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.

Everyday people,
Everyday faces,
Everyday the same.

The sad ones,
The lonely ones,
The few moments in between.

All of the repetition
Speaking in repetitive
Statement one heard before.

And to have to be alive
Knowing that there all there
Is to life is is to live!

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.

I grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.

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!

Today I have no hearts,
I feel the anxiety of my poem.

I haven't seen a single lighting
In such a dark procession of grey,
Forgive my poetry for how little my words are.

On this morning everyone, everyone goes
By passing my words of poetics.

And I don't know what else to write,
All that is left is the sigh of this piece.

I've connected to the world wide web,
I scream among the faces, I am alone!
If you want poetry, my words are here!

Because of all the days of this life,
I slam so many doors on my own face
And a loneliness seizes my soul.

Today no one has left a heart:
Today I have died a little inside.

I grew wings
For you,
And became an impatient moth
Circling your fiery brand.
      
And I became like water,
Your thirst from the storm,
Daily you drank of me,
The drought in my body.

So I became a wild dahlia,
And you cut me from the stem,
The flower that grew had not yet
Known what it was to bloom.

    Devastate me,
I am blessed with every wound
Your love opens, blessed is your knife,
And praise the alter, I await.

      Cut me a thousand times,
     I am your crimsoned lover,
The rose blood is flowing with your
Everything, I bleed deeply.

      Instead of a ring of promise
Love, I will make a ring of thorns,
I will wear a necklace anchors,
They would drown me into you.

      Devastated:
You will see me smile,
You will see me hurting.

      And when you realize the love,
You will cry for me,
And you will be mine forever.

Its a divine day to think about
The apocalypse, to walk along
The final shores before the
Tsunami take me!

I take a walk in the night wonder,
I look on hopeful stars and think
If the inter- continental ballistic
Nuclear warhead will strike down the skies.

Sometimes in abstract silence,
I see comets the size of a football field,
They pass me by and say hello,
But they never seem to end the world!

And standing upright looking into
The oblivion, I feel the cool breeze
And sense the Ice Age coming on,
Then it all comes to a stop:

I realise I am just a man with
Too much time on his hands
Watching networks news and
Find that the end of the world is
Everyday.

I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.

Whether I'm out on Military Drive
With my Ruca cruising the street,
I can't stay alive
Without that special meat.

I'm talking bout early morn,
Looking for a place for some comida,
When you need that taco like food ****,
You need it in your Vida.

Yeah, you have buevo ranchero,
Or maybe some bean and cheese,
But I need me some vaquero
To fill my Mexican needs.

So make me a taco,
Make it chorizo and egg,
I'm just a typical vato,
Cmon, please don't make me beg!

And now you know about my favorite dish,
Eating Mexican is like a granted wish.