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.

Every prodigious step
Toward the angel's ascension
Brings the Omnipotent tear.

Descending like stars overlapping,
Birthing a dark constellation
Chasing a Holy Ghost.

Behold himself in reflection
Twice as a rich man,
Once more a beggar fluent;

So comes a behemoth on winged
Sandals that which twice befell,
Unveiling the holiest of sins.

Father before me and after,
Is immortality unveiled
Like parting from Heavens gate?

From the highest in a chain,
A slave to every master;
Much defined is the mortality.

The Dead have no glory,
For glory's sake to remember
A Victory in transcendant stories.

Seek no more the Holy
As though running from fear
Of the sin,

Tis the same above as below,
Man o man, the futile pawn
Of the Mysterious Game.

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.

I am not the night nor the stars,
But the dream experienced.

I am not the touch or the hand,
But the soft kiss of the lips.

I am not the life or the death,
But the spirit of us.

You are not the sun or the moon,
But the light of my eyes.

You are not the rose or its thorns,
But its red like life blood.

You are not the door or the room,
You are home.

I am no one without you,
I dont know what else to write,
Only that where you go I will follow.

Because I am not perfection,
Nor could I walk in its shadow,
I choose to see the Man.
I'm a born again sinner.
The curtains at a close and the
World a shot away from killing
Itself, I would not turn to perfection
In the dellusional mind that is man.
No,
I like my God as a man,
Beat up like me;
Wearing His scars in public humiliation.
I can relate to this Deity,
The imperfect manner of his sacrifice,
The degredation.
This Guy understands what its like
For most of us everyday,
So let Him bleed and suffer,
He did so in a short life.
He catches a glimpse of what its
Like for us everyday in the imperfect
World,
The glorious sinners we are,
And I walk with a suffered Jesus.

Woman,

     You ask that I write you a poem everyday that you are away from me. I willingly spill the words from my soul, I sacrifice myself and fall upon the sword of the pen, the drops of blood like rain from God. And they fall to paper, all that I am, all that I hope to become within you, in a poem to you, at the moment so far away.
       Today, alas I have spilled so much of myself that I too require a filling, a need that sustains me like my words that feed your passion for me. I need the touch of your hand as we sit upon the portico resting on that sunset purple gold, that which lights the stars when darkness falls.
       I need the soft of your lips as they graze the nape of my neck, the stride like a galant mare across fields of shimmering lilies, I need the kiss which fits me like gloves in the cold depths of morning one feels as they take in the first chill of morn.
      I need you like a poet needs words, I need your depths that fill the abyss like the blood fills the body, or the lover fills the woman, oh this wanton desire for the touch, the kiss, the experience of being with you.....
      These are my words, these are my sonnets of infiltration to your soul, a haiku of touch, a verse of making love!
     My love all that is poetry is required by your presence. Simply put, the motions of our love.....that which must be experienced,
       we are the poetry in motion.

               Missing you dearly,
    
             The poet who lost his words.

And it begins at the end,
The finality of the body
In a stir of echoes.

The whole of the world
Curled into the womb
Of the woman I adore.

I see her in the mist
Weighted by words
Never spoken.

I guess everything
Becomes a haunting
When the moment is failed
With deep intention.

And my voice
Becomes a scream
Vowing to make up for
Lost things.

But one cannot go back.

In the fullness of the prime,
When passion beckons
And emotion is erupting

I tear away from myself
And scream to me
To speak the words.

Deep and intenful,
A murmur in the shadow,
The compassionate memory
Never said.

Uncertain, frail, timid
Times in the state of me,
It seems life sends no invitations
For the proper timing.

My love, my lover,
Uncomplicated as two,
I simply never spoke,
Those words

One final thing
Chasing her mist,
The unspoken "I love you"
Failing the moment.

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.

Growing out my hair,
But it's hard when I look like
Wolverine's father.