13: A Counter Beat I couldn’t hear I was just a little girl Later when I saw you, square photograph, Copied

and pasted into a chapter The title asked “Who is the Chicano?” Then question lingered there unanswered While your temple was pierced by your pencil. It bit past your blood in the chamber Where words – those innocent syllables— Brought to the lips a corolla for love For isn’t it love that asks more than once “what happened to Juan what happened to doves?” the way to say this isn’t easy but its my job I hold up a sonnet I look beyond it: Trece “No, don’t cut him again. Just don’t do it.”

poe(m)elancholy: where has the poetry gone? a poem is an instrument of no sound composed in a voice no one knows whose is inventintimtated mirrorhythms

is art for art’s salvation and hue meanings original intact makes no excuse for the madness that it comprehends not produced, consisted, transmitted, and made of no material nothing but all decibel cleft pattern multiple echo oh echoing as it resounds in the mountains en la Sierra found peace and war echolalia pearly beams where has all the poetry gone away wanderer without a memory of woe Dear Kitty you are to whom Anne Frank wrote her Letters I come speaking in a voice that’s softer than silence It is the sound of my conscience I need to confess Listen to me listen to me I need your consent Do you hear me over history and past the distance? Those are the blood drops of your menstruation and death, They are the communion and the passion of virtues innocence from its first removal and its second:

Don’t cut him again! Don’t cut him again! That’s enough the flesh then the soul then the self, ravaged by ritual. Death hold yourself away because I’m just about through. Oh words made up of wood and wood made of up paper. Why is it murder dies over over and over

Oh sun that was pricked in the heart, Ruben, It must have hurt something awful to feel The L.A. Sheriffs on black and white hooves when they took what they had not rights to steal They deprived you of Life, ay ay de mi Why did they do this and how do they dare What do they know of the beautiful tree It lives in despairs it weeps for its cares My goodness now look what’s been done to us? We run from side to side of the violence

While it aims with precision at our suns Tells them they’re offspring of silence What was once muffled but wouldn't quiet still clamors for Salazar and Zeta

I write to you William by your own name Which is the name of the Love for another but Love? the restraint to remain within the means you don’t take what you want and leave nothing what belongs to humanity is what such as technology the means to make infinite via the mating of glass with keystrokes appearance upon the canvas at last imitation is the inspiration “Don’t cut him again. Don’t cut him like that.” “Are you sure you don’t want some of that bruise?” this is humanity humanity a sonnet without mercy reprises

I enter the room I know everyone else but him He is tall dark handsome he loves sports and politics It doesn’t really matter as long as I have my verse He says, “you don’t want to see me when the Padres play I get pretty loud I scream at the television Do you like how that feels? Let’s continue at the bridge Lamps are glowing in clusters and the night is serene. It is Los Angeles Queen of the Angels at night. Sullenly is the moon that is so brilliant it sings. Beyond in the canyon is a hillside with its trees they thicken the air with their beautiful sleeping leaves, their flowers feverishly seek suckling of bees There is no fear in a poem that no longer will fear Fear is the strength of courage in equality

Oh sun that was pricked in the heart, Ruben, It must have hurt something awful to feel The L.A. Sheriffs on black and white hooves For they took what they had not rights to steal

They deprived you of Life, ay ay de mi Why did they do this and how do they dare What do they know of the beautiful tree It lives in despairs it weeps for its cares My goodness now look what’s been done to us? We run from side to side of the violence While it aims with precision at our suns Tells them they’re offspring of silence What was once muffled cannot be quiet But clamors for Salazar and Zeta

There he was one at one with death, Oscar Acosta And the body of a youth was draped in it It made him inert: he perceived nothing he appeared as he was: a lifeless corpse nothing that was done he could feel, even, because he was as he was not alive.

“If I am his lawyer and he can’t speak…. What do I do?”—Do you want a piece of that bruise there? “What do you mean?” –It looks like a blunt instrument wound. And turning away thinking out loud of the silence. “Stop That’s Enough Please don’t cut him Again” Where it love it wouldn’t happen like that. Love that doesn’t love me I love you no matter what

I couldn’t hear I was just a little girl

Tuned Inward Dimensionally Twine unboundaried suspended spatialace unspoken connotation minute line sonnet remember me as I too face back from past to remember the future incongruent transmission and verdure not a music not a math but a verse an actual thought consisted of terse imagine in its lesser spectacles an instant is a verb is a thought form

exotic for its tragic opus cast for humanity was cured in ire love without obstacle without vengeance of liberty the status is dire photo 1253, 1254,1255 when that August her prime example: trochaic what was left when everywhere you went to Denver Oh Colorado you are brutal you are cruel once there were seven and then two, sonnets aside she is a hero who speaks the truth: suppression hurts but it kindles the kindred and summons such passions the past is humble the present inordinate slant what alphabet originates (that’s right a reversal pulse) Revelations become Sheer Unincorpoated indeed it’s time my people to separate the chaff from the germ hatred is the venom of the insipid and mired advancements belong to their own ascendance, Arise released the persecuted political youths by verse’s authority the brute the boot the bestial the beckoned forth bless

peace is a precedent what love beautiful arts commence that brings freedom to the peaceful passion of before verges it becomes what it must by desgin intricate infinite dreamweaver whatever you call it you can’t say it didn’t exist at all to nullify is to occupy what poetry is to hatred, for example, If i want to write epics I might it would epithet rid you your wrongs by a rapid development of a vernacular and a lyrical, flower and song and Alurista brown and gold Cervantes amidst was Zeta Acosta, reversed cypher a clone of that slant it was never made crude as a dogma a singing school a perfect mode of transmission for truths to conciliate --Don’t cut him again. Don’t cut him again. Leave it at that... emerges a New York firm and a Kentucky boy foregoing his class becomes Oscar as Oscar quarrelled with himself: he was his plagiarist

Yet they need laws to restrain us or else poetry wouldn’t be needed but life itself without moral ridicule and vapid provenance It endured in its heart-broken thinkgers--real writers and scribes

Therefore it became a chronic condition of dissonance sanity it lacked and decorum for it quibbled with itself vitaminized with victims voracious and vapied--Stop Censorship! FBI PBS CHP LAPD ICE DHS Brewer Bainer McKain King Kennedy Imperialists without dignity beckoned on knowledge proximate: I defect with defection I become a dissident Is that what you planned for the seasons of haterage? As you were my victim I was you vice , enemy of the people: “what about the water what about the well?” You call that scholarship? You call those Ideas? You call yourself Human? You are tiresome I suspect you of Crimes without Proof The black ball the black ball it tints the windows dark mounts

the screen It is a black horse that runs in the eyes of my mother’s pains In your presence those memories harken from horizons, suppressed! Suppressed was I once and the people I might free with this rouse. If one is safer if one is pardoned it is not by accident.

Truth is not what truth is not but what it follows slant tuned to an exilic meter one that cannot be stopped again If I am not human I am a substantial self

--the witch was sad because people treated her bad And, what happened, Tony what happened next after that? --I don’t know the end of the story yet. You don’t?

Why why do the beautiful suffer the brutal? I am writing a book called “Instructions to Love.” Love is to Love a masterpiece a masterpiece Love I repeat myself so much when I want to speak thoughts hurt they are so immense beholding spectrum without cease

Because I love my teachers what they wrote for me slant The slant of a verse is circumference in time There is a time for revolts that are peaceful with ill intent to destroy the suppression and the adherence supine No language was ever a decibel without purpose. Censorships hurt safeguards simultaneously, mob if this is civil discourse it is haphazard unfit to its premise and its pretense - peurilee Being liberal does not mean liberal to injustice Chicano poetry it is not crude it’s no mess it influences Youth, Socrates, deport yourself There is no nation at its ease under suppression much less would there be a muse who was insufficient FONY2012 it was a sad, a horrible, a happy hour-all at once there became a ceasefire and season death in her eternal madness awoke from sleeping and life for life's sake was a truism a great mirth

no princess ever born was to be tried or passed around it was a sad, a horrible, a happy hour and there never again will be another Shakespeare for humanity for humanity has been spent against its express purpose intent and is deprived conscious without merit, its supreme cataclysm while the destruction of beauty is paramount and which but for its ominous potency returns not it is never utterly vanquished but has worth in the appearance of majesty of valiant ends while there is life to be lived then we will of which no quantity with it compares a measure indisputable arrhythmia you become metered--you match sound without reason to feet and march to the counter-beat march to the counter-beat

----you can't live despite everything without happiness, how radiant is its perseverance against the law's facade of authority, you face

what was once impossible becomes realistic doesn't disappear from its memory but holds to the miracle of time over distance horizons on an internal trek it's multiples its variables and its tenors, if not for your example who'd believe that a dream of your humanity was awakened? & stirs in its puddles the dew of the soul for petals so pretty were never seen

What is it? What’s this thing? What's my life worth? It was a horrible, a sad and a happy hour.

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