“Give birth again

                                                                                                       to the dream.”

                                                                                                                  On the pulse of morning

                                                                                                                        Maya Angelou

                                                                                             To: Fenske’s

Loud love

Perpendicular

The midday touch

Secuent zenith

Its is history

Simple seed

Simple song

Memoirs of piano

And

Solo voice

Chorus

The plural pronouns

Fiercely

The lyric

Letter by letter

Word by word

We

Sing

And

We sung

And

Still

Around

The seed

The proveb true:

As the roots

Are

You will know the tree

Andantino-allegro vivo

Andantino sostenuto

Piu andante

Open your eyes

Sleeping beauty

Voiceful grow

Young and strong

Filter the light!

Let the sun

Inmigrant soul

Begin its job.

Nov.8-Dec.22, 2003

Let clarify and define

the borders

allow me to punctuate the i.

First of all, accept

the thunder.

Let recognize the lightning

through the night:

It is out of discussion the intolerant need

of a solitary shoulder

where tears may rest.

Words has been my world

and will be.

The fusion of their passion,

the clairvoyant tour describing

the texture of the skin;

the lonely observatory,

the lighthouse where music

redeem his empire:

drums in the middle of the sun,

the flourishing allegro irate

of poetry.

I demand to be here

in full command of my capacity

even though there are clouds

and foggy sidewalks under my foot.

I am here:

Opened skin, incontinent riot.

Byron González

There is not eyes but ours,
clandestine,
definitive escape.
Silent sibyl syllabify situations,
sycophant of routine, routine  your self.
Triduum, triad, tercet,
wheat has not eaten.
The same game,
imaginary sand.
Seed that has not sprouted
from the ear.

But, deserved to set in act:
hand but sap,
but sapience.
Hands that start chipped this body,
candid contemplator
of your weave, Ariadne .

To this innocent creature
you have created him a new ghost:
The gift creator,
or better,
the good donor.

I command you: Do your job,
carve him up,
leave him naked
with his   nobles parts
in the air;
disillusion him up
of the trinity this  tritheist,
this archangel  Saint Gabriel
who in holy crusade
brandishes his ardent, flashing, peels sword
to exile him self.

Byron González

Dew
over
the nipples.
Lips
over
the pistils.
There is no frontier
just
the conspiracy
of
this eruptive pleasure.

Byron González