graduation,
       Vacating the spaces
In a perception one's own,
          
     Sub-atomic,
Tiny presences,
     A walk alone
Between the spaces.

Self crowned among the masses,
A shout grim and hopeful,
Yet impartial and beneficent,
A war dog's appearance is beautiful
In it's momentary truth.

    Cry war dog,
The sea mounts the coast
And the wounded patriotic
Statuesque in a pose of glory,
A broken hymn among the ruins
Gnawed by flashing lights,
All is the war dog's cry!

  He cries freedom!
He cries justice,
   He cries faith,
He cries for the sake of the unborn
Soldier unearthing the burials yet
To be......

    Cry war dog,
History remembers
Such glorious monsters.

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.

Too keep one honest,
As much as one can face,
A poet uses irony
To offset this.

The words told me
What I really think of me.
There is no place to hide
In a Hello world
I can't say I'm fantastic,
Only an utterance of many
Things I could borrow from
Silence.

At the forefront I can read the poetry
I write, and face my true mirror, the inner works of me
Cascaded by bold words.
Hypothesis me, words equally
Distributed
And the work is an unfinished verse,
And sometimes I can't face myself,
The words escape me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I begin these words as confirmation
That I have poetry at my side,
To out words into stone, these vast gestures
Of words covering worlds;

And suddenly in this verse a great
Sorrow overtakes me, everything abandons.
I have words but nothing else,
Not even the paranoia of someone watching,
The pen takes over like some cursed one
Taking control of my poem,
The words of the pain inside well up
Like some volcano about to spurt Suns,
What I am about to say is the very
Most personal sadness I carry,
The abyss takes control, I am a blind poet....

Wait, I must breathe,
Close my eyes until hope returns,
The words juggle between the
Light and the darkness,
Waves of emotions sputtering about
Like a boat fighting the whirlpool,
The weight of the words
Like a world on my shoulders.....

        Wait,
There is nothing to write,
Only my pain, just pain in the nothingness,
My dear friend was "Alone With Everybody",
I see now the writing is the same,
Pain and nothingness vs. light and everything else,
These broken words fighting with
Angels and demons, what do they say
But nothing, but everything,

And I write it all anyway,
I am chained to the pen,
All night I want to write something wonderful,
But the Abyss speaks itself when
No one wants to admit it is there,
So now that it is written,
The sun has come up
Hope has returned,
I want to drift into this life full,
Nothing lights the abyss,
Too deep it is to fill,
But the words bridge the pain
To better days.

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!

.....Lo, forth I do march,
Hell's scorch fuels the ascendancy
Into solemn inner battle amongst
Myselves,
I am a poem at war with words,
The pen a bride like some spectral
Verbiage- luminosity antagonisong
The swell of ferocity, I do cling
As the audascious hope gathers its wounds
And scatters like petals in the furious winds,
The forbearance of that knife
Wielded within the self,
Self against self,
The battle rages against the heart,
Against the mind,
Down to the very soul!

In the craftmans tomb,
A poem floods the inner sanctum
And the march forward seems
Like a depression plowing
The fields of memory,
Oh what dreams may come
May also haunt.

And one drops many a word,
The war inside like flock
Of crows into the blinding light,
I still here could not give in,
The soul still battles its flesh....

I can remember in my youth
When my friends and I would
Hunt in our backyard with pellet
Guns in hand and the thought
Of a fat dove we might cook.

The first time I held that knife
And took it out of his stomach,
I never knew how the joining
Of the two could shock me,
I almost let go,
I held on long enough for him to
Collapse, I ran and never looked back.

I had never killed a bird before,
Unknowing how it's flailing wings
Would affect me, so powerful,
Fear in its eyes, I knew he wanted
To live.  

I had never stabbed a man before,
He had no wings to flutter,
But as I ran,
I knew that bird wanted to live,
I feel a guilt over me
When I can't tell if that man wanted
The same.

The moon carves her claw into the night,
Nothing is alive except
The fathomless infinity of darkness
Sulking in a white solitude.
      The lavished night
      Lays her hair upon
      A lonely pulsar,
      The body of silences
      Which bring ideas to life....
There is only the word
In the deep abyss of thoughts
And death is but a Nightstalker,
The sad desires envelope the lone mind
And trembles the broken heart.

The tremors of light cut away
To an absurd blackness,
The night is alive and distant,
The moon submerges
Into sapphire waters
Running in silence toward
An empty sky black.

.....Let your soul shed it's poetry.

Between us:
A mirror, a desk, a wardrobe,
My self and you, a bed and the
Enormous night.
There are moons splintered, a sleeping
Star, further still the morning.
There are dogs barking, a short wind
As you've taken the evening's breath,
The slow cooling of the earth
As birds humm and crickets chirp.
Between us the thirst that dwells
Under your caressing,
The distance is hard and slow,
A suffered savor of the momentum
Dragging each other slowly
Towards the living Waters that
Liquid lovers two, becoming one.
Your body wears my touch
And my soul inside your glance.
I die into you, you into me
At the precipice of sunrise.
Our names are far away,
Your transparent gown in the
Phosphorus glow.
Your eyes between is a great distance,
All that I ever hope to see;
Between your thighs an hour
And a thousand kisses.
I find that the distance between us
Is the love deeper than the abyss
Of the skies,
Between your ******* the distance between
Is the heart that beats rhythmic
To my soul,
Inside you we lose all flesh,
Between us souls.
Defenseless night,
Between us everything and nothing.

Oh my Lord,
I pray unto the sweetest sin,
That my eyes have gathered a harvest
And in the image of your perfection,
I saw what angels see;
As I walked in the morning shadow
A door half opened,
My eyes curious as a fragrance
Of blessed perfume gathered
And a dove perched at the window.

Lord,
I saw perfection,
Though in the flesh nothing
Is perfect,
I cannot here in words duplicate what
Beauty lay naked,
But the poet in me longs for
The words to embrace such beauty:
Flame of the sun
    Burns amidst sensations,
The shadow of my desire
     Cast from the flames.
There in a garden of flames
       She lie naked.....    the senses open
Magnetic eyes,
     The passion of lovely embers
        She entered through my eyes,
The windows of my soul,
     And I longed to be with God,
The thoughts though unholy
Flow into a desirous nature ,
     What I see is my creation,
Perception of my conception,
      Oh she is crystalline clarity,
And I am revealed to be only a man,
     Truth of desire,
Transparency is all that remains,
     And she is the truth of the moment.

Lord,
Forgive this sin,
I walked away with no soul,
For it stayed behind
To be born through the sight
Of She, of Her,
And in the glory of her nature,
A Poet Saint is born.

She snaps a picture:
They shine like blood diamonds,
A million come,
A million gone,
Lost in the individual masses,
A sea of black faces
With suffering in the eyes.
Displaced for rocks,
Displayed as a photo
In a page,
In a doctor's office
And the white man shakes his head.
His name is called,
And the magazine will stay for years,
Just a photo with no memory.

Melancholic family,
Stained memories,
Too deep for now,
And yrsterday becomes them,
I am,
But was in eye
Of beholden past.
Take me away
But do not converge,
Blood runs deep like
Yesterday's gathering.
Water in the new day,
Unbeknownst....
And love me for who I am,
Strange the stranger
Becomes a family
Grateful for today....
Blood gone
And only the unfamiliar
Dwell.

I swim in your glances,
The sea of awkward depths.
I see you look away,

A moment flutters and forbidden
Is just the beginning.
Fall into the dusk hours
As the darkness falls
And the shadows form
Over your body,
the whiteness of your skin
Becomes a pale kiss to the
The moonlit desire,
You flash a smile.

I feel a lifetime.

In the dark riding the light
Of your skin,
I become the shadow in the
Crevise and curves of your
Body,
My body over your body,
My body into your body.

Kiss the night,
Die into the desires,
Breathing your flesh,
Exhaling pleasure.

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.....

We used to soar
And the wind up under
The depressed wings
Like a shattered dream caused you to
Float away to who ever made them,
A mysterious beginning
To every end of unknown
Spectrum, ***** rainbows,
And I see that i don't,
Blind the angel behind shadows,
What's come together to
Fly is just another flutter
Into the lifted dust
Settling on life's breath
Beneath a woven heart stitched
With the emotionally
Unstable needle through
My skin,
If not for the winds beneath
Us swaying  too **** much,
It'd be hard to see the grounded
Reality that we were
Off course and it was already over,
The halo is the
Last kiss under the quarter moon.

I stick out my arm
To reach for my brother's heights,
         Big brother means
A mountain can be moved,
      Loved,
              Beholden.

I reach out my arm,
      You tie the handkerchief ,
        With tears falling on your face
You put the needle in my vein:

      There are mountains everywhere
And when you move one,
There's always another beside it,
     High, so very high.  

    My arm falls to my side,
I don't see the tears anymore,
    I don't care,
Brother, my brother,
    In the shadow of a mountain.

What are the answers?
The question beckons tomorrow
And the magnetar glows
In a faint doubt,
The eyes do not lie
But are blind to the touch
And all the world is misunderstood
When there is no return
In a favor,
Glorious beast in the concrete
Jungle,
Know that humanity is
A drive chasing the storm,
Where the river runs wild
The passionate man drinks,
Heavy heavy
Is the pure heart
Within the confinés
Of man's crucible.

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.