And I answered:
To see and touch all that I forgot,
To remember the delta where
Immense waters rushed to
My memory's melodic forms.
     To remember that ***** that
     Broke my heart,
     How I loved her,
     Look at all the poems
     I wrote for her!
To feel the livid wounds
Of everyone fester about
Like domesticated bipeds,
Watch them grow entangled
Beneath a shivering sun.
        To read the crazy beautiful
        Of other people's thoughts
        And get in their heads without
        Psychological babblings
        And manipulation.
To watch the shadowless sun
Create a phantom city
In the concrete swarms,
To stretch every sense
Into the living moment.
      To catch myself from splitting,
      Or perhaps to split from myself
      And call me crazy,
      Laugh it off and cry
      When I read it again.
To embody what I miss
With these fucken cell phones
And internet opinions
With elongated voices
Lonely, their kind of
Misery loves company after all.

      Why the poem?
      Ask yourself,
      What else is there??

The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground.  Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages.  Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic.  Fireweed, *****, unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone.  Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows.  Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing.  There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails.  Paradise lost may never be regained.

and again, the gritty path,
for visiting the houses, ruined.
time fled and life stood still,
strangled in suspension points.

i come, to collect lonesomeness,
feed my senses upon bygones.

window sills to inner spaces.
motherhood.

there, the place of a fire,
the grime inks a flame in black,
silhouetted.

crock pots, iron pots,
cracked, bumped.
soup. boiling.smoking.
cendrillons wrinkling
by the fireplace
in yellowished orange blossom gowns.

a skeleton of a bed.

leaning roof.

a wall in blue.

the view from the back window.
the door to the backyard.

houses grow blind.
i come
to lend them my eyes.
willingly.

eventually they'll have me,
bind me, seed me,
a tree-creeper to sight
the swallows, tell them
we have a vacant eave
in a falling roof.

My Mother was killed, along with
A cousin, many friends like brothers.
Twisters of death's erosion
Scooped me up and led me on
The path of vengeful living.
I had to make something from all the
Death, a pile of flesh staring out
At the quarter moon, so
Unknown that many
took me as orphaned.
     Yes, me, Dedpoet, bearer of words
     Once was lost in the fire's reign.
     I would walk in the rain catching
     My mother's tears for her lost child,
    Hoping to catch the light and be
     Taken into skies hopeful greys.
I became a rock that heads were
Decapitated upon, the house of regret
Stirring the animal inside to prey
Upon that which preyed on me.
Deep inside wept a little boy poet:

      Fallen in the abyss,
      Mother's golden light,
      So far into the unreachable sky...

I was told that if I didn't straighten out
I would be in a cage with no words,
But the words welled from deep springs
Of pain that could be written on
A window using the vapor on my breath.
I danced the pale moonlit nocturnal,
I breathed the night, the point of a gun
With indecisive fingers.
I was thruster into my own war,
Living already in a warzone,
I was the the living shadow of
A Nightingale bathing under darkened
Splendors of city lights and barely there stars.
In the day, the gardens of vengeance
Were planted with fresh seeds,
I was the bloodlust of the West.
The sunlight bathed my heated words,
All the while I fell in deep love,
A collision of an unstoppable desire
With an immovable lust, we engraved
The names of lovers with a scorching pen,
A hopeful poet came alive and the words
Beckoned the Heavens attention....
  
         Little boy, little boy,
         Close your eyes
         Upon the thorns,
         Life never stops piercing.

The days became a hopeful cloud,
The nights were countless,
Splintered into a thousand moons,
The words of vengeful allusions
Fought alongside the love for Her.
Lucky the Raven, nevermore,
I still must be here to remember,
Lucky the dog whom bit his owner,
Homeless now but free!
Lucky the life that dies young,
Never to look back,
Like water at the foot of the mountain,
Here the river begins.

     I am alone, the years fall like grains
     In the hourglass, I have shed many skins,
    I see the losses and the dead fallen
     From uncertain graces,
     What had vengeance reaped?
     I wait for you all in the other side,
     The words I leave will take you there,
     The last place of the little boy,
     He will real the stars and bathe in the
     Sun with a Mother he lost so long ago.
     He will kiss his lover and the twister
     Grows calm, the love will cure the deepest
     Affliction, he will die in her embrace,
     Born again in her kiss, he leaves the gun
     At the foot of the Word, and the words
    Gush from his body from a nocturnal sorrow,
    And immortalised pain will reign here,
    The cycle of life is an embrace of tears,
     Love the enscription on every one shed.

Upon my tombstone
Is the covenant of poetry,
The escape like water
between the fingers,
The distance between
Now and then is but a pen stroke.