Poems are not objective, they are subjective and many times wildly inaccurate. Poems are not fixed objects in the sky, they are soul photographs of emotional moments, photographs of feelings that sometimes succumb to their very opposite. Poems are impulses that take a creative form: those that are followed and those that are rejected. They are cities lived in and roads not traveled. They are decisions in the making, competing choices. Their words are not binding in the court of God, nor do they reflect the final judgments of the one who writes: the one whose vacillation, whose confusion of love and fury, is a path to understanding himself. Honesty is the poetís strategy for survival; and honesty reflects his own inner world more than it does the characters and situations which wander into the path of his pen. Apologies, in advance, are therefore given to any of the mystery people who may feel that they are but grist for his mill. Their reality lies beyond him, their innocence cannot be compromised by an inspiration, their impact is neither "good" nor "bad", it is sacred and a part of the divine texture of life. Blessed be all those who came close enough to be distorted by the poetís art!

If you have come to this page from "Poetry Preface", you may return via the link provided.  Following are the poems of JRS XIV ("Falling Off Love's Cliff"):


Fire-breathing Dragon

Writing On My Skin

Not My Eyes, Hers

Guilt Over Her

Soul Nudity

Ten Years To Live

Betrayal And Love

Loveís Broken People

Falling To Higher Ground

Something Between

Deadly Fictions

Proud And Free Man Thing

The Vampire Dies

Wounded Man In A Hole (Lyrics)

Good Morning, Sorrow (Lyrics)

She Wonít Cry For Me


Mud Of The Trench

Phoenix God

Any Day



Fire-breathing Dragon


I canít help myself.

I breathe fire

I burn down hearts

I ruin lives

just by being alive.

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Writing On My Skin


Writing on my skin.

A mistake

or not a mistake,

just too much,

and there it is,

a cut,

a word you left

on my skin.

A burn,

a story

given to



Thoughts and feelings

all over me.

Life used me

like a clay tablet

to engrave

the world

in this soft skin

thatís not felt you

for ages.


And then,

thereís the writing

of new skin,

the pen of




covering over,

the amnesia of flesh

growing towards a

new light.

Or was it just too much?


And someone new

will look at my naked

unmarked skin

and never know.


You wonít be there.


And weíll live the lie.

Because life

is that strong,


when death is the only

other answer.


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Not My Eyes, Hers


One day sheíll see

thatís itís not

my insect/god eyes

of many lenses

thatís where she comes from,

the many worlds

that I see;

nor the throne

upon which

her sister sits,

nor comparisons

nor books of law

shaped like hearts,

but trapped by rules.


beyond expectations,

beyond security,

sheíll understand,

sheíll stop bleeding.

What bird

is afraid of falling?

What fish

is afraid of drowning?

Sheís too great

for my migrating eyes

to destroy,

as long as she

doesnít put her crying self

outside the door

into the dark.

She wonít need me.

She wonít need

the God, or the


She wonít have

to curse the sky,

sheíll be the sky.

And she wonít have to break me

by breaking,

sheíll be indestructible.

Once she stops looking

at my eyes

and lets her eyes

be the ones

that tell her

who she is.

Truth will save her

and set me free.

Love wonít become hate.

Winter will be beautiful,

not cold.


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Guilt Over Her



Did I stab myself?

Did she stab me?

Did I destroy what I loved?

Or did it destroy me?

Is her pain

my crime,

or her weapon?

Whose blood is it

on the floor?


Was it the beast in me

or the angel

who fell in love

with the nightís

brightest star?

Was it treachery

or enlightenment?


Now, everywhere I go,

I must walk on roads

of broken glass,

her deadly tears

that kill me

with the difference

between the me

she dreamt of

and the me who was;

the me who she

built a temple to,

and the me

who God forgot to


the me

who was a captive

of her generosity,

and the me

who is the windís son.



Did it taste good

to my hate,

or was

I set up for

the kill

by years

of needing


to forgive me?

Should I whip myself again,

or did she

whip me enough

with love

I could not fulfill?



itís fine

to let the

night in,

to shut down

this torture chamber

of living

as my own

worst enemy

because she

no longer

stores her gold

in my heart.



itís so fine,

like a whisper

after so much shouting,

like a flower trembling

in the desert,

this nothingness,

this healing dark,

this forgetting about us,

this world

trying to be reborn

by not existing,

until one day

a new day

finally is

a new day.


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Soul Nudity


I feel the need

for complete soul nudity.

I want to take off


every lie and fear

in a room

of loving eyes,

I want one moment

beyond their


that kills me

with secrets

I cannot keep,

I want to dance

one night

across the floor

of sorrow,

I want the deception to end.


If they donít hang me,

I hang myself.


I want that to change.


Is it an immortal goddess

with wings

I need,

one who my sword of defects

cannot puncture -

or just myself?


Forgive me in advance.


Love me

because I am strange,

my first step towards something great,

if you wonít blow the light out

by being wounded

so easily.


Donít live in my eyes,

fly above me,

love me,

be invulnerable,

love me.


Forget these clothes of trying to please you,

burn them,

take me naked

or join the wild

killer pack,

I donít want to

be brought down

from behind.


See me naked

and tell me right away,

donít let me

load your weapon

by pretending to be perfect.

One day youíll find out.


I canít live this way,

by their laws.

Like rain I fall,

I am.

Donít need me,

donít get under my skin,

donít tie your heart

to what you donít know

about me.

Look at me naked.


Look at yourself,

not through my eyes.


Then decide.



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Ten Years To Live


I was born today.

I have ten years to live.

I knew you in a past life,

but this is now.


is only an ambush.

Who wants to live

in a city

of ruins?

I was born today.

I have ten years to live.

Not much time,

but a life.

What do I want

to do

with it?

Before now,

shadows were

my king,


was my


my sky was black

and the stars

of what we

once shared

only made

it blacker.


to broken wings

and submerged continents

got in the way

of the sun.

It could not rise

with the power

of our lost bed,

our estranged minds.


I have ten years left.

Ten years of shining,

or just

the long last chapter

of the book

of the dead.


When your eyes

lost that spark -

when no light came

into them

when you saw me -

I knew it was over.

I had to be born

without you,

or die.


The pain

went up

to the mountain

and came back

with the commandment

of me

loving me

because God

loves me

even if you




isnít divine punishment,

itís just

the labor pains

of being born

without your eyes,

of being born

out of my own


in my own way,

and my own time,

beyond your kindness

or your hate.

Iím not a criminal

just because

I didnít

turn out the way

you wanted.

Iím not worthless

just because you exposed me to die

on the mountain

of your cold heart,

cold because it once

loved me.


Thank you for killing me


Tomorrow would have been

too late.


But now I know.

In time to turn a beautiful color

before I

fall from the tree.


Thank you for telling me


Tomorrow would have been

too late.


I have ten years to live.

Ten years to live.

I knew you in a past life,

but this is now.


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Betrayal And Love


My body

never betrayed you.

You betrayed me

by punishing me

for being able to love.


I loved the tree,

I loved the leaf,

I loved the green insect,

I loved the cat,

I loved the flock of geese,

I loved the way the light

loved the clouds,

I loved

the secret language

of the sea,

I loved the moon

hiding and

running from cloud to cloud,

her half-seen body

of foggy light

suddenly becoming bright,

I loved music in the night

coming from unseen places,

I loved people talking to themselves,

and dancing

because they thought no one

was looking,

I loved ruins

that other people

once called home,

because I loved my own home,

I loved the ghosts

insinuated by stones,

I loved pictures

in old books

before anyone knew

what other worlds

really looked like,

I loved chimes

talking with the wind,

I loved fountains

breathing in places of stone,

footsteps of water

running from the dead,

I loved sunsets

foretelling new days,

falling orbs of fire

quieted by the black

secretly conspiring with

the light,

I loved my footprints in the sand,

offerings to the waves,

I loved the

sound of nothing

in which the creaking of an

old house

seemed to be

the voice

of life

announcing its omnipresence,

the impossibility of oblivion,

I loved mountains

defining me

with snow-capped peaks

I could not reach,

that filled

me with the longing

to climb

steep and wild hills,

I loved texts of stars

rolled out

in the giant library

of the night,

I loved the sound

of myself

as I used to be.


How could I not love her?

How could I be next to her,

and not love her, too?


Our bodies never touched,

but our souls swam together

in the same sea,

we were enveloped in a moment

of comprehension,


with the impact of

each other.

The only way I could

not have loved her

would have been

to love nothing,

to shut all the beauty

of the world down;

and to not

love you.


Our bodies never touched.

But still,

you felt betrayed,

wounded enough

to try to kill me.


I canít help myself.

I canít help loving.

Lovingís in my blood.

And I leave my tracks.

Everywhere I go,

I leave my tracks,

with poems.

And you found out.

That I am not blind

or deaf,

or locked

in the room

of you.


Why was it so hard

for you to understand?

Loving her

was not an end

to loving you.


I donít believe in only

one God.


Did anyone ever tell

an ancient Greek,

"You cannot love Hermes

because you love Zeus?

You cannot love Aphrodite

because you love Athena?"

Why could they have twelve Gods,

and I can

only have you?


Our bodies never touched.

But our souls

brushed against each other

and left deep traces

in our eyes.


Must I pull all beauty

out of the earthís garden

as though everything

that were not you

were a weed?


Why canít you let me


why canít you let my

heart be itself,

flow like water downhill

to beautiful things,

give offerings

of poems

to the ones

who move me?


Do you really

want that kind

of love,

the devotion

of a corpse,

mounted on the horse

of a lie,

to terrify the Moors

of your heart?


Do you really want

to live with

a cripple,

a prisoner without music,

a bird without wings,

a broken soul

who has severed himself

from all the beauty

of the Universe?


I canít live that way.

Beauty is everywhere.

If I only see it in you,

I will not be able to see it

in you.


And singing is my way.

Like the bird

in the morning,

singing is my way.


Forgive me if I have hurt you,

but loving is in my blood.

And singing

is my way.


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Loveís Broken People




people put

other people

behind fences,

they kill the soul

to cling to

the remains.

Like stuffed animals

behind museum cases

that donít run

that donít howl

or roar

or swim across rivers

or soar above

the ruptured might

of canyons

or disappear,


in the mists

that protect

the sacred


of mountain peaks

from eyes

that lower


people drive the spirits away,

to stay

in clean dead places,


and unbeautiful,

they worship pieces of hair

taken from the dead.

They worship statues

whose jewel-eyes

were stolen,

standing blind and massive

in the temple

of lifelessness.

They worship

empty places where

birds stayed for one night

before flying away,

because it still wasnít home.

It is a world

of crushed souls

living together

in half-love,

broken by a fear

of wild things,

by needs

too precarious

to take a chance with.

The skies of the daring and the free

are empty,

true love

has been

killed by idols,

by bound hands

and lies,

by wounds

that need delusions
of godhood

to be healed.


One day,

I looked the other way,

and I was killed.


For a long time after that,

I fell,

until one day
I realized

she never loved me,

she just used me

to fill

the hole

of their wrongs,

to believe what she

needed my eyes

to tell her,

which was

more than they could

without lying,

because no soul

can stand up

to that amount of


She did not love me

when I was flying;

only when my wings

were folded

in homage

to the tyranny

of her wounds.

But I needed to fly.


Maybe if all souls

would fly,

there would be no need

for captives.



now that itís over,

we can finally

love each other.


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Falling To Higher Ground



is the way

to higher ground.

You finally

understand something

by losing it.

Its soul

comes alive

when its form dies.

You have it

by not having it.

These words are nonsense

if you havenít lived them;

and if you have,

they arenít necessary.


But I had some extra ink

to spend this morning,

and stating the


never hurt anyone.

Loud subtleties

never tire of exposure.


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Something Between


There must be something

between a lobotomy

and a gladitorial combat,

something between an

electric shock

and a coma.

Something called love

that builds

without tearing down,

that heals

without maiming,

that flies

without crashing.

Something between

death and



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Deadly Fictions


People live in fictions.

They hurl themselves

like actors

into dramas

that are only shadows

of their wounds,

they turn streets and nations

into a stage,

they raise the curtains

of love and war,

they kidnap


to be the soldiers

of their

phantom army,

fighting phantom battles

with real blood,

they seduce look-alikes

and dream faces

with their ignorance

of themselves,

they break hearts

with runaway fantasies

rolling down

the mountain

of truth,


sacrifice lambs

to bring divine winds

to the sails

of their lies,

they talk about illusions

while living in illusions,

they wear the robes of the wise

while succumbing

to foolishness,

they turn everyone

into a pawn

of the great game

that hides

what is broken

inside them.


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Proud And Free Man Thing






donít need guilt.


Life sun

on the skin,

all-day power

makes you grow towards her.

Then darkness comes,

the time to stir.

Moon-power angel,

guarding green doorways,

nightís in the gang

to cover

the metamorphosis.


donít understand.

Theyíre broken.

Lightís enough to see,

too little

to give it away.


Itís the time


unseen faces

when everything

becomes clear.


No sin

those runaway loins


donít need

everything to be

spelled out.

Who can argue

with ecstasy?

Scorched earth

has nothing

to say,

thereís no defense

but drooping heads


inner crucifixions

on their behalf.

But once the chains

are broken

by going too far,

what can they do?

Crawling back

to themís too hard.

Once one has

has learned how to drink

forbidden water,

one will never die of thirst

because of

their desert eyes.


Once naked

is tall,

and one can wear


real name,

itís over.

Immunity to poison


from the bite

of disappointing them.


Go, friend,

find a dark wood,

a wild witch

to ride your heart away,

a halo moon,

a new life.

Break the past in


and never go back.


Be proud.

Be free.

"Be all

you can be."


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The Vampire Dies


I was the white knight.

I was the diligent student.

I was the promising piece of stone

the sculptorís heart


with dreams

of what his longing hands

can cry

into being.

Now I am the vampire

who haunts your life,

who stalks your tomorrow




happen yesterday.

I am the one


for the pale sun,

the anemic light

thatís left

in your



you can

forget me,

until the shining

fire of

me being erased

has room

to rise.

Youíve come to my coffin

at dawn

with a stake in your hand

to drive through

my heart,

to finish it off

once and for all.


Monsters always


the final chapter.

Thatís how it goes.

My homage to you,

my last kiss,

is accepting

these batís wings

to set you free.



the vampire dies.


Itís the ring

I never gave you,


by having taken all

these years.


The coffinís lid

will never

open again:

from now on,

the night

is yours.



the vampire dies.


For you.


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Wounded Man In A Hole (Lyrics)


Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of you


Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of you


And that old song is coming through

like a ray of light

I always dreamt weíd be together,

weíd run away, not stay,

go to the place

where our dream could come true


God I miss you

itís a different kind of dark

when youíre in my mind

black doesnít seem the same

itís almost bright

youíve got more power than the night

until I remember that itís over

over is the hardest word there is,

over is the hardest word there is



Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of you


Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of you


Old days

will never come again

New days

were stolen

by what was


Iím dying

Guess thatís all

thatís left:




Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of you


Iím a wounded man

in a hole,

thinking of youÖ


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Good Morning, Sorrow


The title of this song was suggested by the title of the Francoise Sagan novel, Bonjour Tristesse.


Good morning sorrow

without you who would I be?

Just another happy fool

without the beauty you bring to me.


Good morning sorrow

take me for a walk on your leash of tears

I couldnít leave you if I tried

now that weíve known each other all these years


Good morning sorrow

my life is shattered in pieces on the floor

and this old house wonít stop calling out her name

I thought she loved me, but you love me more


Laughter and love

came for a day

Then the cold wind blew

and they went away

But youíll never desert me

youíll always stay

My dear sorrow,

good morning


Good morning sorrow

I know you, you know me

Itís too late to start again, weíre more than friends

and youíre the only one whoíll never leave


Good morning sorrow

itís you again

I was so alone in this room that doesnít answer

thanks for staying until the end


Good morning sorrow

looks like itís just you and me

she flew away with wounded angel wings

thanks for the company


Laughter and love

came for a day

Then the cold wind blew

and they went away

But youíll never desert me

youíll always stay

My dear sorrow,

good morning


And I heard her leaving

thatís how I knew you were coming


Thanks, dear sorrow,

good morning


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She Wonít Cry For Me


She wonít cry for me

no more

She wonít love the broken pieces

no more

My phone wonít ring from her

no more

in the middle of the night

when I need a voice to say:

"Itís not just the night,

I know you."


And someone elseís eyes

will be looking into hers

when the moon bends down

to drink the water


She always said sheíd live by the water


But she never said

without me.


I couldnít come.


But she never said without me.


And Iíll just be the sorrow

she takes off

like clothes

on her wedding night

in the bed

of her new life


And my pain wonít haunt her anymore.

Ghosts donít haunt

happy homes.


And she wonít cry for me

no more

She wonít love the broken pieces

no more

My phone wonít ring from her

no more

in the middle of the night

when I need a voice to say:

"Itís not just the night,

I know you."


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She was with me, then,

making footsteps

in the sand.

All up and down that beach

in the hot sun.

Life stopped on us

waited for us,

I never thought that it would

move on.

Our footsteps

owned the sand

for a day,

I loved her

and she loved me.

Thatís the day

I picked up this shell,

this wedding ring

the ocean gave to us,

this piece of time

I still keep

by my side.

The beach remains,

I could give it

my footprints

all over again

but our duet of walking

will never more

write its secret

by the water,

her steps

and my steps

are a thousand miles


this parallel,

sometimes interlacing


is at an end.

But I have a shell,

a shell of it

that still belongs to

her and me:

beautiful doomed days by the sea

that were erased

by the waves of our faults.


Beautiful doomed days by the sea

that were erased,

except for this shell.


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Mud Of The Trench


Sheís as beautiful

as a painting.

Youíre covered

with mud.

Sheís as beautiful

as a cloud.

Youíre covered

with mud.

The mud of the trench.

The mud of the trench

we shared

fighting together

in the war

to be human.

We didnít lose

and we didnít win.

After a time,

I began to dream of others

who were not splattered

with mud.

I began to dream of clouds,

and lands beyond the sea.

Of beauty

unspoiled by

knowing it.

Only now

that we are apart

do I finally see the beauty

of the mud

that covered us -

the mud of the trench

we shared

fighting together

in the war

to be human.


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Phoenix God



you are my God:

flaming hope

from ash,

all my broken


all the pieces

of my heart

strewn by her door,

all my lost beauty,

my lost moment

when the sun

came looking

for me

and I wasnít there,

this hole

of missing everything,

this death

of having too much


to give,

this night

of not being enough,

of leaving

my planet

in the darkness,

of leaving my


with an impostor,

of leaving my children


in the grave

of my useless martyrdom,

my unfruitful passion,

this night,

this night

that chills the soul,

that makes death

seem like a sin,

a desertion,

a robbery,

a robbery of myself

by myself,

a broken commandment,

a broken cup,

spilled life,

inconsolable bitterness.



you are my God.

On the darkest night

of my inside sky,

you are my only hope.

I canít die so empty.

First I need

to obey the law

of my greatness,

I canít die this way,

a traitor

to the gift,

I canít die this way,

without her

and without me,

without handing over the light.



you are my God.


I bow down to you.

You rose again

from ashes.

I bow down to you.

You are

my God.



you are my God:


the only one


to pray to.


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Any Day


Any day

could be the day

Iím saved.

Any day.


Any day

could be the day

I see.

Any day.


Any day could be the day

I finally turn this coat of sorrows

inside out,

which means to wear it

the right way,

which is being

happy again.


Any day could be the day

I find out that

what I lost

is less than what

I still have.


Any day could be the day

this constant flight

from shadows ends,

that I wake up

from this

dream of endless falling.

Any day.


Any day could be the day

that I finally stop

combing my hair

for blind men,

that my heart ceases

to be synchronized

with the watch

of being somebody elseís

broken soul.

That I forget to lock

the prison door

of my mind,

and flee back

to before the

death threat.

I wasnít always

like this;

and itís not the price

of depth

to be so unhappy.

Deeper waters

donít exist

without higher mountains.

And I could climb one

any day,

just by finding out

that I already have.


Any day

could be the day

that I stop trying so hard,

and just am:

the day the gold

is dusted off

and the shining

that was always there

comes back.

Any day.


Any day.


Which could be today.


What a beautiful sunrise,

not to step out into the same dark.


Because today

could be the day.




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