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

The night is drowsy and frowning,
      I hear my thoughts aloud
      In forms looming over dimly
      Lit rooms hurling worlds at me.
It is incredibly close, the thoughts gallop
     Confused I plunge into a sea of faceless
     Names groaning, discerning the sorrowful
     Language of half dead stagnant beings.
I see a flash of verses that I grab from my mind
     They speak as a mirror speaks in reverse
     Phrases I spill ink repeating my minds
     Tongues to prove a sanity in the dark.
I am lone into the night,
     I am breathing still as I write with
     No gravity in my hands,
     The words lulling the constellation
     To sleep, one by one a poem is furiously
     Born.
But with night comes a deeper essential,
     I am not certain where the images
     Come from, but sometimes there are
     No words for their form,
     It is a haunting tide of thought.
Today is born of yesterday,
     I write into the morrow,
     Suddenly time is conscious
     And it ticks away watching me,
     And now is passing away into the moment,
The moment is sunk into eternity's nest,
     It is not wasted on a compass of death,
     I passionately write it into life,
    Time is frozen at my inkling,
     I will die of life and death will
     Be a birth.
Vertigo,
       Caught in a lucid rapture
       I cannot name the faceless momentum,
       But it brings more life in the dark,
       No body or soul, just life
Into the words, I am trapped deeply
       In the starlit terrace of my fore thoughts:

I fall away into the poem,
     My eyes have nothing to see,
     I am a 360 degree spherical eye,
     I see the cosmic splinters of time,
My childhood comes to mind,
      The whole of the beginning in the
      Past, a whirlpool of water that flows
      Furiously with eyes closed,
And suddenly I am middle aged,
     Today brand new again,
     The past in my present,
     Becoming omnipresent like
     A ghost petrified into thoughts,
Wind blows through her hair,
      I am in love once again,
      My first love relived without time,
      Timeless like a frozen ice queen,
I have come back to where I was.
     I am in immensity of youth,
  The shores extend like an endless beach,
       The water is crystalline,
Her body is transparent,
    Two rivers become one,
We walk into forever over the water
   In a bridge of time that relapses
Over itself, time looping into
      My very memory,
The jade moon follows her silhouette,
       I am a star crossed fool,
The sun shines at night when
   We held hands.
I blink, and once and again,
I am trapped in the eternal night.

There is no way back,
    The dead are still alive,
The living are suffocating on life,
     On my wall a sea of faces enrapturing
My words,
    All the time I have lived in a bottle,
  I drink drunk on memory,
       The ladder leads to Jacob,
A thousand lives have lived in this night,
     My world remote,
I shrink into the dawn,
     My eyes close,
My final thought:
Where or when have I ever been??

....Anf you swallowed the stars
As I drank the last moon
And we assaulted the night,

Woman, perhaps the violent
Touch like a river winding
Into the ravine where no dawn
Touches,

Perhaps I will find you
There in the moist of dawn's lips,
Taken aback like a surprised flower,
And all the world is a black rose,

Here I hold you blackest night,
Where the light escapes
Your ***** and I enter the edge
Of nowhere and forever
Take in rain of deepest tears....

Echoes of the child
Lost in a first virgins moan,
Take the heart where it beats no more
And I will be there in the ember,
Each a glory unto your night,

Set it on fire,
The blaze of your body
Where the nocturnal lovers
Die,
And awaken like in a blaze
Reborn in the fiery night.

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

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

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

In the birth of the day
Which begins when my eyes
See only you and the sun
Is sudden as the world,

I clothe you with my eyes
And undress my soul to the
Surface of the suns plane
In a dance of the eclipse,

Further into the spectrum
Of the touches that paint
The bodies and the arched
Back of your rainbow illuminates

I am naked around you,
The light of your passion
Takes me to the birth of the sun
As my death is but a rebirth....

Luminous creature,
Inventor of my eyes
Perceiving entwined,
Blinded by your presence.

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

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

Did I win or lose?
Perhaps-maybe nature won.
One less spin cycle,
Gallons of life water saved.
In my intellectual hemitage
I find a difference can be made,
Oh underwear,
Spirit of nature,
First I wear you proper,
And the day is good.
I walk forward into the morrow
And turn the world backwards.
Yes the tag now goes to front,
And wedgies aside, all is well.
In the instantaneous moment
Ina departure of normalities,
Confronted with a bundle of reflections,
I move into day three,
Inside out.
The days have dispersed,
I wreak of the third day,
Still a difference has been made.
I take off the underwear,
Crispy and tainted,
With a lump in my throat
And a little hope I made a difference,
The underwear is sacrificed to the hamper.

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.

And it is never enough,
The sun falls upon your body,
Stretching the moment
And birthing the Luna's
Prayer:

Liquid light of your
Elliptical kiss,
A thousand moons unknown
At the bend of the crescent
Thigh I lay a touch to die
Into your Resurrection;
Woman of millennial graces,
Today was born your religeon
And faith is in the way
Your eyes sparkle creating
The infant galactical....
Once and never again
I fall into your amorous
Gestures, enough to fill
The eternity of the moment.

White earth bathed upon
By moonlit tangibles ; purring
Waves upon the glimmer sands
Where lovers meet for their first:

Liquid earth ****** between
The lips of night,
We shed the skin for the transparent
Soul crowding the hopes and dreams
Of the lone lovers,
The eternal moment is a an image
As naked as thoughts,
As wild as a shared fury
In the truth  of our suffering;
How had one lived without the other?

There is no contemplating
Between the young and in love,
Only the ressurection of presences
Where lovers before met at the hour,
And behold the incarnation of lovers
Doing, making,
Transfigured in the truth of each other.

"If you live long enough in the dark,
          You can see and appreciate
                  Everything in the light"

                       Dedpoet

And it begins at the end,
The finality of the body
In a stir of echoes.

The whole of the world
Curled into the womb
Of the woman I adore.

I see her in the mist
Weighted by words
Never spoken.

I guess everything
Becomes a haunting
When the moment is failed
With deep intention.

And my voice
Becomes a scream
Vowing to make up for
Lost things.

But one cannot go back.

In the fullness of the prime,
When passion beckons
And emotion is erupting

I tear away from myself
And scream to me
To speak the words.

Deep and intenful,
A murmur in the shadow,
The compassionate memory
Never said.

Uncertain, frail, timid
Times in the state of me,
It seems life sends no invitations
For the proper timing.

My love, my lover,
Uncomplicated as two,
I simply never spoke,
Those words

One final thing
Chasing her mist,
The unspoken "I love you"
Failing the moment.

In my youth I remember my face.
               Today
As I have lived and breathed
        And died inside many times
And live again in this lifetime;
     I see faces in a mist,
The man in the mirror
          Has no face.

Do you know what awaits beyond
Your dreams and hopes?
Do you suddenly in the later years
start to think about regrets?
     Before losing oneself in the tide
Of timeless past amidst a dense thought
Of who we ought to be,
     There in the afterthoughts stirring
In the depths of your gut,
A great extension of yourself comes about,
That which blindly guides us through
The dust of days.
    And the rust of yesterday's patterns glues
Itself to your brain which racks itself
And inhabits  the heart which weighs
Itself heavy.
    
    Do you remember when she first kissed
You suddenly and intently?
    Do you remember when she walked away
In tears and you furiously said nothing?
    And she became a regret
Waiting in ambush,
And the thought of her becomes like
A deep well in a vast desert,
The water inside holds a bittersweet charm,
She still awes you,
Against all the time,
Afainst the whole of the Earth,
And still a hope erupts from somewhere
Deeper like the rope that pulls you
Out of yourself.
     Such a familiar sadness.
Who are you compared to then?
And the hope wells against the tide,
Another part of you is born,
This one can see a distant light
From a certain view.
      And the rage is a hope,
      The regret a sad song,
      we remain more
      When time is least,
      And the least becomes
      A joyous misery.

Some say Im moody,
Others still call me a bi polar
Twisted with devil's advocacy;

I call it dealing with your B.S.

I could swim in your oceanic eyes;
But when you give me that look
You lay dynamite on my iron skin
And you open me like a wound:

Spirit of fire that burns
Like a blade of sunlight
I sacrifice myself as I die
Into you, you ancient name of fire;

And your temper between the jaws
In the abstract geometry you propose
Lays me in an impassive torture
And you load ghosts of yesterday
Into Tomorrowland,
My cry and the cries of the torturer.

Be it the first dawn,
The last dawn,
We are bigger than the night
But the dream of us fits on the bed,
The bed of rain,
The bed of storms,
The liquidity of our bodies
As the moon wakes and asks
For our spirituality,
Souls entwined, we tear the night apart;

But we aren't always in the mood
At the same time,
Vehement bodies on invisible clocks
We can't see ticking,
You speak in Winter,
I speak in Summer;
Our words vanish like
Syllables of vertigo;
We are lost between the argument.

For all the good and the bad
I would make love with you
At the precipice,
Hanging at the cliff;
To fall in love or fall to our death,
Each is a timeless matter
And through it all I
Know that I am alive between
The polar shifts.

Reading,
         Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
    I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
       The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
      You all become real.

   Archives of the souls
    Instantaneous connection
        Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
    Your words
Invent more words,
    Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
    The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
    And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
     Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
     The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
    The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
    Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
    Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
    It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
       The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
     It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
      Your secrets,
           The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
   Beginnings,
Endings,
    You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
      Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:

The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.

I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
     But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
    As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
   I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
    Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
    Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
     How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
    And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
    Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
   Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
    And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
   Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.

The world does not know your inner
Thought canals,
With the weight of your self on your
Lips, sometimes you
Cannot speak,
Then in a few words everything fits
And the empty feeling goes away.

      You are not a reflection of you,
You are here writing reflected
   In an irresistible mirror,
Stilled as if looking at a statue,
      Wisdom in awkwardness.

Yes you astute when you
Are alone under a lamp
     Writing yourself,
You know the statue better
     When you step away from the warmth
Of your own judgments.

       In your stew of words
There is wisdom's discomfort,
      Your eyes dazzled
As you discover your own
Secrets, as if you are a
Lonesome gypsy,
        Make yourself between the words,
Find the time to read them,
       Grow wise to yourself.

Like ashes swarming
Sunken in the debris of the form,
Or even the crossroads
Where a stop is received open,
Holding the pace bearing down
On one's reach, far out in the distance;

Where am I going in a rushing brush with life?

The question questions the self,
An answer spades the mirror,
So quick like a plume of smoke
Out of a hurried motor,
The comet that comes and goes
Slicing generations in waiting,
To and from encircling eternal likenesses,
Uncertain about Faith's certainties,
the ceaseless wheel keeps spinning,
A dizzying compass.

The why is immobile, the what is is the experience.

I half shed a tear when another
Bites the immortal dust,
What is a damp ravine drawn
At the cliff of a road lined with stones?
All is erosional,
The enormous draws out endlessly
With poignant time,
So I pace myself
Down to the exploding minute,
Because time only burns
But never passes.....

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

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

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

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

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

Slow breathing-
Taste the sol in perception,
Sensless as the fear grips,
A wry smile
In a confusion hung by mind:
The living room table is too small
But the grandiose thought
Kills joy scrolling
On a thousand beats,
Taking panic
Wherever the people roam,
Grazing on the mind,
Slowly melting summer
Cones,
Alone writing strength
On a page soaked in
A cold sweat

There are no words
Yet a poem is birthing itself
Out of the kiss of your lips
That burned
The moon's faded light,

Yes my pen is on fire,

It burns after the touch
Of the prophets words
And the fruitions of our bodies;
We bring about the end times
As we long for the next encounter.

Yes, tonight the poem is born,

Born in the eye of the storm
A thunderous peace that
Falls as I seed you eternal
Flame and cool the desires
That dissolves the liquid drops,
Rain down on me!!

Yes, tonight my pen is on fire,

And it burns,
The hole in my existence
When I am not naked
Next to you and the day
Is born into us
As first light ignites your silhouette into the scape of
The bedroom, and the fire begins
Again, again,

My pen is on fire,
Too hot to hold,
So I drop it here at the
End of this poem
And burn alive in the
Passionate touch
Of our bodies engulfed,
We burn the liquid flames!

I hold on to your goodbyes,
Wish I didn't expect it,
But eventually you come back,
Just like I suspected.....

In in your company
I just want to be myself!!,
Because your gonna go
Again, at least il be the same,
Still by myself......
Before we say hello again.
And I stand unknown,
Feeling all the pains,
*** is the aches,
Just wanna stop my brain,
BBEACAUSE IT TWITCHES
WITH YOU IN ALL THE THOUGHT,
I'VE BECOME UNLIKE ME,
AND I DONT KNOW WHO I AM,
BLOWING OUT THE SPEAKERS
WHEN THEY PLAY OUR JAM

And I stay in the place
Where all the emptiness goes,
Maybe is I could be myself,
A self I dont even know.
And they tell me to stay away
From you,
But I knock myself out
And your there when I come to.

BECAUSE IM NOT MYSELF
BY MYSELF!!!
I LOSE IT ALL WHEN YOU'RE AROUND!
*** IS THIS,
HELLO, GOODBYE,
My pride don't make a sound,
Who I am,
Il always remain the same,
When you come back,
Il be awake again,
Because only you know my name....

Defunct lowriding
While a day is cruised without ship,
Captainless like syringe
Layered concrete boats,
Bliss of the broken dreamer
While content pan handled,

Alas the talons sink deep into
The core of lonely fathoms,
The taco house with corn tortillas
Aplenty thrown locked trashcan
To alter the hungry vain,
The barrio abuzz with no
Glory but the flirt of hope,

Too many to count hopeless
Whilst the few made good,
Labeled traitor for success,
Dream smaller past the thrift store
On sale blue tag Tuesday's
And neary a vagrant to shop
For what once was theirs.

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

Such a lonely dot.
Who left you alone to be?
Unlike the curvy question mark
Or the stiffened with excitement
Exclamation point,
Why are you alone?
Are you so plain and humble
You prefer it this way?
Perhaps you have heard it all
Become weary
And ended up this way.

Luminous fallen child,
       Your star exploded.
The sublimation of youth
      Discarded in the dizzy geometry,
Like fireflies in a city
      Against the anonymous streets.
Home is where the heart is,
      Blood of cement and gravel.
Child, phosphorescent angel,
      Your light is a poor full moon.

The victims muzzled,
The barking never humms
And Where the wild things are
Is another home.
Speak forward and see that its all
The same from future pasts,
In a greivamce i filed
The return was:
Null and void because it is so
And i accept the lower end
Diction given by my universe
Which in my mind is crazy,
Thus i am crazy to them.
Privileged is not
Being rich but plagueing
The right to have rights,
Monopoply of the most torn.
Rip the flag of your eyes,
The red white and blue
Is still my home and i suffer
Greatly, because my suffering
Is better than most places
Where suffering is a slow mourn of life.

Liquid evening when the rains
Whisper to the lovers and soften
Their lips to comfort one another.

Drenched mornings when not even
Noah's dove can be spotted,
The solitudes as one makes the journey;
The thunder crackles tirelessly
On the windshield.

Liquid days when the earth is a fog,
When I admit I get lost at times,
Because the mist forms tears on
My face, and somewhere just above
The light shows how that it is half
There, such wet pessimism.

Rain like a sudden death
That invites grey days known as
Tears from Heaven,
A fitting farewell for the missing
Or gone.

Rain, liquid like old blood
That sits by a fire,
Cup in hand and reminiscing
On old storms as supplication
For the tired bones that once ran
To the lover, that once made love
In a slow drizzle,
Awaiting a final lightning.

Rain,
When my soul hits bottom
I take a walk,
I feel the wet earth at my feet,
The drops on my face,
The thunder that makes me
Know I am small,
The lightning that shines the way,
And in the distance,
A ray of sun that escapes,
And I know this too shall pass.

Wading,
A miracle in the water

There in the distance
A star sinks elongated

One life,
Sailing seven days

Seven seas blue
From a sky too far to sail

Dark waters
Under enveloped storms

Why sink
When floating in the air,

Just below
Above the sky of the sea?

Seven seas
I will never drink....

Life waters.

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

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

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

To the feast!

Anger exists.

This giant mirror reflecting past.

Rarely is justice blind
When it comes to color,
And I pick up the bitter facts from
The daily reports and place them
Next to my embattled soul.
I sink deep into my chair,
Pen in hand and wonder what
The hell a brown man can write
about the black man's experience.
I conflict with my poetical asphyxia,
Life isn't all love and wonderful sorrow,
I stare at the cold reality,
I believe if i wrote about anything
Else this chair would be a grave,
He wrote about flowers they said,
He wrote about dreams they said.

But no,
Those dead men have no words,
They bare their skin and died for it,
A murderous prowl on the ebony
Children with benevolent excuses
As to why it's legal,
They laugh so hard behind closed
Doors and fist bump in secret,
Stubborn roots dictate the taught
Generational hatred,
They find fruit with their hate
And split men from color refreshing
The mirror, reflecting reflections.

And when all hell is broken loose,
A people's voice is heard
Wit windswept ears,
Like God and the first word,
We will hear it only once,
The avenging fires burn in the hearts,
Though hate with its unending roots
Creeps into the darkness
Against the atrocious scythe of ignorance,
We will remember a voice.

"Black lives exist."
Yes they do.
As does hatred
and ignorance.

For whom does this poet speak?

Wing of hovering bird
Just above the steadying ships,
Woman on the pier
Waiting with unchaste lips.

Sailor under moons
Praying like a king of saints,
All taming lust,
Into her arms he wanes.

Untamed horses
Gallop upon the fields,
Prisms of the man
From what woman's touch may yield.

Home from hostile waves
To drink angelic milk,
Touch by his angel
Skin like woven silk.

Upon the ground sturdy
He lays his heavy head,
Follow thy *****
To the woman he is now led.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The anthill erupts,
A deluge floods the Amazon
Of grass and crittery things.
There in the open wound of earth
Lies a fallen gift from the fire
Above that rains embers of fire.
A chunk of life that gives life,
Fallen from the giant walkers,
Its tube shape can feed thousands.
And the water hardens the earth,
The flood done for the day,
They begin their march upon
The gift.

Poetry,
         Suspended moments between
    My truth and
   The truth lived.
A stillness in motion,
      A path of action like history,
Only the truth is to be it,
To walk it and ressurect it
In the words.
     I am in my body
Knowing myself outside
In a sea of pages.
    My poetry scatters,
The ghosts remain:
      Poetry is a shared fury,
      A shared oblivion,
      My sorrowful song
Hidden deep in my Mother's womb
The unspoken part of my birth,
     Retracing the lineage
Between seeing and believing,
    Writing the constellated persons,
A torrent of memory,
A melody of love,
I close my eyes
     And the words of my blood,
Footsteps of my words,
     My pen covered in a quarter moon
Translucent like a fountain of night,
     Poem that travels through me,
Scatters into the ink,
    Words spoken
Reverberating quietly into eternal
        Whispers.

Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.

Poetry, my companion poetry,
Always with me in the grind,
The one I speak to in the solitary
Confinement.
         You were born out of life
That was silent until I met you,
From the fountain of words
That I am drunken from.

       Your grace in the theoretical
Chaos is what keeps me focused
As I trace the oblivion into form,
Together birthing inklings of
The journey.
     And you are the voice of wombs,
The beginning of my dreams,
The ending of my awakening,
      At times we collided and formed
The polyhedron shaped mirrors
Always conflicting the original reflection.

     But you are my friend,
All that is real in this surrealist
Pavement, I am not myself without
Your balance,
     Both crazy and sane,
Still I have not known the difference,
And I have no cover without you,
I become a picture of a child,
     Lost in the city,
Lost among the sea of eyes,
All staring at the orphan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This poem has the shape of a mirror,
       The mirror has your face:
  Quick sculptures emerge from the mind,
With grace of fountains it spills,
         Waters of memory
Buried deep in a stormy sky,
     Hexahedrons of every moment
Form a cage of infinite faces,
           I cannot look away.
I sink into the many sided eyes,
        The apparitions of making love,
This poem is your world imperceptibly
          Populating the prisms of my heart,
    The empty rooms grow more
And more secluded,
       I am petrified into your mind,
Your body of light blinding,
   Thick drops of ink bleed from me,
    Final cigarette
Where the dawn comes to haunt,
      A laughter
Like a foliage of sounds
     In the meadow of us,
But you are everywhere
    And not here with me,
I write a passionate calligraphy
    On the dark corridors of the soul,
You are manifest lasting as long
     As these words of shrapnel
Travel the echoes of the polyhedra.

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

Hair unpinned,
Half smile,
More like a half moon
That shrugs off the day.

Arm at your side,
Like an angry mother,
Glued eyes to towards
Me and your presence
Exploded into my memory,
Subliminal walk skywise rises.

The weary fall
Through which you see the world,
The weary rose you were
As your presence burns through
The cold.

The portrait of your figure
As your memory
Burns the epitaph of your presence
Into the windows of the soul.

Half smile,
The rare dimple in perfect
Pleasure to the eyes,
But never outlandish laughter.
( Like a woman who knows she has
You in her trance)

   Hip bent to one side,
Arm defiantly attached to bent hip,
Her dress of flowers flow like
A mobile garden,
The air seems to glide around every
Curve and dress wears her well.

The eyes of men
Become magnetised,
Through which the world
Is observing her magnetic frame
The smile piercingly gradual,
Yet playful, still a touch of vulgarity.

Woman, whose smile
Beckons a portrait,
You walk with depths
Unknown, but the abyss
Of your smile
And the eyes jumping in.

On summer days
When the sun bore no fruit
For the over heated construction crew,
My father would remind me
Sitting in his 1995 Ford 350
How inadequate we all were
Compared to the golden days of framing.

Or he would praise the highest paid
On a Friday, payday whose checks
We're always there,
To build them up for a weekend
And let them rest from their
Toilings under his sun.

From 15 years ago
I can hear his voice,
"Your never going to learn are you?"
In his solitary voice
That confined a tone just for me,
A destination unknowing
For what a father teaches can sometimes
Elude the son with sarcasm
And verbal seeds of invalidity.

Honorable carpenter,
I remember him never missing a day,
His name should be on a wall
Somewhere,
I ask that I inside of myself
Remember the very best of
The very worst of him,
Which was the side I think
Was also the guiding parent.

May he always be ,
That I rise in the mornings
And still hear his voice,
I pour coffee into a mug
And remember.

May my insufficient ways
Honor him with the haze
He draped over my confidence,
I see my father in a certain way,
The eery silence filled
With his voices.

On summer days
When the heat is too much,
My father still pushes me,
I swear the humidity is
Him breathing down my neck.