Next time I wake from sleep
for keeps – from deepest, darkest
slumber – I may come back a little
bird to visit in the summer; my
quetzal pomp, green feathered
grace, singing through my hunger –
when I am gone, I may come back
your pretty bird, a wonder.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
   —The Serenity Prayer

I. Heron

I was born arrow-straight, built for flying,
Three skipping stones past Otter Creek, hollow
Bones blanketed by slate gray, blue stones slight
And callused by well-worn prayers and shallow
Swells of minnows — subterranean aches —
And water cold on yellow scales, hardened
By the calamity of sunsets, lakes —
The drowning weight of too many pardons.
Dip low, tend this broken shoreline sweetly,
Spread shadowed wings and break honeyed silence.
Forgiveness take flight at dusk, discreetly
Written in psalms. Tepid soul find balance
Between the calm, a resting river space
This old trembling mind cannot displace.

II. Quetzal

After the storm, the chaos and quiet
Meet like dew poised on timid fingertips
And shallow grasses to quell the riot
Stirring inside. Fix fragments of this ship
Made of broken parts. My soul’s petrichor:
Inhale failure with a benediction
That fills tired lungs with bravery, before
Nature proposed expectations — fiction
Taut and mended by truth. The earth exhales
In breaths refreshed by rain, accompanied
By loudening trills and harmonious tales —
The tremor of circumstance, and the need
To continue existence like the weeds
That grow in sidewalks despite human greed.

III. The Pelican and the Gull

American Magicicadas choose
To surface seventeen years after birth
For the purpose of recreation. The Blue
Pelican cannot quietly unearth
The patterns of the tide without the gull,
But she does so with tireless trials
And the moon at her back — the lunar pull
Shaping stray shells for a little while.
Twenty-one years of tawny solitude
Shattered by innate desires, buried
Deep by stubborn aches, and kindly allude
To breathing for the first time. Weight carried
And lifted by rekindled hope, reaching
Sands like a button shell kissing the beach.

IV. Kingfisher

I pondered self-acceptance before diving
Into seas uncharted, with the patience
Of Tibetan monks softly harvesting
Grains of sand on an abandoned shore. Since
Emptiness is impermanence, we change
Like shifting seas suspended in nature,
Born from the crease of God’s hand — rearranged
Flaws bound by circumstance. Come close. Nurture
This silent heart into awakening.
Beyond these gray waters surges the sun,
Hopeful in the wake of a newfound spring,
Ochre and alizarin. We become —
Aware that no one saves us but ourselves,
With self-worth rising in tremendous swells.

.
         Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
         Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
         And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
         Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
         (Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
         Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
         And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
         A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
         And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
         I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
         Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.

And then,
the fury boils in my blood,
because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence;
when I think of you.

I turn my self into an extint quetzal,
and the rainforest cries,
because I don't have you,
since nothing of this is real,


and I'm still thinking of you,

then I look trough the window,
to the sky,
and I see clouds,

then I imagine that we are making love,
and we fall asleep,
and we dream of I don't know what random things;

suddenly I come back to reality,
when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window,

and everything turns out to be stridentist,

like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe,

and I think of you,

and my hands are the color of your voice,
so deep...

And nothing matters now,

because, fiercely, you endure, ungraspable
like an aria in the opus of my mind,



and now, you have become real...

My eyes,
Like any other eyes
Staring at the window
In the loneliest of bus rides-
The long way home.

I travel
Like paired green wings
Of a quetzal,
Like vagrant leaves
Led to be nostalgic
To a neighbouring dead tree:
I am the memory
Of my shattered heart.

Through idle times like this one,
I recall myself staring at you-
Un-captured by your smile, your lips,
Your scent,
But instead
Your eyes open for me,
Making me feel the movement of the Earth,
The breath of God.
But I only look at them
Because
That's just what is life for me,
Only because--

One is reminded of hoping
When you are lifting your eyelids.
One is reminded of dreams
By the closure of your eyes.
But when my eyes close
And suddenly reopen,
I tell you:
One is reminded...
...of missing you.

© 2010 J.S.P.

this for you angel!
happines from heaven is love with intentions of faithfulness!
dont let no lie bring your brAin cons ions down!
for when you walk with your heAd down , your suffering!
its like living in hell!
where kids die of hunger
trees get turned to paper plastic and pencils!
for you two can write with stones on stones!
dont let the sky your love where your sun is at die in the concrete jungle!
that happiness!
those beautifull mountAins turned to beautifull temples!
we are walking all as one through apakalypse!
covered faces, distintive races as we are imbracing
for were not racing
we got pAtiance and my time is my evidence!
never look at the clock!
shadow around the tre let you know whT time it is,
stars relocating you to your destinAtion!
follow the ants for they are saving all the seeds!
follow the birds for each bird eats a different seed!
follow the jAguar for it will teAc you how to fight!
become one with your mind!
you are here to die, but with someone you love by your side!
bless my daughter mArysol quetzal zaragoza n if this heart mormor kills me body, my mind will live eternAlly

How can the public be so judgmental when all they know is lies.

I'll be that failure I wear that title well.
I won't cast a VOTE I'm not part of their lies nor do I support the whole deception.

I need to see the place beyond the ice where giants still build pyramids and chimeras all fear the wrath of God.

I'm headed south for the winter and to save myself from this system I'll never be apart of without a number around my neck and shackles across my heart.

I need to be where corn is eaten three times a day, siestas are expected and people are the color of the earth.
I want to die amongst the depleted Monarchs and the migrating
Quetzal Hummingbirds.

I wish to put my mind down for its final rest in a place where lies are not respected and the truth is nothing but the truth.

Somewhere thats far away from here.
A place that does'nt feel the need to claim its self the freest of the free while chained to things like laws, debts and the television screen.

I'll be where I don't speak the language and the people don't care.
I'll spend some time in old Mexico drinking away all my bad
memories, dancing with ficheras, making real Love to ****** and finding a way to start over.

A new way after I break free of the lies, bring myself to an end and build up the courage to leave you all behind.
So I can start myself anew.

Vong, they call me
And call to me they do
The stitch, the incision
The lung of a fish
The bite of a tiger

Vong, they call me
Newer now than ever before
The ship sinking almost
My shoes fill with water
But to drown, never

Vong, they call me
Never knowing what made me so
It was somebody else!
All the holes, the drills
The incisions, the wounds

Vong, they call me
But am I Vong?
Or am I not?
Do I miss it?
My life as before?

Vong, they called me
But Quetzal I am
And bury Vong, I must
For he is filth, heresy
For he hurt me, and himself

And the sky turns blue
And the water blue
And Vong's face blue
But he will not drown
He asks for a space on my ship

His body torn in 17
His eyes curmudgeon
His limbs mismatched
His skin a darkened grey
I won't call him Vong

And sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Without arms, man the ship, protect your kin

Vong, become my brother
You've been through the sea
You've been through the sky
You've flown through the blood red Sun
But still you strive for the ship

Safety, oh you beautiful safety.
To lead a better life, inside the Sun
And wait for the fire to pass
Wait for the ship to rise
Wait, for your love shall be here

Vong, they call me.
But Quetzal I am.

i've been awake since 6am
i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep
i've been on the road since 7am
and i'm writing this at 1pm
i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls
thinking about where i'm going in life
thinking about when this road will end
thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards
thinking about how much i love frank ocean
thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life
though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean
thinking about how i drift from one person to the next
desperately searching for a new friend to cling to
thinking about why i didn't shave my face
for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach
i'd be tempted to slice my throat
if i drowned, would my body float?
thinking about how i should cut my hair
thinking about how i can act cuter
thinking about that coil girlfriend
but maybe i'll go for a boy instead
i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again
so it looks like it's all going to plan
sometimes i view greggs as a temple
and the sausage roll is my zen master
i find solace in cheap british bakeries
just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies
today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers
and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness
this road is only going one way
and i can't go back to pick up the pieces
so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry
made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me
maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair
thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord
it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse
thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal
but i never did get started on them
thinking about my friend gabe's new album
and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto
and how i wish someone would hug me
but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me
i don't know when this road will end
maybe i'm stuck on here forever
immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird
approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square
i used to smile in every selfie
now it's a chore to smirk at all
but it ain't all bad
i might make curry on saturday
or maybe i'll make chicken soup
and it'll be better than hers
because i'll make sure to remove the bones

CHANGES

.....”and if the elevator breaks down,
go crazy!”
--Prince, from “Purple Rain”
~~~~~
Is it possible to
hear the rain whisper
to the forest
as it falls between
thirsty trees;
as it converses
dark oboe concertos
with musky,
leaf cluttered earth?
Or to follow
water’s cycle
from the calmness
of the hurricane’s eye,
seeking each molecule
as it links with
oxygen green skies?
~~~~~
Impossible?
But, these random acts,
riotous developments,
are common place,
hum drum, every day
rainbow dreaming
compared to the
possibilities of human
creativity
interactions
and conscious probabilities,
of touching inside
subatomic flows,or standing beside
Jupiter’s cyclops eye
as it penetrates into the soul of
a wicked Miles Be-Bop note
exploding the myth of
humanities inhumanity!
~~~~~
****!
Genghis Khan,
Attila the ***
were angels
gleefully dancing
on the head of a pin
compared to the atrocities of
“human nature” fables
of “selfish genes”,
“bell curves”,
Broca’s brains,
or some god fed, bred
morality of “original sin”,
and “semper fidelis”.
Even Alexander,
slaughtering only hundreds of thousands
in his conquests
built libraries and
stood “enlightened”
compared to today
“****’em all, let God
sort it all out” mentality;
or a more accepted version,
“why, some of my best friends are...”
~~~~~
Have you ever dreamed
a different reality?
Of feeling the wind
in a Van Gogh wheat field?
Or, flying on his “Starry Night” beauty?
Have you ever hoped of being a “Centennial Person”?
Human,
not the robot
powerless automaton
making a handful prosper
while we bleed
nuts and bolts of
everything for a price,
everything for sale.
While for most, we need
need, just to live.
And they say
I am insane
crazy
out of my mind!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!
Excuse me as I laugh
in your face,
as I look to create a place
to take off my hat
relax, and call home.
Like the black Panther,
Quetzal, or Leopard
I too seek the musky
earth and canopy
of verdurous rain forests;
to bath in crystal,
sun reflecting mists
of mile high water falls;
to drink from mineral rich
mountain streams.
~~~~~
Like sister Elephants
raising their new generations,
discussing the re-emergence of Kalahari
after a Spring thunder storm,
I seek the unfettered
creativity
collectively
voluntary comradery
of human minds
working for the common good,
sharing in the common efforts
of a world made better
as future generations
discuss blue green
oceans where we all
first emerged so many
millennium ago.
~~~~~
I am ready,
still fairly young.
Proletarian sisters, brothers
hand me a gun,
hurry cause
I can see the
Revolutionary People’s Army
storming old
**** encrusted
bourgeois citadels.
What force can stop us?
We are the mountain wind
sweeping down
thru valleys,
over plains.
We are irrepressible,
irresistible.
We have a world to win.

Aztec Warrior 10.4.15

I once saved the world
on a grey and gloomy day in October.

I allowed the endless rains
to drown out what had become
of the people.

I watched as their altered bodies
vanished like stones beneath the sea.

I filled my Barge with a pair of Quetzl Hummingbirds,
two shy Monkeys, a family of Wild Mustangs and two of the last Dragons on Earth.

I brought along the Mountain Poppy to help me forget.
Marigolds for the Dead, White Mountain Sage for Blessings and the strong magical Hemp plant for more than just ropes.
Pockets full of Maize kernels and Squash seeds for starting over

As many devoted Honeybees as their Queen would allow.
Tiny fruit Bats and a pair of loyal Patterdales.
Feral Cats who trusted me and plenty of stow away Rodents who would spend their time aboard in hiding.
Cattle and Geese, Spiders and talking Parrots all made their way aboard.

I talked a Native Girl whose blood ran the same shade as my own into joining me.

I left behind the destructive ones and convinced myself it was all for the better of our future.

We waited out the second cleansing of the Earth, we passed the time forgetting what it was we had become.
We witnessed the New Sun circle above the New Earth and followed the Albatross to what was to be our home.
Our bare brown feet sunk into the pristine white sands as she took my hand leading me forward to a place no man has ever been.

We took in what was left for us to live with.
We for the first time felt what it was we had forgot.

I watched as a Quetzal Hummingbird flit before a strange Orange flower then onto the next.
The Monkeys gorged themselves in the fruit trees ,dropping seed pits to the forest floor.
The feral cats chased the rodents and the honey bees flew in a tight swarm while protecting their Queen.

Our goal was to forget it all and begin anew.
All we thought we knew was to be forgotten.

All was as it should be.
All moved about as one.

A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame

Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache

I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?

There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests

What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped

Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden

Become as *****, lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration

MOTECUHZOMA
            It is their chief that most perplexes me.
            Send him my greeting, and convey to him
            The gifts I have equipped for your encounter:
            A turquoise serpent mask, a pearl-decked shield
            With feathered fringe as gossamer as foam,
            I’ll send the rain god’s legendary headdress
            Of quetzal feathers, green as sprouting grass,
            Fine, snail-shell collars, dainty golden bells,
            A saffron helmet chased with dazzling stars,
            Sandals obsidian-black- What riches more,
            I have not breath in this old chest to list.

TEUHTLILLI
            By your good will, I might unfold for him
            The vestments which are worn by several gods:
            Tezcatlipoca’s mirror, and Tlaloc’s jades,
            Huitzilopochtli’s gilded helm, and such.
            If he reach straight for the regalia
            Of Quetzalcoatl- Well, who need say more?

MOTECUHZOMA
            A thoughtful move. And, if not gods themselves,
            They yet may be our wandering ancestors.
            See if their speaker is the picture of
            A homeward-bound, long-absent patriarch.
            Especially take note if he admits,
            Or claims, he is your rightful king. What more?

TEUHTLILLI
            Should I purvey a spread of birds and game,
            And mark how fluently he dines or not?
            If he is from our far-flung lineage,
            He ought to be familiar with our fare.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Do so. But if, by chance, he shuns your board,
            And does not hanker for such bill of fare,
            But rumbles with a yen for human flesh,
            Why, then allow yourself to be consumed.
            I will ensure the welfare of your wife,
            And guide your children.

TEUHTLILLI                                 As you wish, my lord.           *Exit.

The loose notebooks
they walk around here and there,
taken out of hiding.
As the syndrome of Estolcomo

I see white walls
almost empty, almost
the free space
even within the walls,
I like space.

Light plays with the smoothness of the painting
tersuras of the picture, that I love,
that I saw him born,
smooth, creamy

The sounds come from above,
I put them there.
The hammock on the curtain.
The head of the condor in its place.

 And January Quetzal dominates everything,
before the mysterious look of the ebony slave,
on the corks of a thousand amazing wines.
 
And the universe according to the Tafi,
in the center of everything,
stars, the Moon,
under a round of fused hands.

All the bones are,
antlers, horns,
breastplates, fangs,
teeth, breastplates, tails.

Stones, rocks,
shells, conches,
scrapers,
more stones,
Eternal stones!

Compasses with watches,
the Russian chronometer,
ready as always,
the alarm clock of Churri.

While the notebooks enjoy their freedom,
and they come and go
And I do not draw anything

A beautiful female in her dresser chair,
who always turns his back on me,
yearning and fearful,
always beautiful.

How many beaches,
how many roads,
hills, mountains,
open immensities,
and traveled páramos.

Life does not stop!