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.

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.

I can still remember checking
To see if it really rained purple:
      And I still sang the sadness
Of my heart with a droplet upon my face,
      As if a tear from Heaven.
As a kid he reminded me to surrender
    Not to the popular choice,
But the hard one of just being yourself.
       I don't know much about his life,
But the influence he had in moments
In mine make for a mid spring song
     Breaching the memory of
A memory and a melody forms....
     And yet so many years had I not
Hear him,
    So much time that passed,
My thoughts swayed away to life,
     Prince was just a memory's song,
Yet upon hearing of his passing
My last seemed to pass with him,
      His songs,
The influence,
    Just being himself,
A symbol of melodic substance.
     I will remember him well,
And I hope he is dancing
Somewhere in heavens Purple Rain.

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.

To emerge from the body
Is to become the soul:

Master the body
As a flame in it's newness

Watch your dreams evolve
Into a fire of desires realised

Devour the moments
As a truth of this life

Watch the children of innocence

And carve out the tree of your life
Under its shade as naked as the soul

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

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

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

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 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.

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?

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

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