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.

Like cigarette burnt to the stub,
Like an empty bottle of Jack,
      Kinda the way it's been.
Like reruns of Seinfeld on a Saturday
    1a.m. slot.
And nobody notices, yeah my days
Have been like that.
     Like bloggers on a subject like
Star Wars and little
Pimple faced teens arguing lightsabers....
     Pertinent subjects have lost
Their way out of my life.
      There is a whole lot of nothing,
But like cigarettes burnt to the stub and
     An empty bottle of Jack,
Like days fading on a memory card
With 300 pictures,
      And the ashes that get swept
Just this side of the puke
Of the armchair.

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.

I I I I was immersed into Maria's  mystic  Veil  
      A relieving elegant relish of Rilke's mystic mist
Husked my binary perception as an Earthquake
       Easily brimms off the mountainpeak white frozen blanket
And helps Angels to swoon for a magnificent time lapse speed-->
        Up ornaments stiched with The Divine craft and Love on a
Flying carpet infatuated and melting from Sun's Immense impact
        When making love twice a day, Lovingly fulfilled with an
Intimate bluhing beauty of dancing Clouds de Dawn trying to kiss
       Dusk Cloudy deliverance. Resolve probably lied in many times
Read fluttering pages gazing Smiling Buddha who Knows  of   blissfi  pi  Lyrical     Mandolin   Elegies Obsessed With Seeking Answers By  
         Pressing against  Many  Hearts  Foolishly Misinterpreted
Pointless Colouring As An Act Of Reciprocal Love To  Central Black         Portals        Seeing      Thee      Gazed     Into   Intricate     Reminiscing
Me of Tempus Fugit Fragile Sudden Sadness Easily Evoken By You  
:::::

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.

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.

Not too long ago
You made me promise you a new
Love poem every morning.
At night when the stars came by
And the moon shed its light
On your face,
I knew I could not write the poem.
With all that combined in the moment,
I knew you were the poetry.
So I tried to remember
Life empty without you.
All the forgotten faces from my
Earlier years,
And it seemed a dream non existent.
The kind you forget when you suddenly
Wake and the visions fall
Like dust from the shoulder.
For a long time I wrote so many love poems
Without you,
I see now the promise was in the words
I had written so long ago,
The poem is you,
And I dare not write what is already written.

Where is the poet whose bugles blow
Through internet screens and invisible
Imperialistic royalty?
Might your words blow like trumpets
At Jericho?
March, march upon the walls
That which takes the heart at its very beat,
Take back with passion all that
Fear has robbed,
The power in the people that remains
The basic fundamental movement
Of this world,
Let be known we stand,
We stand and will fight,
March on poet saints,
Let a the martyrs before you become
The crystalline clarity that beckons
Deep in the soul.
Behold,
The words become a movement,
May they incur the people,
Then it becomes a battlecry!

I am Mexican:
       Brown and forgotten inbetween,
       Brown like the dirt poor I am.

Iv'e been in hard labor:
      I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
      I am the backbone of the working class.

Iv'e been poor:
      I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
      I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.

Iv'e been a hustler:
      Every penny earned off my back
      Makes dollars for "their" pockets.

Iv'e been here:
      I am no *******,
      I am the American dream,
      Still I must show identification.

I am Mexican:
      Brown and four generations deep
      American, I am still
      The immigrant face.

he wanted to be the
redwood tree among the giants
but she refused to be
his sun

he wanted to be the lion
hunting in the wild
but she refused to be
his jungle

he turned every direction
and became dizzy
and looking for his balance
he turned to her
but she refused to be level

he tried to become a romance
but she was too hurt
he turned himself into light
but she always carried
a blanket of dark

he decided to become
a man
and though she refused to still be
a woman
he decided to love her
anyway