In the birdhouse I built,
The youngling flies off for the first time
Looking back

With hope for you
       I whispered your name

I wanted nothing more than the world for you,
So much,
I invented new ones.

     We made moons at the cliff
In a word of spoken poetry.

   The rivers split
And we became found.
  
     I caught all the petals in the wind
To recreate a flower.

      I taught you how to fly,
And you became a bird.

    I'm just an old fool
           Who pieces together
                  The broken heart.

The night is drowsy and frowning,
      I hear my thoughts aloud
      In forms looming over dimly
      Lit rooms hurling worlds at me.
It is incredibly close, the thoughts gallop
     Confused I plunge into a sea of faceless
     Names groaning, discerning the sorrowful
     Language of half dead stagnant beings.
I see a flash of verses that I grab from my mind
     They speak as a mirror speaks in reverse
     Phrases I spill ink repeating my minds
     Tongues to prove a sanity in the dark.
I am lone into the night,
     I am breathing still as I write with
     No gravity in my hands,
     The words lulling the constellation
     To sleep, one by one a poem is furiously
     Born.
But with night comes a deeper essential,
     I am not certain where the images
     Come from, but sometimes there are
     No words for their form,
     It is a haunting tide of thought.
Today is born of yesterday,
     I write into the morrow,
     Suddenly time is conscious
     And it ticks away watching me,
     And now is passing away into the moment,
The moment is sunk into eternity's nest,
     It is not wasted on a compass of death,
     I passionately write it into life,
    Time is frozen at my inkling,
     I will die of life and death will
     Be a birth.
Vertigo,
       Caught in a lucid rapture
       I cannot name the faceless momentum,
       But it brings more life in the dark,
       No body or soul, just life
Into the words, I am trapped deeply
       In the starlit terrace of my fore thoughts:

I fall away into the poem,
     My eyes have nothing to see,
     I am a 360 degree spherical eye,
     I see the cosmic splinters of time,
My childhood comes to mind,
      The whole of the beginning in the
      Past, a whirlpool of water that flows
      Furiously with eyes closed,
And suddenly I am middle aged,
     Today brand new again,
     The past in my present,
     Becoming omnipresent like
     A ghost petrified into thoughts,
Wind blows through her hair,
      I am in love once again,
      My first love relived without time,
      Timeless like a frozen ice queen,
I have come back to where I was.
     I am in immensity of youth,
  The shores extend like an endless beach,
       The water is crystalline,
Her body is transparent,
    Two rivers become one,
We walk into forever over the water
   In a bridge of time that relapses
Over itself, time looping into
      My very memory,
The jade moon follows her silhouette,
       I am a star crossed fool,
The sun shines at night when
   We held hands.
I blink, and once and again,
I am trapped in the eternal night.

There is no way back,
    The dead are still alive,
The living are suffocating on life,
     On my wall a sea of faces enrapturing
My words,
    All the time I have lived in a bottle,
  I drink drunk on memory,
       The ladder leads to Jacob,
A thousand lives have lived in this night,
     My world remote,
I shrink into the dawn,
     My eyes close,
My final thought:
Where or when have I ever been??

Words are the wombs of a thousand verses
Opening a thousand lives.
A man sees a woman;
Let his love unfurl in a sonnet
Of the trembling soul.
Invent new eyes to see the beauty
In the words of different
Souls giving life to a lifeless thing.

We are the words of life,
We invent new worlds,
We become the memory of the world,
But we are not the dreamers,
We are the dream realised.

Poets, why talk about birds,
Let them soar in your poems!

Because through poets one
Can see beauty in all things,
Life and lifeless;

We are tiny little gods!

There is no distance between stars,
They catch the eye and the hopefuls
Wish upon a glaring dot,
The skin of night has not yet been
Pulled close enough to visit.

Time is a hunger,
The space between us,
Light years!

And to think world peace is
Unattainable in this modern world,
And yet some guy with a bazooka
Sits atop a mountain at peace
With the stars....

Oh the anxieties of the empty abyss,
We fill them with constellations
To make sense of the world!

Maybe one day we will return to stardust,
Time will Jo longer be a hunger,
We will need no one but our light.

Earth is Rock,
We feed upon the notion that we
Are alone, and savagely question
Our faith in the skies,
Shall we fade without ever truly
Knowing one another,
If you don't know me,
Did I ever exist?
Did you?

And we dream on a solitary rock
Where our soul wears the flesh,
But we must dream on the stars
During our ordinary lives!

Emptying memory:
        The sun does not block out
The stars,
        The soul did not absorb them
The water vanishes the fire,
       Petrified light,
Executed dust of old flesh
      In a tomb of earthly thoughts;
The Sol centrally corners the eye,
     Blinded by the word
In a litany of days,
     Crushed hopes fall on nocturnal
Flesh,
     Old as Cain and Abel
As smooth as assassin pagans,
        Kissing the eclipses
In a fit of rage on a wounded bird,
     Theatre of peoples
In a cosmic garden
     Impaling moons
And guillotining the planets,
      Eating fire on burning lips,
A thirst for living water
     And a wisp of gentle air,
A swarm of deities with
Overgrown origins in a circus
        Of faithful,
    The sanctum was exploded
With idealistic dogs licking
     Their own *****,
The amphitheater of man
     Stained with repetitive slow thoughts,
Drunk with light
Hidden in shadows.

I will die enormously in San Antonio,
On a day when my poem trends
For the last time, on a day I can
Already recollect.
I will die in San Antonio
- and I won't fake this one-
Perhaps on a Saturday,
As today is Saturday in Midwinter's
Grasp.
    It will be a Saturday,
Because today I have written this
Poem, these prophetic lines,
I have been inter-dimensional
For too long, perhaps this fleece
Of flesh was meant to die here
In this verse.

    Ernest Gonzales is dead.
He beat himself up like a depressed
Boxer with an emptied punching bag,
Though he rarely fought back,
Life beat him like an ugly dog.

These are the words,
My witnesses, on a Saturday
Reading these lines, the pain
In my chest, the rain, the sorrow,
The lonely roads.....

To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.

And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.

But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.

Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.

Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.

Liquid days when the morning
Mist whispers and the woman's
Touch softens in bed under
The pelting romance of raindrops.

Moist Earth of liquid hearts, when
The solitude melts away from
The the tumbles grey and the
Light flashes across the myriad
Of sky tirelessly crackles and lifts
One out of the depression.

Steaming Earth, when the body
Is melting like clay in summer's
Tears, when two become one in
The moist of the Rivers, water turns
Into life and the soul is freed
In youth.

Wet Earth when the Angel's tears
Cry for their knowingness,
Who wish to make the Fall
And bathe in the love of man,
Petrification of the motivated as
The tears flow down un-sinning .

Rain upon the Earth,
Like a woman in her bath,
The stress falling away with
Each droplet,
The edification of her day,
The supplication of living water,
Up on the squall we dance
In thought ,inciting the flood
Within a liquidised existence.

My Cousin Frank once
Came to spend a weekend
With the family at a state park,
He came with bongs
And a habitual prestige of
*** smoking.

He would light a ****
In hiding but would
Not blot out the smell
As a show for his pride
As a smoker.

      I was a here and there
Kinda smoker, couldn't roll
To save my life or the last
Of the bag, but amidst the late
Night drinking in the gallery
Of faces round the fire,
Came my time to take a few hits.

( I began a soliloquy of morbidly humorous
Topics which no one thought was funny)
As midnight hour came, Cousin Frank
Came to the unpopular guy who
Couldn't handle his smoke.
He lit another and began
A soliloquy of his own,
Rather I think I just spaced out.

     He went to bed and I stayed
Wondering about apples and grapes,
In the starlit terrace of the infinite
Possibility of fruits,
Thankful Frank had brought
Such philosophical ****.

a deluge,
         a flood,
water flows
          as a seedling
drowns itself in a word
inaudible            deaf
the fertile ages like a promiscuous fire
         buried with flames
passion                 bound to the world
by passion            it is also released

           man the animal
           speech craft of a deserted tongue
filtered                 thoughts retreat
         to fallen realities
sorrowing confusion revolves
      around the charred light
burn the natural flower
      let loose the animal craving
drink of the chalice
from the fictitious mind
         all the world on fire

animalistic morality
      the flame circles
the weeping lion
amidst the penumbras skin
     they weep for the magnetic night
burning inside a compassionate luminosity

        man/animal
a surge of atonements
for the rage inside us