Let the golden pollen
Of the finest flowers yet to be
Fill the snowflakes in purified
Glistened luminosity falling.

The natured call in the heartfelt
Spring of seasonal bodies,
The aura of sun warmed gilded
In waves of new birth memory.

Desirous vibration of longing
Fill the need in the cold fires,
A conquest of light
In the darkest triumphs.

In the crimson meadows
Of the sunlit mind,
A sparrow's song to the nest
Bleeding into the Winter depth.

In the depths of the cold
Passing before the season,
Spring comes in a fantastical
Whirlpool of new life in the middle
Of the storm.

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.

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.

One:

She sings in her bed
While she stares at a picture
Of her daddy.
On her lap is a razor
And her monsters cut away
At her lap, laughing.
The girl sings her song
In the empty house.

Two:

Her sky was a daddy,
There were birds and clouds
And the air was pure
In his hands.

The clouds caressed
Her face and her face told
Of a sadness,
Like a cloud her daddy
Wasn't there.

Three:

Heart full of dreams
And eyes filled with water,
I will share the girl's secret:
Daddy was taken away,
Her daddy was locked away.

Unfastened in her defenseless
Blood, she annoints herself interrupted,
She has the scars,
You can see the scars.

Her song sings:
Daddy do not abandon me.
I am alone
In the tears and the blood
I am home, alone.
You are not here,
And it hurts me truly,
You are not here.

I don't belong here
In this flesh
Going to this dirt,
I belong to
the fire, the wind,
The sky.....