Woman forms, beastly forms,
Crystallized forms of memory,
Vague but fluid, luminous forms
And a knife at the alter....

Forms of Poet Saints in a mist
Of wandering brilliance,
The beauty and the sorrow
Of bloodstained carnations.

Transcendental harmonies
On lips of Virgins,
Dawn's hesitant light,
Sobbing in the psalms.

Ethereal emotional spirits
Scattered among the tombstones,
Suspended hearts in memory
As a Mystery says goodbye.

And the verse of the light
In the final stanza reveals all
Purity and chastity of the soul,
Saying goodbye to a fellow light.

I hear a sigh
Across the sky,
Filling the stars
And fulfilling life....
No sigh; it is my daughter
Waking from sleep.

Should I throw a rock at your head,
Or should some ornate stone in passion
Be flung that it may open your mind?
There is a poem,
Natural in its state of emotional honesty,
And a bird can be on a branch crapping
On your windshield,
Or upon morning's first light
A golden bird gleams among
The verdant branches like
Emeralds in a feast of crystalline
Fields set aglow by calling stars.
      Still the truth of the poem
And its severed beauty is that it
Does not lie among the constant
Heart, that frail and vicious
Emotionally challenged furnace,
And the words are compared
Like a rare comet vs. a constant star.
       Holes in the words
Sap a poets blood, so he films them
With passions of flame and struggle,
And from fire to fire he spills
Himself within the pen.
     From here to eternity's moment,
They will never slay his thirsting,
From verses that hold him,
To words that overtake even the spirit
Where his poems are forged like some
Ancient blacksmith
Beating together steel wings
To fly the world over for one mans
Fiery thought come to life ,
And he is a star and a begging dog,
A broken hearted moon,
A fragment of dead things
And alive in his words,
Before he dies he wants his
Soul to shed its poetry.

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.

I move your memory into the sun,
I know, I know:
Since I lost you I am alone
In the light of the world,
And God gave your wings back I see.
       The light reveals in me
A blindness to the current now,
Instead as stare blankly into the sun
I close my eyes at its revelations,
Like the sound of your breathing
In a mid winter's night,
The differences between them
And the breathing of a warm afternoon
Nap.
     Half of all the steps that ever mattered
To me are gone,
Like fragments of a broken moon,
Its orbit taken by its parent
Planet for getting to close and
Crumbles under the gravity.
   I weep a memory
As I cry to the sun,
I moved your memory there,
Always so bright
I cringe at the sight.

I walk between life and death,
The hours when the days are like
Stakes to the nocturnal heart.
   And I know a walk among tombstones
Is a like a fresh death when the earth
Is covered with scarlet and scenic
Flowers,
    I can already write my death on
The slab as clearly as I see the onset
Of the dusk upon my sun.
   And I know to be dead is but another
Interminable word,
   Like the carnival rides of my childhood,
Lost in a crowd but thrillingly unknown.
   Tonight the stars speak a hope
In a new year, and all the years disappear like
Geese to the North,
   Like Gnarls of teeth locked in a mongrels
Cry behind enclosed yards.
     I am ready to die,
But instead I will write death and
Write a verse to make one think
One knows the true beauty of life,
    Like the insufferably brilliant
Deaths of heroes told in myth
And legend,
    A dissolved illusion to the real illustration
Caught between worlds of perceptions.
     I see death on a dance floor,
A psalm sung and written by me
As my soul whirls the words in spectral
Atoms and lost in the momentary
Eternity.
       And I remember I'm a just a man
With Latin blood spitting
From the womb of my mother.
    And I am on the same side as my heart,
The hourglass fades,
The brutal eyes of truth facing me,
Fierce and unredeeming,
I dance with death,
And there is nothing I can do now.
I have nothing to prove I was here,
Except the poem
And even the words will fade.
Except the song I wrote for death,
It plays over and over
And death dances eternal.

I walk the land of my fathers
Which is the land of the dead.

They are dead in this land,
They are not alive nor do they speak.

And then I see the ashes of cigarettes
Flying in the air
And smoke from my lungs
Exhale any destiny.

Do I live for them now?
To live as an example for dead men?
Shall I make a world they do not see,
A destiny set forth by corpses?

If I should not need a reason to live,
But to define myself based on
A man's lost wishes for the son
To fulfill his unfulfilling dream,
Then I shall erase all heritage
And find some other destiny.

Even the living,
Those whom I know to leave me
Behind and turn away like a memory,
And if they looked at me truly
Would not recognize me,
Would I base my reasons to validate
My existing the way I choose?

Perhaps if I carried my gun
Like some madman's projection
Waiting for the justice to take me down?
Even more so,
The men who carry guns with a justified
Perception and rake
Killing fields,
Would this bring ultimately the truth
Behind an existence of self?

No. The sad fact is that humanity
Does not have enough humanity
In consciousness to redeem history.

Maybe if all would become idealistically
Precise in a view of moralistic richness?
Change the course of men and women,
Change the animal inside us?

But this is our battle,
The battle itself - again-
We come to the struggle based on
The concept of ethical standards set
Forth by dead men and women.

So then, after this,
Do we put God at the front of
Our malice, change what we
All have done in the silence?

Don't feel so special,
Don't feel sk miserable,
Cry a thousand times and smile
At the moments rarely recognised,
Its all the same, you and me
And them and everybody.

We are here now,
Superfluousness nature and emotional
Animalistic definitions of a raindrop
In time.

No one is here,
Only in your perception,
Which by all accounts
Is as needy as mine.

Why not the sorrow
Instead of hopeful constellations
From mythical legends,
Instead of the lost Gardens of Babylon,
Beauteous notions
Of the heart's grandiosity?
If everyday is a struggle,
If each day we try to fill
The void we are born with,
If pain is all too real;
We are born into the struggled,
To be friends to enemies
To make ourselves whole
While trying to find the existential
Moment of truth in ourselves,
As we gulp down joy
And sweat about under the sun.
The sorrowing cannot be claimed,
Though its air chokes you,
Though it eats your luster,
There is the other that one rarely
Finds, joy in the light.
Sorrow is too frequently a visitor.

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.

There is a humanity which never stops,
Each an elementary piece
Of every human.
        Look at the sun which gives light
To all the darkest crevices that
Think they are hidden.
     See the nature in its flawed beauty
Through your innocent eyes which see
What you perceive as
Right and wrong,
      See how the river splits and still
Finds its way downwardly as well
As all the mimicked frenzy
As bullets fly laterally.
      It drowns itself in the moist earth
And eyes turn away to find beauty
Elsewhere in this lunatic frenzy,
     See how pretty the tombstones are?

And when you can see this light,
Then and only then you
Can see the darkness which hides
In its luminous lie.