Walden was a Pond a Pond and a Book

Walden was a Pond a Pond and a Book.

It was written in the Dawn of American Gold.

The Age that ccame and Went without Wit.

I think of it Now, how Whitman was It.

A Daredevil for Sheer Lust Adventure...

Harpy of National Supremacist Views.

Engraved at the Foot of the Twin Towers.

When Lilacs Last Bloomed but bloomed Instead. There.

What Walt did for Mexicans, Place a Boot.

Dario at the Talons of Eage.

America without a God or Thought.

Trascendent, my Sons, Emerson Blind Born.

He hands him the Keys to his Homestead, Go.

Get away from the Hypocrites. Take some Time Off.

There at the Banks of the Turpitude's Prose.

Tried what he Might never have Done. Goes Poof!

Balzac, Zola, and Baudelaire

Balzac, Zola, and Baudelaire look on

The scene not so vast it can’t be too grand

A violin in its case plays a song

It travels from general to specific

From language to thought back on to language

Multiple so the vein of a rubric

Parallels for each note of opinion

Higher than ever expected to cry

Tears full of melody answer the words

Beneath the parchment blue ocean and sky

The music of sound rhythm of the world

Singing of its soul to eternity

Under and between until it has freed

What it is, what it was, what it bleed.

Federico, Pepe, y Clotilde

Federico, Pepe y Clotilde
fuentes brotantes semilla y siembra
eso pa delante que tiene que ver
esperate es tarde no se repetir
caminaban payaseros tintan
enchinan la sombra busca su bien
la pared de la escombra
vuela conoce distincciones, fue,
cabrones cartones destruye en caer
mulen a la inocencia a reir sonreir
plasticas gestos escultos malignos
dan en la vista eco mania ruir
a los ojos de belleza escurren
este de peor poder a suficiencia

University

The Ivy in the gardens at college

growing in the planters entwined within

sway with the hems of the pedestrians

walking side by side or across the lawns

the music that it makes how when and then

my thoughts as they travel forward again

go back to the same pair of legs and arms

carrying books in the shade of time

where as before they return and assess

the rituals of education less

than the education itself and past

sacrifices that are nothing but blessed

whatever it cost or came without

wanting, it makes me who I am and Not.

A Flower like a Circle

the flower is a circle made of truth

woven in the leaf parchment alphabet

by an abstract expression of its worth

when beauty was ineffable at first

and stood as itself the pattern of earth

spun from the same light fiber loom like wool

but softer far softer than soft can touch

drawn from liquid crystal dewdrops of dew

and sifted through the wooden green iris

with which light sees itself in its image

beauty is an after-thought adage

the flower is the answer in the dark

when nothing can be seen but the darkness.

SOUL MYSTERY

string of the moment and pearl of the past

these are the beautiful things that I have

signs of the letters brought to inhabit

the power, the patent, the attachment

linked across two objects of their beauty

which has for its purpose design and joy

movement that is tranquil and rests at will

along the outlines of the roses

invisible to themselves to behold

of lovely form for everybody else

alone in the absence of the other

yet the River of Time that traverses

the shore of my greatest mystery, soul,

destined before the winds begin to blow.

SUNNY PARTIAL SHADE

I walk to the corner for aspirin

crossing the sidewalk as it bisects me

the people all occupied with being

careful and cautious afraid to be seen.

I, too, wish I were more invisible

that the plunge in the maelstrom fingers

like a violin that becomes myself

played by a sound wave along a quiver

Silent orchestra, hour of stillness,

a vessel as celestial as a star

brimming in a whole and part mystery

the sacred noon hour has passed and filled

Taking two drops from a symptom of pain

to answer the pressure of life again.