I continue to be amused &
Captivated by Gabriel García Márquez,
His Love in the Time of Cholera,
Captivating me still.
His simple use of the name
“Bolívar,” por ejemplo.
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There is something uniquely Latin
About life in Latin America,
Once again, stating the obvious
For all the media-slain retards
Hovering around me.
Their never-ending enthrallment
With Strong Men,
Particularly when strength is
A measure of one’s honor,
Hizzoner,
Your honor,
To wit: Honor Killings.
In practice, a sober demonstration
Of the theory as it is practiced.
Americans—with swarthy exceptions—
Do unfavorably view most of us who
Can trace our ancestry to Southern Europe.
“Southern European,”
Itself a vicious racial slur,
And remains so north of Eboli,
No surprise that Christ stopped there,
According to Carlo Levi, writing off the
Il Mezzogiorno, beyond redemption.
Southern European:
Smug words you make them eat,
Throwing Greco-Roman Civilization
Up into their faces.
Athens & Rome--
Epitomes of culture and class--
Patricians, of course, yet
Skifoso bragging rights for all those
***** scratched plebeians of the mob.
But I digress.

Strongman Latino-Americano.
Some Bolívar, some José Martí.
Why not some Fidel?
¿Por Que No?
Tu compadre, Gabo--
Tu Generalissimo Cubano.
How could you miss, Gabo?
Castro lobbying for you, twisting the
Surreal & squirrely qualms
Of Nobel Prize Nabobs.
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You owe that bearded strong man, Gabo.
Fidel Castro: Maximum Leader to be sure--
Like Omar Torrijos & Noriega--
Panamanian Reds,
Tasmanian Devils!
And Sonny Barger –
Dubbed Maximum Leader,
By Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels:
(The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs RetroBites: Hunter S. Thompson & Hell's Angels (1967) - YouTube ► 6:21► 6:21 www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccyu44rsaZo‎ Jul 7, 2010 - Uploaded by CBCtv Hunter S.Thompson defends his book against an irate Hell's Angels biker.)
Come Perón, come Hugo Chávez.
But, Hark-a-lark,
Let’s wait a sec
Lest we forget
Cristina Fernández de Kirchner,
One tough, Argentine *****,
Illustrating again for all men
The root of all machismo:
La Mujer!
The ***** that bore him;
Nurtured & nursed him.
****** & ****** him.
La Mujer!
(La mujer sin cabeza (2008) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/ tt1221141/‎ Rating: 6.4/10 - ‎1,815 votes Directed by Lucrecia Martel. With María Onetto, Claudia Cantero, César Bordón, Daniel Genoud. After running into something with her car, Vero experiences a... I get 7 cents for each link, each hit, making poetry pay for once, the savvy poet, a marketer finally figuring out how to avoid death in the gutter, a death penniless, diseased, babbling and insane.)
Yes, the woman,
The woman, who loved him,
That widow who buried him.
The woman—at any particular
Time of life, in his life—
The woman who just happened to be there;
Was just hanging around
During that brief, emphatic,
Conversation lull.
Genesis got it wrong:
Adam was a stiff rib of Eve,
Made from sterner stuff,
A creation conceived in torture,
Reared in disequilibrium.

Women create the men they touch.
Strong women.

In the midst of sea, we scream
Where are humans?
Where are super humans?
None to respond to our desperate scream,

In the midst of a sea, we are
A deserted island
One that can most likely be submerged or
Reach shores unlikely
By the events, we remain helpless
Being human less and with inhumanness



We, at the brink of death & last inch of hope
Expect miracles and wonders
Nature fails us
Kills our expectations, fills more sorrow

Nature fills our body with
Slow approaching death,
We remain as a secluded mass of useless disposed waste,
On a world that has a place for all the flora & fauna


Modern nations-the epitomes of peace
Wash their hands away remain
A hopeless, useless, helpless puppet

Ostracized from our ancestral land
Vehemently opposed and reluctantly accepted
We remain a displaced alien
In their eyes.

There are nations,
But where are humans? Where are humans?

A hope puts us to survive,
Where we leave a message,
As we get back to the graves.

We send the waves of final message; we fall,
Not as a disposed waste,
But as a Phoenix that falls as a nutrition,
For the soil,
To revive an infinite and eternal humanity
That stands tall as an undestroyable banyan tree
Unshakable on any crises

For humanity, we give ourselves
As dare-doers and daring self-killers.
Let's harvest the human hearts
With the ever rising flames
And give back
Our future generations the homes.
We lost and dreams we wished

With a thin ray of distant hope,
We dream to give our future generations
A world that has no,
Hopelessness of being helpless.
We assert
We are helpless, but not hopeless

On dusty, aging shelves
rest countries of minds
drying in paper jars:
mummified in culture,
embalmed in ink,
reincarnated in conscience.

Go forth! Adorn walls and altars
to honor epitomes of thought:
precise rhetoric of Socrates,
vivid horrors of Dante,
articulate utopias of Moore,
cryptic lessons of Sa'di,
heroic voices of Shakespeare---
all epiphanies of poets
and projections in prose
collected together.

Yet if ignored and neglected,
such wisdoms are wasted,
and intellectual temples
aimed to inspire and instruct
remain silent, standing crypts.

Cumulonimbus
In crimson blush
Glowing healers,
Smoothly redresses
My day’s weariness
Its billowing pillars,
Pride’s epitomes
In shapely domes
My worries offload,
I feel so free
Rid of agony
On a joyous road!

How sick and green it creeps inside,
and brings dark thoughts and fears beside,
a beginning so pure and new,
that no true reason could eschew,
the envy that epitomes,
the horrid beast called jealousy.

It grasps with darkened tendrils black,
and seeks in fevered mind to wrack,
all semblance of humility,
and give to greed stability.
To clutch the heart in taloned paw,
and feed all hope unto its maw.

you are the echo in places after everyone's sound has gone.

you are the reluctant resonance in air between breaths.

you are the leaving that's overstayed its welcome.

you are the racket in deprivation of company.

you are the uproar after music has ceased.

you are the chord eternally reappearing.

you are reverberations of want, of lack.

you are sweet tinnitus in every hush.

you are every absent reoccurrence.

you are epitomes of entirety.

your gale still lingers.

but you do not.

you do not.

you do.

not.

There is a storm brewing on the horizon.
The shadow covets my harbor,
unimpressed with all the shelter I have sought to avoid it's black cloud claws.
This sickening frame of perspective
soaks up the sorrowful rain;
convinced there is nothing outside of painful growth.

The thunder fills up any space for other thought
and I am overcome with the angry vibrations of particular nature.
Other roots sing out to the rain with acceptance and understanding.
I look to their placement and try to pray alongside the healthy,
but just as contentment ascends past my roots
lightening thrusts it's late night epitomes deep into the soil.

Oh, song of few fragile petals,
although you have been over pruned by unconscious hands,
you are not of that love.
Containing so much more than black eyes and regretted births;
remember the newness of every day.

Keep repeating those memorized murmurs of broken poets,
but keep the beauty of communication
let the mesmerizing misery fall back into the sky.

Tapestry colored,
take the tick out of my heart and let me bleed out.
My eyes are shallow wells for a face that needs help.

                   A body that sees no reason

                                 taken back
                                 tied down
                              tucked under

                   A b-b-b-bomb blasting off

                                   seconds

                    before the big hand could

                  cover her own clocked head.
                                  
Here no mantle is sacred.
ripples in our veil unfolding
each crease, streak and stain seals a moment:
Her love suppressed and Her faded light
the fabric of one life,
the symbol of many,
measured against the steps of
indefinite epitomes.

I've written and read
poems about the stars
and how they were
so fascinating,
empowering
and ultimately,
unreachable.

I've heard stories
about angels and saints;
Their goodness,
nobility and purity,
serving as epitomes
of what Man could
and should be.

But the saints,
they were once sinners
and there are angels
who fell from grace.
Stars that turned
into black holes,
nothing is safe.

Falling is inevitable,
even for the untouchable,
and what we believe to be
unreal and ethereal.

And tell you I shall...
Of boundaries I wish not to speak
for all boundaries are sins
sins committed against one's potential.

Of rules I can tell tales
concerned with scrutiny
and enamored with safety
your ancestors placed them
where you now find them.

Tales span eons
tales spawn demons
tales scrawl boons
and tomes
and epitomes

On the present
and the way things are,
could have been
or would have been.
Many a scholar and clerk lay martyred or maimed

It is a dreadful subject my friend
for it bends the very fabric of humanity
and within its confines, no room exists for morality
and under its hood burns all reality.

On God.... Well God is and isn't
any continuation of the previous fragment would be a lie
as I know not what God is or isn't, only that God exisits.

A pessimist always
views the blot
in the flashy moon
but ignores its amazing beauty
even in the blot
always hunts up the dark clouds of
despair and sorrow
but lays aside
the smiling hope of ray
he considers the dark clouds
as epitomes of
annihilation and cataclysm
but defies the milky showers
of happiness and prosperity
in the dark clouds
he will never know that
happiness is only real when shared
and happiness is a journey
not a destination
and an optimist always
beholds the beauty of the moon
and in its beauty
meets supernatural visions of
righteous god
perceives that supernatural events
always have a logical explanation
and that almighty god
showers the blessings of
happiness and prosperity
exists with belief that
humanity was neither annihilated
nor could be destroyed
and always prays to supernatural power
for a prosperous society
blessed with harmonious relationship
among human beings
that are peace-loving

(By Kishan Negi)

I cannot compare
Your swift actions
To the cool breeze.

I do not have the
Linguistic abilities
To describe your eyes
As the epitomes of beauty
I could get lost in.

I cannot fathom
How others
Can so gracefully
Liken your hair
To the rustling wild grass.

But I can whisper
To you
Over and over again,
"I love you."

Rare gems born of Mankind gifts to humanity.
Perfections of heaven's creations.
Angels with hidden wings earth's tenants.
Like petals of flowers pride of the garden,
As to irokos the standing glories of the forest,
So they are in the land of men exalted.

They are tenacious, judicious, meticulous and courageous.
Lovable, adorable, teachable but indomitable.
As melody to songs,
Music to souls,
And Whispers to evening wind.
So they are to mother June.

Gentle and kind sophisticated and phenomenal.
Their hearts are but of gold and ways divine.
They are road pointers, Motion movers,
Light bearers and trailblazers.
They are attention commanders, collections of respect.
Epitomes of beauty narrations of handsome tales.

They are the codeless code of pleasure locked in a wordless wonder,
The hive of treasure no dragon can plunder.
We are the Junites born of mankind,
Gifts to humanity.
HAPPY BIRTH MONTH TO ALL THE JUNE BABIES.

It's the hardest thing to admit.
To face facts and contemplate on turning off the switch.
Every time I come close, something inside me says stop.
Which just leads to inevitable loss.
Because getting a taste of friendship without expectations, actually leads to me expecting we'd have that forever.
But these feelings don't come easily.
It took so much of me.
And I fumbled, and I faught,
Which caused you to flee.
I hoped for more.
I hoped that you'd be the ocean to my shore.
Always being the rush of current, guiding me to steady ground.
And I know
I know I have that for myself.
Epitomes and ****.
I wish it wasn't so easy for you to quit.
I'm capable of being my own sound.
I'll always wear my jagged crown.
Maybe I saw someone who wasn't afraid to get splinters while tearing through the thorns around my throne.
Feeling is just not a good feeling to me.
Because I was destroyed by the same fluttering.
And that was bad, but this is worse.
Because the destruction came in other ways, but I knew that there was something else.
And the constant question on my mind, is if you ever even cared at all?
And wondering if I even knew the real you.
Why is it always that the one person we don't want to even think about, we can't stop writing about?
I guess it's just finally time to say enough is enough.
The wondering feeling is torture.
It's rough.
I guess here's to hoping I have the strength to give up.
I guess it's true what they say, the thing worth holding onto wouldn't have let go in the first place.

Swans once flew,
Over blossoming red roses
And their tainted white feathers,
On broken wings of marriage

The bruises of a first love,
A fall in a summertime
On springs of frozen tears

The lover's castle by the river of memories
And buried emotions of a past,
Covered in a large painting by the hallway

That hearts bled,
Eyes watered, and skins, sweaty,
Our pathetic efforts to mend the burning bridge

So now, strained by the wrinkles of age,
We stare through these broken glasses,
Our wishful thoughts, carried by the mountain winds
To the land of the never was

That epitomes of our youthful fantasies,  
Lying under olive trees
Living among the stars,
We may savour,
The last smiles, and breath