Garbage piled high in the streets

In front of Cafťs and Bistrots

Sometimes it seems not as a poem but of a poem

Iím walking through it for truth

For in poems, thereís an author

And subjects can be mere objects.

I truly feel something ticking beside the authorís soul.

Not time.  Beyond the concept of time.

-Beyond words-

Organic and real.

Crawling through black skies

And it being its own light

Buzzing in blades of green grass

Inside city potholes

Splashing those idiots who donít know

But, think they know.  And, limit those who donít care

Donít care what they think at all

Now laws, no limits Ė just love gone higher

Only love will break the fall.

Books are paths

But so are smiles.  A look. A kiss.  

The way she walks in a room w/ no walls

Iím the author of my poem

Gone higher

Conscious of my choices

Right or left.  Up and down.

Side to side.  At rest.  Go Ė

Is why she stopped.

Itís something too obvious.

Unlike Macchu Picchu

A rebuke at everything

Or just the one thing

That makes me go Ė

Away from others

But not her

Her voice races through

Electric diamond wires

Her thoughts locate me

A rose with its thorns

Iíve been cut by beauty itself

Unveiling truth

The curiosity of it

How deep would they be

How deep would they go.

Words are paths

My doors are cleansed

Night and day

Light or dark

Itís meaningless

Yet everything to be


John Alan Conte` JR

Winter/Spring 2003