Where I belong, or destined to be
Is not exactly clear like
Crystalline doubt with fear in tow.
No,
Not on the ridge where I stand partly
In sky atop a roof not there
In its geometrical theory.
With the straight line
Like hammer to wood
Curved yet target laid,
Walking sticks on top of sticks
I nail my presence to homes
Yet homely to be made.
Not on the porch where lemonaid
Will be poured and yet to be's
Will extend on in time as an
Echo lingers of what no one sees.

I build a home
And leave a peice of me unknown.

I am living at the center
         Of a fresh wound,
My steps resound
      In my head,
Only the pain is real......

      ****** vertical regrets
That weigh on me like shadows,
           The air is a manifestation of panic,
The sun is immobile,
     Everything I say vanishes;
All that I am is in these words,
      Perpetual lungs
Breathing the abyss,
    It's too much,
All the nothingness.

I don't belong here
In this flesh
Going to this dirt,
I belong to
the fire, the wind,
The sky.....

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.

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 would let go all enduring sorrows
     Lifted like a curse,
A difficult time, so many times.

   In the Autumnal of my life
I would become like certain birds
And stay home for Winter's stretch,
      Where I was forsaken before
Like a lonely solstice,
You bring with you new seasons.

    And as I am now
Like a tired horizon over an
Un- majestic setting over a people
Long on their own lives,
      Over the repugnant solitude
Of a lone island,
You bloom as it's first carnation.

  As I am just a man now,
I grasp at new beginnings with a
Consolation of a certain rebirth,
      If your arrival means I must
Leave my world behind and live
Somewhere, somewhere new,
        I long for this,
Already lonesome is a type of death,
       As I am now, revived as a kiss
Of fresh air received me,
      All my being aches for you;

And taken as I am,
I shall not be as I was,
      For in the Autumn of my life
I find a blossoming Summer in your
Embracement,
    Firmly I feel the veins filled
With your presences,
    Lost in the labyrinth of your
Anxious romance,
    I live the sweetest clarity....

And you take me as I am,
      I will never be the same.

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.

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.

Insane like a heartless confession,
Soul sessions,
Reality of the beast spreading infection
I Spread the Ded in Poet,
Like a sobering moment-
Know it,
I take you down with me
As you took me to highest heights,
When you leave:
Even crickets seem to sigh at night,
Revelations
Pain soars hand in hand with happiness,
Ironical elevations,
Teleportation
Body and soul
Better for the sickness,
I see i love you,
Destroyer of beauty with the quickness,
Personal mixing with business,
What is this,
A brokenness with every decision,
Precision demolitions,
Words of fire.
Love the ammunition,
A contradiction conflicting,
Happiness sickening,
Bring on the quickening
Pace,
Face of the beast,
Hopeless in your light,
I see when its too late,
I earthquake,
Shake my head though,
How much of me can you take,
I still beg you dont leave though,
Lets be clear yo,
Im intentionally devided,
Lifetime glitch provided,
I cant hide it,
Fight it.....
Im down for you,
You go, i go,
Us against the world;
Easy though,
Me against you,
I really dont know.

Im afraid of the words
My father might say
As my mother watches from
An eternal kiss,
And school is not a notion ,
It ia the reality of three lil girls
While I hustle for the groceries.
      I become a shadow,
      Working between the light,
      I want to lose myself
      In mama's tortillas,
      Chorizo and eggs with
      All the love I had the time
      To feel.

I am 5 am. Standing at Labor
Force and hear the words
Curse me, their whispers
Of  My failures only push me,
I grow stronger,
My children grow hungry,
There goes the corner store,
And my gun feeds my children,..
The metaphor does not exist
Here, this the real,
A westside everyday,
Poverty in action,
Rich in the sorrows dance,
Life spreads its wings,
I am left in the shadow.
I hate the metaphor,
Because you will never truly
See the truth of my words.

Autumn comes when my sadness
Arrived like a cold blanket
Of leaves,
The fleeting sun with short days
And rainy sessions of music
Too melancholic to feel
Any ray of sunshine.....

But I like my pain,
It holds firm to memories
That tie it all together,
The glow of a quarter moon
On my drowning lips speaking
The way I used to hold you,
The way you wore me like
A robe folding every curve
Around me:
How much the depths of my soul
Want to see you in a certain
Light, passing me even as air,
Yes,
The pain with final skies
Which calls for anguish in a flowering
Darkness leaving me
Nostalgic and scattered,
Yes,
I like my pain,
That is how I know it was real.

Take me as I am,
I will find myself
With a gun to survive me
And a bullet to take all the
Paranoia;
Love the other side
Take the flowers grave
And plant it on the fields
Of sorrow.
I wash my hands of you,
The other one internal:
I **** again,
Another sin, death maternal.

Take it away,
Not this life,
But that one I don't want to live
When I am forced to survive.
I don't want the gun
But it Seems to find me,
I left it in the past,
What's in front of me,
Follows behind me.

**** me,
And death becomes you.

Or the idea of it,
Who wants to be alone?
I'm a freaking poet for God's sake,
Miserable like Bukowski
And romanticism like Neruda,
Together that makes me a hopeless romantic.
Then kick in Valentine,
Will you be mine?
How bout you or you,
No dude not you,
And love is like a berserker picking flowers
Chopping petals off with
A war ax, delicately and dreadfully.
Love, what is it?
Where is it?
And being alone don't help worth a ****,
But I know one thing,
It makes for some interesting deep
Poetry,
Though I'd rather be with someone
And in love counting the ways......

My little black book is dusty,
The names are smeared and
Most of them were landline numbers.
For you youngsters,
Get on your parents lap and ask em
To tell ya what landlines were:
    And I hate your love poem
    Because I know they are real,
    I need a girlfriend,
    Maybe I forgot how that feels.
    
    I hate your love poem,
    Its really quite good,
    But the t reminds me I'm all
    Alone, alone in da hood.

    I hate your love poem
    Because I don't know any girls,
    And yeah some are corny,
    Some make me wanna hurl!

    So don't get it wrong,
    Please try to understand,
    I'm just a little jealous,
    Alone and doing what I can.

I read in a poem,
Sky black,
             Scorched Earth.
But the night is a jigsaw:
I sit on my porch and constellate
The fires, the fathers of worlds
While I think of the words
To perceive what I will never touch.

My spirit ascending
To touch a thousand
Light years of light,
They have never heard a word,
So I write the fire,
Like a son to father,
The poem becomes a legacy
Of flames thirsting for words,
I drink in the light
And give to them words,
They will never know why,
The poem will reach them
As an ember of misunderstanding.

The immortal word
Is a light reflected .
I will write to the stars,
And when the poem reaches,
I will have gone from this place,
I write because I am a man,
Mortal and dying,
My words will remain.

The stars constellate men.

My life is just a cataclysm,
And for the catalyst I am
Grateful.
You were there,
With me when the world
Died and we were
Reborn in a loophole.
Follow the procedure,
But you must be you
And the systematically
Engineed break down will
Melt down in the knowledge you
Know is there.
By the people,
We are for the people
And this country is the people.
We are still here
Take me to the grave with an
Extinguished banner
And hope will remain in what light
Has defeated,
Because even the stars glimmer
In absolution of lumminous
Conjuring.
All you need is hope,
And action in postulated
Destiny will reward the hard
Path ahead.
Be more.

But the expectations
Wreak havoc on the reality,
All i found i had was myself
And my arms pushing
Away in all directions.
I walked
Along the river brook
Amongst golden whispered waves
And they spoke memory.
Talk to me mystery,
For the tongues of men
I cannot comprehend.

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?

War is a monster,
Nevertheless a spawn
Of the course that humanity
Cannot know until it sickens
Itself of its reflection,
Born is the unsettling peace
And an eye full of remorse
Until the infinity settles the
Loneliness and kindles
The desire for more,
The temporary sanity between
Is a generation yearning.

In the tower of fantastic journeys
Where a half full harmony
Trembles with hope,
There is a poet and dreams:

Come stars of night
Whose light is flame and scorch
But reaches as a twinkle of wishes,
Come dreams of sleepless angels
Whose golden smiles annoy,
Being that perfection into my
Little world where dead eyes
Have seen too much,
Whose hands have callous
Not from pen but mindless toil,
Let me put you to rest in reality
And a poem of my awaiting deliverance.

Like a perfect sun
Burned into the fresh reddened
Broiled until the skin
Of the words become
A fierce friction
Of echoes and passing voices

I am on fire....

Alive in the dark
And the light keeps me squinting
Hopefully that the shadow
Will encompass my company.

Take that which is the same,
Hurdled into misunderstood
Constraints and free
The minutes from my
Concepts of momentary heights.

(I tasted her lips, lights out)

I spiral inward,
The inside awakens
And I remembered being
With everyone,
Here alone.

Yesterday in San Antonio
A drunk guy was found dead,
His wings drunkenly glorious
With a beard fully grown over his
White angelic gown.

   He was wise, a drunken sage
With wisdom of the world he watched,
    He knew the world was in one
Big **** hurry to nowhere,
    He told me so when I gave him
A cold one.

    The words that he spoke to me
Are those that will haunt me:
  " Speed produces slowness"

Footnote:
I'll drink one to that,
It was a Tuesday and raining,
A wise drunk, watcher of the world.

I guess the spirit never really dies-
Words help me remember
How everything was a rainbow.

And the spectrum -
A variety of freedoms,
A clumsy learning,
A horizon ending with friends,
A stick, a ball, and a soda.

I'd write the summers,
The humidity's tender sweat
Which I guess became a cloud just
For me whose shape would stir
My imagination as the sky fell for me.
I'd write the best of friends
That never turned away adventure,
The forest in our neighborhood
With the wind rippling trees as
Autumnal tenders blew memories
To the future.

I want the words which are forever,
Immortal kids running like flames
Over ripples of time,
Hearts that never aged and innocence
That never failed,
I'd write the poem of a little boy
And candy wrappers surround.

I'm a little boy poet,
I want to write every joy,
Every new sorrow with a veil
Of child like mourning,
To write the light in my eyes
As I saw my first crush,
A fathomless rainbow to remember indeed.

This poem is pointless,
I cannot experience them through
Words,
I think I'll go play with my daughters
And drift away into spectral grace.

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

I cannot accept this me.

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

Why am I screaming.

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

I don't know the reflection.

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

High voltage poetics,
       Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
     In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
      The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
        The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
        Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
      A city
In a day
     In a life
In a person-

    The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
    Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
     A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
     The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
      A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
       The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
     We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
    Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
    Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
     The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
      Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:

   I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
      But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
    Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I 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.

Into the night
Revealing all of the pleasures
With its hand of shadows
Uncovering what one hides
In the dark.

A blow of sky
With it's silence that burns
Between spaces when one cannot
Sleep, the cry of insomniac
Blood straying from sleep.

Into the night
One flees from things;
Or runs to them away from light,
The moist of the earth as
The back touches in a nameless
Affair between skins.

All the lust,
It burns with passion
Like a dream speaker whom
Walks with sinful nature.

And the kiss is a wound,
The fever of the moment
Turns into a black unholiness
That makes one wonder
Why the bad feels
So good.

Into the night,
All that is left from the parched
Thoughts under a bankrupt sun
Touches the inner animal,
Floods the moment
In the dead of darkness
And dies upon the touch.

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

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

That words are divine,
But that poetry
Is made by living:

Become the poem.

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

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

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

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

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.

Before the silent gaze
Took me into formless mazes,
A thought was born
And I took open the smallest
Smile,
Under oak trees with grandoise
Flare that shade
Had made undet the burning
Of my calloused mind,
The insanity took A moment
To greet me into the brisk
Warm hill country sun.

I am and that is all.
I take peace in this, my soul
It seems is at the beginning
Where the children are steady
And the pale face of death smiles
Understanding
I was here among the tombstone
Of politics long since repeated.

I want to chisel away
That outer layer that calloused
My voice,
  It's always toughest when
The words bounce of like
A hardened clay I did not
Mold,or intend to mold,
But shapes I don't recognise,
    Climb the ladder of your
Walks that you take alone,
Whenever you come back
You seem to have ascended
To some higher place,
    An experienced wall
Between us,
The hindrance of your sweet
Melancholy that seems to
Grace the dead petals at the
Sunken Gardens, where the water drowns
The plants but is still the life
Of all that is,
Breathe,
I want to understand
Why I don't understand,
And why each time I ask
You, you gaze up at me
And smile with those
Eye's of solitudes,
   You confine me to these graces,
And I forget why I asked
At all....

You fall from your body to eternity,
Not to death but in my eyes,
      Your name becomes untouchable,
Falling through a prism of mirrors,
        Each one my memory of you,
The eternal moment is a scattered fable
       As I divide you into words,
Kiss me at the solstice,
         The season bring about separation,
Alter and knife,
         The tremor of the moon on your *******,
Solar lovers in a cosmic body,
         We make two syllables out of love,
We paint the sky unfolding the horizon,
        Transfigures of body and time
The dream realised in another dream,
        I fall into you
             You fall into me,
We meet where the earth and sky kiss....

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

It remains a hopeful metaphor.....

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.

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

Despite the lack of
Mention
Nothing was lost,

A lifetime of eternals
Endurance,

(Only The Word can save
Your memory)

A Son builds
Holy wars,
Carpenter's slplintered
Edistence,

(Only the Word remembers
You, carpenter unspoken)

If you can remember
What your name was,
The doves will fly,

I would think a father
In the flesh,
Of the Father in the flesh.

If you weren't
A miracle,
What a great man you were!

(Joseph, The Word is spoken,
Mentioned you too)

And if one day I spoke
Of my father,
I'd say he was a carpenter,
Just a few words,

More than what I say,

( The Word and the words,
An afterthought built!)

Softly the soul journeys
When it's night has come,
And that which is called death
Is but a door to new wombs:

At dawn the flesh returned
To where the river began,
In the shadow of wings
She passed away from love.
       There is a path laid before
       The soul when we all go,
       She kissed the Earth
       In all its moment's beauty.
And she rises through the fiery
Air, her soul a luminous
Entity follows to the skies
A wayward journey through
The solar song.
      And the song is a torrent,
     Like triumphant moments
      Of the lover's kiss,
     She takes this with her
      And dances in the pale
     Of the moonlight.
She stops to see the White Sun,
That which created her home,
That which gave meaning
To Spring's new grace and
The Solstice where she fell
In love.
     Now at the precious edge,
     Her being tied to the stars,
     She Rides the light and kisses
     This place goodbye,
     She takes with her all the joy,
     Every day of sorrow,
     All the kisses her Father gave,
     She feels everyone on her face,
     The soul takes these things....
It's not over,
A blue flame flutters in the distance,
From star to star,
Flesh to flesh,
From the power of the immortal soul,
She is reborn in a new place,

The Blue Sun rises,
From the soul a child is born
Like a light that shines the Heavens.

Ive never rushed to death,
Under a cylinder scope
A peek into the surreal:

A dance of shadows
Filleted by burnt light,
Across the portico
Under the middays thought
A girl under my eyes
Holds the glare of our only
Star;

The nocturne and his ways
Mysterious like a woman's
Touch of lips,
Kiss the sky under
The constellated passions
And in the moment....
A girl!
A man sees the destiny's
Plow through fields
Of the grained aches past gone,

A girl subdues the terminable,
Just a breath before the
Dust settles,
A sigh of life.

I, Me,
Once upon the solitary drops
Falling from my faceless
Skies,
Crown me in the womb;
Closed to the Word.

The sloping forest of thought,
Beneath the canopy..
drought of touches,
A calamity in the moment,
Whispers conceived once
Upon another star.

My kingdom is the wanderer,
That most beautiful Nocturne;
Make the romance of aloneness
And upon night fall
Impaled on the twilight
My self shedding personalities.

Your hand holds between its fingers
The nocturnal glow of a crescent moon,
The touch that holds,
The kiss that stays;

The kiss is a phosphorescent angel
By a sleepwalking lover,
Hold: close as souls can be,
Spiritual dawn of lovers;

The kiss dresses mountains with white veils
And adorns the trees with gentle air,
Holding through seasons,
Naked, at the precipice infinite;

We are born through one another,
Holding breath under prophetic stars,
Held by a kiss,
Dissolving into the lips.

Kiss, hold, our love inventing love.

She went down the pathway
Of the quarter moon,
Its sorrow bleeding with gilded
Protection from a star's hopeful
Glance, she bled darkness
From a deep pain
And her lips like ruby petals
Sang her lamemt:

   As the grey day bloomed
   And my dreams grieved,
   I saw your eyes retracing
   Every desire I conceived.

   I heard the footsteps
   For and ending to my sorrows,
   Such a fool,
   I thought you'd stay past tomorrow.

   I put out the lanterns
   Searching for my heart's grace,
   But now that you have slithered,
   Its gone away.

    Love's virtue dead
    Hung on a thread of tears,
    I bleed out my soul
    And built walls of fear.

    The delicate red of crimson
    Fire burnt me whole,
    There was once a woman,
    But scarlet pain eats the soul.

A scroll of the Earth
Under sky black,

I.     The tongue's first syllable,
The waters foam of crashing waves
Kissing the dusk at the edge
Of the light

II. The make love on a bed of leaves
     The moan becomes a verse,
     The lovers a legend written
     On a night of raining embers

III. A thousand touches,
      Finality's many eyes peer
      The fragility of a ******
      On the invisibly clear word

IV. Pieces of the heart
      Mended by words of the soul,
      Speak as the hour speaks,
      The moment is truth

V. There in the languages, split
     Tongued virtues, reborn in
     The words, speak the lovers,
     The only language spoken
     Is that of the silence between
      Bodies.

I'm just some guy who knows
Pain just like you,
Who fell in love deeply and fell
From her grace:

I am in a room filled with language,
The density of words full of memories -
Talking to them I talk to her.
      Night grows darkly
With obstinate scars on her skies,
    We have tied a destiny
In different directions,
    We end in the same destination.
You,
       Me ,
We,
     Us....
I explode like a sun on a depopulated world,
No one to witness a beautiful destruction,
     I am alone
Talking to air
       Talking to you,
Your presence is a nameless womb,
     Carrying the birth of my world,
You're missing turns in my skull,
    I cannot forget you
    The room fills with a pause;

The words take your shape,
You become the living waters,
   Daily I drink of you,
But I thirst for your fountain.
   I reach out to you,
The mist is real and you are there,
Weightless,
Tears form at my eyes.

Now you are here in these words
Navigator of language,
Piercing the syllables at every
Spoken word,
Your roots are deep in the sky,
Your love ripples in time
Like crashing waves at the life
Of my shores,
I write the fabric of the past,
Which is now an open wound,
    The echoes haunting
And dispersing sculptures of your body,
I am surrounded by language,
   Your memory a poem,
Talking to me talking to you.

I will die in the Westside
On some corner with a beer
In my hand, as if holding the lost
Scrolls of Atlantis.
I will die in the Westside-
And I won't be ashamed that
I am a drunken mess and my liver
Has swollen like my heart for
My dear neighborhood.
     It will be a Tuesday,
I will go back and find myself
Within the aloness with all the Yesterdays
Behind me.

Dedpoet is dead. The world beats him,
Although he never fought back;
It beat him hard with a stick....

There will be witnesses,
Nameless and I will not know them,
Only the solitude, the grey, the cold roads.....

Woman,

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

               Missing you dearly,
    
             The poet who lost his words.