a place is interesting because of the stories that you have heard before.
for instance, this bed is where this man and that woman first made it.

this house is deserted because once a fire broke here
and chaos is born, and chaos wears a mask and since then people do not recognize its face.

a name to you is interesting because your mother tells the story of that name.
the spelling has a history about a rumor and you love rumors.

shall i say that you pretend that you like to have a talk with him
because you like to gather some flowers from his garden?

that is a nice objective. Flowers are always a delight at the center table.
the earth appears to be thirsty of conflicts. That is a misinterpretation.

The deserted path knows better. No one really cares what one does with his feet.
The moon knows it all. But look, it simply shines and does not tell you anything.

For secrets have always been nuggets. They must remain buried.
When dug again and shaped into different forms, that is where the definition of hell comes out.

I am not the one saying this anyway. Quite harsh.
Hell is other people. And i am one of its delicate flames.

the man is actually a bird
(though his wings are made invisible by this words)

it is ready to fly and fly high and
away from all the islands and trees

dreaming of a desert of stones and sands
and become a wanderer without water testing if

a bird somehow survives this new dimension
clouds all, air abundant, horizons unlimited, space and space

the space that husbands always tell their wives
at night when sleep is strange

the wall which had always longed to talk
keeps on mocking, why will it always be about birds and stones?

deafening silence
redeeming solitude, these are the reasons

don't you feel that moving away is also a diversion
from things that are too near that looks like a rope that is choking?

(sigh) love those stony stings.

to pry upon his weakness and to discover
some artifacts from his house is her past time

and every hour when there is a break from the
wanton hours and the monotonous menu of the day

she opens the usual window and watch what the
worm is doing inside the terrarium

she records the possibility that this can be a landmark
of history and significant for what others say as a phenomenon

other people's lives matter
and sometimes the worm that looks at her too asks: why?

the worm, and she does not know this, is also prying upon her
her shrinking breasts, her skin that looks like dry tobacco leaf

her life that to the worm has become more of a raisin
stuffed inside a boxed, with a history of having been dried by the sun

the worm is fair though, in its latest description
she is still sweet though neutral in smell, and deserves still to be liked to be eaten someday

p.s. the worm remarks, kids will like her.

and there is a big black bird

actually the neighborhood calls it the crow
with red eyes

the children who ask
do not know where it really comes from

it is staying by the window and feeds on
the noise of a couple who discuss about divorce possibilities

it likes the way the children carry on the
confusion about where to go and whether they are loved

the housemaid is driving it away
but it doesn't have that capacity

there is a wound in its heart and its wings
are clipped off from the sickness of
indecision

it loves to watch the way how the housemaids
are stealing stories from their masters

it is quite a long time now and the wound is healed
and the wings have grown to their original sizes

it is ready to fly away but it cannot
it loves the show of other peoples miseries and concealed motives

the black bird's first name is everyday
and its surname is everyone.

a mocking bird
sits on a branch of a tree
that fronts the house that
papa made

papa is gone.

a mocking bird left but one
sunny day

after the heavy rains for months
the mocking bird comes back

it is bringing silence
unlike all the other mocking birds
in town

the mocking bird is dead
a boy abandoned by his mother
stoned it

now the window if you walk a little
distant from the house
and sit on a bench across the road
looks like a Cheshire cat
giving Alice that fable smile.

if time can only be cupped by hands
i would like it to be solid
rock, i will hold it, and sculpt it
like the way they,
artists, enter eternity, through
the door of things,

but time is not solid, it is liquefied gas
you breathe it and then
it exhales upon all the holes of
our emptied beings

in the classroom
i offer words, i stand and make a point
and write an accent

this is it, this is important
this is above all

i have strokes, all BOLD
i bang the board with

emphasis, i am doing this
not for myself, i am solid.

liquefying all of your dreams
letting you see shapes

i sit upon a load of stars.
i stand and touch an orbit.

all of you are my children.
i have none.

doubts of the scalp
and so i scratch it with my nails.
holes of infection,
itchy life, and
fallen hairs.

the goddess of smell
looks upon me,
and i look up to taste
what smell is it.

it tastes like heaven,
my usual answer.

what is heaven? they all
laugh.

my eyes lift higher
eyelashes are top loaders.


sleep is a conqueror
i am conquered but the surrender

is de-stressing
tomorrow i have a plow
and a buffalo

i own this land i remind
the grasses

tomorrow
i need to vacate, i guess

a trip, a very long long trip
where your sight cannot find me

your trains of emotions are
grounded
i have an avalanche of
forgetfulness.

so? got no word for you
except my well sculpted

goodbye baby, after all,
our worlds are galaxies apart

light years that you must know
by now.

i look at the child
at the farther nook of a old house.
there is no chair and beside the door
is a box, it is empty
and the child in fear
took its hiding there
a favorite place
safety box, safe house,
the four corners are
so silent
and the child is happy
asleep in a moment.....


time travels like horses with wings.

there is a man
with a long bird his toenails
are long, no time to cut them

it throat is swollen
bacterial infection again
or the weather changes
cold this time then hot in
a moment
dusts all over the place
and white painted houses

it is lonely, child and man
at the same time
and not one of him speaks
they become one box
and one flap opens to
a sky

always there are
no extra hands. it is reality.

there is an old man
with words of thread
sewing upon its lips.

there is a very dark night.
the child, the man and the old man
are asleep
inside a box, safe and
silent.

there is no morning.
it is final.

slowly, our ways part.
we used to be a pair of bangs.
beautiful hair, many talk about us
then we slowly part,
it is a style and people love it too
the neighbors talk for a while.
but the parting looks good
it's trendy.

then it rains and the hair
become fragile hands grasping
every skin on the forehead.

the parting is forgotten.
each lock is busy on saving itself.
trying to survive with what is so cold.

these are the days.
the sunshine is gone.

and people do not mind anymore.
they too have hair problems of their own
whatever is the trend
bangs or parting or sheen
go on.. until the falling, until the head
takes pride of
being bald...another trendy thing.

all i did was to protect
rights, i tackled the corresponding obligations.
I am a model citizen.
I teach laws.

a group of giants laugh at me
there is no trampling still, i wait.
their feet are heavy and one foot
one stamp is enough
to wipe me out. I am an ant.
I have not anthill to live.

it never saddens me
and i got enthralled by one of you.
ready to offer
everything i have.

i know how to climb trees
i challenge on of those ivory gods.
the tree gods wait and become curious.
what is this red ant up to?

i will have a good ride on a dry leaf
feel the fallen state
and write about it.

i could be human only if you want to.
she says, don't... we hate humans.
we are ivory towers and we do not feel.

i will be a red ant. The dry leaf is dead.

An enemy

you were behind me and
i looked back at you
you evaded me like we were
two ships in an inevitable
collision.

I am not afraid.

Got no lighthouse or
Port to land this small ship.

You have a continent
Scattered islands
You own lighthouses
Fierce lights and
Friend of the storms.

I am never afraid of you.
I have nothing to lose.

You walk ahead of me
And i hear your laughter.

You are the tower
Her God, and she is my wife.

I am still not afraid at you
I can look at you direct to the eye.

Soon you will die.
That is His promise.

that it is nigh time
and morning time at the same time
is not at all false.
look at us, at the extreme,
we are.

this morning is mine
yours is the night and
we are talking.

tomorrow morning
yours shall be that evening
as i walk away from this door
and close it
you shall arrive and open it
and close it again

as i gamble in the light
you shall ponder in the dark
we can never be together
again
in a dado joint.

on the blank pages
i write nothing
on the wall i write
nothing
i only speak and
then leave
when i arrive here
i carry nothing and
thus give you nothing
when the hour comes
for departure
i travel light
as light as air passing
by your window
i take nothing too
for

empty handed i come
and empty handed shall i go

did you say that too
cynth?

for what is poetry? did i tell you that it is
merely defecation and all i excrete are
trash, garbage, e coli?
you keep on saying
i disagree, i completely disagree
i am recollecting your pieces and put them
in an album and i will make
a publication, ...jesus!
socrates did not write a word.
Jesus neither.

( i am not what they were.
i am just a sigh, a sort of
a morning exercise, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale
thing)

and stephen king who says he does not write
but all these are still here...
silly life, silly life, looking for a wall
and a spray net, spray, spray, write on the
wall, draw on the wall,
keep things intact, mementos, refreshing meal
of the river of time.

i do not know. I keep on telling.
chanting. I got no book of my own.
I have nothing to own.
Let no word come back to me
and tell me
" i am your creation
and you are my papa"

for at the end i shall deny all of them
for i do not belong here neither to somebody
nor some reason.

pilgrim am i. in this river of time.
leaf.

or, do not try
that trick of closing the garage
turning on the engine of
your car and breathe
that eunuch carbon monoxide,
you are not
Anne Sexbomb.

do not ever think that
putting your head in the oven
does magic
to the blandness of your poetry.
copycat.

what is regret?
in this party, i never invite it,
comes hope in full gown
well scented and full of
fresh flowers on her hair,
come fidelity as formal as
ever with diamond necklace
and golden brooch,
comes truth in candid poses
skimpy and cleavage exposed
wow legs, skinny backless
bare and daring cheekbones,
comes trust
regal gown and sprayed firm
dovetailed hair,
where is regret? that sad woman
wanting to be in,
i call the guards not to let her in
for she is a contagion
and does not deserve to be
here in this dancing hall of
my life
turn on the music
and let the dance in circles begin.
maestro!

the river

it is not the rage of this river.
when i was a child, as mother says,
i keep my finger inside my mouth
sucked by my throat, to keep hunger away
beside the bank of this river

i am the spectator
and the river believes in the magic
of my innocence
it flows always in a distant
affection,

it is not the rage of the river,
it is i, the grown up man who goes swimming
in the river and feel
the joys of its cool waters
always moving on towards
a destination
it is the swimming with a friend
and then
with a lover and then with a wife
and then my silence,

what we do not have we force to forget
it is the bathing in the river
the rinsing and the cleansing of the waters
it is not the rage of this river

and then we become too weak to be in this river
the river moves on and on
towards the deepest sea looking for the
opening

i wait by the bank of this river
many things have been missed
the more important ones
the one that gives the posterity of
my humanity
it is denied of me because of this river
that gives me nothing

all the while i was the leaf that fell off from
the tree
on the side of this river
and i floated because i have nothing to do
because i can do nothing about
the flow of the river
i become the dead leaf that the air
rides upon
tossed and bumped on boulders
till i sink
deep down the river
that i shall pass only once.

time.

our chants...

these are the rainy nights
the rainy nights and they all warn about
a blackout,
expect landslides, let not your children
go to school,

these are the figures of speech for the
heavy rain,
outside this big house, the strong smell of paint
shares the pride of the patter

actually, one shadow tries to make sense that
it is owned by another body,
for how can shadows exist if there is nothing
tangible as flesh and bones? but the light says
i own you, i only reflect you from that
perceived owner of your existence
for without me behind this mass,
you are nowhere to be found,

the rain keeps mocking the road,
striking each corner with a hundred hammers
proclaiming alliance with clogged canals,

how does one make sense with metaphors of rains
and heaviness of feelings? overflowing rivers and
the embracing arms of the seven seas?

how does the rain pour and be relieved of the
problems of that great space, dark and limitless
horrible to the understanding of the limited man?

how come we are all scattered thoughts unable to form
a dissertation? life is simple. Life can be simple. As you must like it.

how do you like life? You are complicating the equations
threatening calculus without solutions.
how life must be liked? how unreasonable do we really become?
how cowardly do we embrace that sometimes
there is nothing more that we can grasp and then we
say: Lord, i love you with all my heart and soul and mind.

we are limping. Lame, broken bone. Feet of different lengths
Tipsy boats. Uneven universe. Twisted bridges of
life's codes. Blind, and Deaf structures.

We believe in one God. That is our chant against the wizards of
Ouch.

after writing poems late at night.

I see her turning off the light
on the table. I can see gray.
I hear her
folding the books and
crumpling the papers
perhaps her drafts
of a letter or
a composition.
I see her stand, leave the chair and the table,
and i hear the closing of the door.
everything turns dark.

i imagine her lying in bed
she closes her eyes

i know that the light inside the room
is open.

as usual the TV is on with no one watching.
i just know it. It is a habit
and it has become a practice and that
when i follow, i must be felt
when i turn off the light
and when i turn off the TV.

I know she is awake.
But i do not mind

we all pretend we are alive and that
we want to sleep.

we fall on the same mistake.
we sleep always late, and we do not talk about it.

i put my hands around her body.
she tilts her body and finds her own direction

her own dreams
not mine.

what is shorter than short?
bluer than blue?
the pale shade of
humility?
what is life short of life?
what is it that does not really
please?
what comes before death
what is it that lives after?
what was there before
we were born?
what permission have i given?
what is the reason for asking
undefined questions?
what limit can i put beyond
my expectations?

what if? i do not.

Thursday.
got a headache on Wednesday
Tuesday was bad,
and Monday was unforgiving.
negative energies are always here with me.
There is a maggot feasting on the poisoned rat.
I poisoned it last week, and days are not
that efficient to kill it without seeing
another light.
It died inside the cabinet causing us
too much disturbance.

Friday, another poem.
I hate sadness. I expect redemption.
But Friday is another usual Friday.
It cannot forget that poisoned rat
that died on a Thursday.

Saturday, i will be away on a boat
crossing the sea towards an island

Sunday, again
there is no church, It is the mountain again
No, not calvary.
It is my day with the working people.
I will eat with them
It is the day after my
5oth birthday

nothing big. 50 is nothing
but a number inferior
to 60.
So what is the big deal?

i am still, no matter what,
lengthwise or
side-wise, i am still another
dust,

unseen fungus on
the scalp of another
unwashed head.

you are sociable, articulate,
you speak and remember, you are both
a mouth, and
a memory, and so you keep albums,
black and white pictures,
everything that your dad wrote,
every piece makes you
remember
the greatness in us, of us,
all about us, and i say, all these self-serving
keepings, what are they for?

footprints in the sand... waves are eternally
erasing everything, the activity is always
covering

this is the origin of all that is new
fresh and beautiful, we give way, they all come,
we hide behind those furrows,

we are underneath the sheets,
we are the other last layers of those striated formations
no one digs us, we are buried,
some archeologists make the findings

(sigh) we are not what they are saying
how can we live for another 500 years?
tell me.

the mirror is always a good metaphor
for solitude, on cold nights, the mist sticks
on the glass,
despite the coldness
in solitude
you sweat, there is heat inside you
warm body, groping hands,
the mirror faces you, blames you
and ask: where have you been
for all those years?

(sigh, emote, undress,
on uncut pubic hair, somehow you manage
an attitude of
purity)

i am here with you.
all these years.
i am. Faithful as a
rose tattoo.

to be candid, i do not intend
to grow old with some dead leaves
on that cold pond,

i am not your haiku,
i am the elegy of the middle aged man
who leaves an oral tradition

a poetry to the world
with no trace of any lyric

i already sound like a dirge
dig it.

Oedipus well demonstrated that
since his eyes did not see the truth
then they are of no use and so
he plucked them off their sockets

self-inflicted punishment with
him as judge

faraway from what this college of law
is teaching: this doctrine of self-preservation

due process, and equal protection
the right of the accused to life to lie
the right of his lawyer to lie for him
the poisonous tree and its fruits
benefit him to freedom

justice is a child without a mother
on tattered clothes, foul and begging on the streets

emaciated, lost and tomorrow
shall die.

every written word
takes away a part of me

i am chipped off
bit by bit

an eyes is missing
an ear is cut off

as i appear before you
my mirror

i become incomplete
because i am always giving

and i walk away
my hair is cut and some locks fall

faraway from misgivings
i sit beside a clear pool of water

there are no ripples
the moon is full

darkness subsides
and then i am full.

the green tiles of the garage
reinvent this old house

it is more livable now
the hammock newly washed

the shoes newly brushed and
the table newly painted

this house has reinvented itself
into something more admirable

decent, confident, renewed,
this could be a start

as you must begin to recreate
what you once was too

do not be just yourself
go beyond what is admirable

reinvent your mind
dye your hair, polish your nails

scent your soap and
wash your hands.

you must have noticed
that in all my stories i am always the hero

precisely that is what history is all about,
the storyteller is the survivor, the victor

triumphant one
the mouth shall always tell direct from the horse.

it is a gift to see what happens next
the flash of an accident the death of the salesman

it is the sharpness of the mind the constant grilling
and sanding that makes you see what others don't

at night you notice the dance of fireflies
the formation of stars and the myths of their shapes

at dawn you hear the sighs of the wind
the untold stories of the crickets and the worms

the ceiling gets closer to your heart
the floors wait for your feet

this morning, the smell of coffer travels like a dragon
to your nostrils giving you more fire

you spit warmth, you swallow love
you chew affection, you discard pretension.

between the divine law and
the laws of men

between the id and the superego
the wall and the other wall

between the floor and the
ceiling


between sin and forgiveness
between my flesh and my spirit

lies the secret of my sanity
and like civil law there shall always be compromises

plea bargaining, the golden mean of Aristotle
between right and wrong, there is something

that must make us alive
for the meantime that this journey is not over yet

between my left and right ear
we must listen so we can hear

between two words are the spaces
these are places of compromises

at the extremes of pure solidity
there lies this stupidity.

a day goes beyond sunset
lengthened to a few meters
darkness dances under colored
neon lights
there is more to it even
than what i
in fidelity does: teaching a class
of law going beyond
precarium and mens rea
there was something more
in Oedipus and Antigone
the brooch that he used to
remove his eyes from its sockets
and roam the world as a beggar
holding only a staff and his
empty bowl
because even if he once was
king(destiny toyed what he is)
he sinned, and there is no law that
punishes him
he punishes himself.

their eyes turn round
the skies are gray
i hear the rain from the alum roofs
the class is dismissed.

and how do we know that God speaks to us?
invoke the beautiful garden
there will always be a gardener
even if you do not see the wind
but the rustling leaves can tell
that is God, appearing, manifesting
but i want him to use words, to utter
what i also utter, i want him, to speak my name
as a master shall call a servant at dawn

50 years i waited, and all i have are still metaphors
labyrinths, i want and pray
that God be literal, and candid and frank and
straightforward, as one friend would call me

hey Ric, what's up? did you give bread to the hungry?
did you visit those who are in prison?
did you check if justice is done?
did you care for the poor and the oppressed?

could be in one dinner when he sits with me
under the light of the fluorescent lamp
nothing about my imagination that he speaks through my wife
or through a visitor or through an event
or through an accident that did not happen
nothing like that, and in this case to be frank with you

God has not spoken yet.

a burning heart, he says, he has a burning heart
and i imagine a burning bush, as we wonder how come that
there is also an eternal fire that does not burn
and char anybody
a burning heart and it does not stop to burn
there is still pain in there, but the burning heart is never consumed
it burns love, and pain is always lesser
there may be no joy anymore, but the giving insists
everything, everything take them all away
that is the only meaning of the burning heart
always unconsumed, never charred, a stranger to the ashes.

one thing with thought is that it is fluid.
do you like them to be stones? the sculptors are
ready with their hammers.
one thing with flexibility is that something always
wants to remain open, a door for instance
sometimes to wait for the beloved it is never locked
till midnight
or that window that misses the moon
it never closes till twilight
for the love of light and cool air
some have to be apertures and orifices
my mouth is open for love my arms are unclosed circles
my heart grasps for air something in it is still open
in fact, as you have seen it,
in its unclosed state, it is still bleeding
my mind is open functioning as a parachute of my ambitions
my body does not actually mind what happens next
trusting in words, in another glass of red wine,
cherries for the tongue
the last one for the road, who knows?

a candle melts as fire gets too near,
water saves the drops
that fall upon the glass,
shapes of freedom are formed
melting ideas solidified by
cold and contained once
again in water and glass as the
man that owns the scene
finishes its work and
leaves.

the myth of sisyphus
somehow after 50 years
is no longer a myth.
the rock is as true as the
inclined uphill
climb

i breathe
and take some air
for i shall climb again
and put this rock
and roll it down again
and put it up again

i breathe
more life
and haven't mentioned yet
that death
is a reasonable option.

the walking days will still be there
sometimes we shrug our shoulders feeling sorry
the day is over
and one body is still stuck on the seat of questioning
forgetting that this is merely another walk
on some short destinations
arriving there we disembark only to be told
to walk again

it is not weird
it is. it is. it is.

it is.

let the days pass
let all the dreams ask

why are we still unfulfilled?
when will we become true?

let the days pass
let the mind be as busy as a marketplace

let the haggling be haggling
bargain bargain, compromises

let the days pass
let the hair on my head be all white

let the days eat me whole
and let me fade like a ghost

let there be none of me again
i have had enough

now i am hearing the rushing steps
of the fish vendor
towards the market
passing by the road fronting
my blinds

a busy day,
the red ant below my feet is at it again
finding some crumbs
of cookies
under the computer table
beside the swivel chair

i always have a word
despite,
the ant wonders
why are you doing this?

the nails have no feelings
and so are the feet of the chairs

the monitor is a eunuch
the room fills itself with so much mess

rambling books
scattered papers still unread

piling folders and
dusty nooks

the light brown curtains need
badly a laundrywoman

the walls are calling for a painter
and the floors yell for a scrubbing and mopping

this is the earth of being
needing an update a cleansing of some sort

a deluge perhaps
and what must remain must only be the essentials

a pen a piece of paper
discard the table and the chair

for man can squat
and still relate to what is bare and empty.

cold wind on my skin
from the sea and mountains
i am at the middle
and my heart is warm
i am unbeatable
i walk in the middle
buffered and
secure.

there will be no rain tonight
the stars are telling that

it will be as peaceful as a pond without herons
the fullness of the moon reveals it

there will just be two of us
as promises unfulfilled

tomorrow morning when the gate of the front neighbor squeaks
i expect darker clouds

i wonder, despite,
there are still no rains

weathers perhaps have emotions of their own
and just like ours

verily unpredictable
duped.

something short
and thin and crispy and
a little bit salty

a little sugar can make
a difference

inside the mouth the tongue misses
a pinch of bitterness

the taste buds want a complete
rainbow from teeth to teeth

something that is wet and
sticky

no one says
we miss the pungent moments sometimes

as usual the night full of secrets
hides its face from the candid days

the cover of the journal is black
the whiteness of the pages faded into an off-white disposition

what is not written there
if by chance these things fall into your hands must be understood by you

shall i say
we are riding in the same boat towards the same direction

yes, please, do not judge me
you have always proclaimed we are what we are and no one has the right to change us.

early morning eyes
fresh from their dreams

the mind recalls
the heart confirms

all the emotions still contained
vivid images in technicolor

the hands summon the fingers
write,write, write

strike while the iron is hot
cliche, cliche

now the thoughts rush like a flood
from the forest mountains

the fingers are adept at all these
one with the mind and heart

and so here we are again
slaves of our art

redeemed risen anew
maybe still cold and perhaps even frozen

thaw
melt only to be solidified again when the sun comes

irony of the mind
paradoxes of the heart

listen
to you i am saying nothing

it is for me
in the labyrinths of my confusions i am trying to find my way out

trapped fly in a bottle
buzzing for its wish for freedom

genie
wanting someone to rub its ancient lamp

if you let me free
you may have four wishes

and that is not just a promise
it is a contract

morning thoughts
tunnels without end lights yet

there is yet no exit
and so you still find me here in my own shadow

fog and mist
trails filled with tall grasses

up there is the house of my intentions
a figure waits but i do not know yet who

surprises surprises
anticipations of life

these are all the reasons
hazy as a refraction of light bending upon a glassy vision

his stomach is flat
on the sand
his feet away from
him
his left hand groping
for a rock
his right one
pointing to heaven
his mouth
tired with words
still say
go on, go on
even without me!

ed, you are 51,
and back to corporate life, and
i say, that is better now,
that go self-employed,
on a business that
sometimes fail,
i mean, with corporate lives,
busy like a salesman, hopping
from one place to another,
sleeping in different motels
with your pen and ledger
and sending reports through
your laptops,
the sin of self-pity and
idleness cannot be there
that is what i mean,
i do not mean those naked
ladies dancing on poles
those margaritas and
bloody mary 's,
the sin of uselessness,
the way others have quit
marking boundaries and
forgetting about maps
and directions.

the next time we see each other
you will always remember my smell

but i cannot remember you anymore
no matter how hard you stare at me
i surely, will not recall, those moments
are long buried, those nights on the grass,
the sunrises that i mark in your eyes
water on your belly, dew on your ears

i will try to figure out who you are on those
long stares, perhaps i may remember, or
i know i can remember, but you know the rules,
there is now a big difference between i can't
and i won't, it is the distance between an opinion
and the conclusion, between a suggestion and
a decision

more than ripe and juicy, the fruits have turned
dry, more like raisins, under that hot desert sun.
i feed on memories, but i don't stick in there.
i go for springs and brooks, they do not stop to rise
and run passing the stones, not minding the banks.

my mornings are good news
most of them are spies arriving at the house
giving me the secret codes in ciphers
and the whole day i spend my time
deciphering what my gods are telling me
do this, don't do that,
proceed this way, you meet this man
do not say your name, he will brief
you on something new and exciting
avoid the limelight, be at the background
see but do not be seen,
keep a low profile and work on the blunders
read the morning news again
and see if everything is done

Mr. anonymous, are you happy now?
on a cup of black coffee, and a paragraph on
page one of the Peninsula
shall your focus be. Tomorrow on the
Perhaps, and then on the hullabaloo
the Tallulah and the Shalna
and the Oh my God this can't be
but It Is, It happens,

Trafalgar, de javu , Javelin of Janus,
Spears of Spartacus, Sword of Damocles,

Where's the Golden Fleece? The snake woman
just escaped leaving all her eight children dead.

we always feel regret for those which are too near
our hands
and yet till our death
we have never for once
touched

perhaps the price to pay
must be greater
and we know we cannot afford
such a lovely
misfortune.

this is a bright day for us
the sun is mild, the air is 26 degrees,
the grass carry the morning dews
the flowers are fully dressed with their
bright colored petals to please the hours

inside the house the leather furniture
glosses over an event
the walls are painted white the beams
and trusses all yellow green
the garage is finally porcelain tiled
expensive tastes dominate here
time is short, the weather gives in
for something that won't last
and then the dirge marches in
a Sunday dress, beloved mourners
the prayers are sung, the candles lighted
another important shit is gone
in this far away town.

on certain compromises
we agree on a certain indifference
we may not let them know
that within us are the wounds
that never heal
the broken pieces beyond repair
but everyone in this big house
shall never know
what is real what is true
for they must survive just as we
want them to live well
we feed them fabricated dispositions
longer lines of smiles
well trained caressing hands
eyes without any conscience
the incapacity to tell which is
right and which is wrong
and they must believe that
there are no termites on the
ceilings and the walls
no cockroaches in the cracks
of those kitchen sinks
no scorpions underneath those
wooden floors beneath those
foul foundations

"well done" says the law.
we are just behaving that way
good citizens of this republic
deal with usual turmoils

"we are always ready to sacrifice"
we tell them with uniform cliches.

a duralex glass is different
it does not easily break
despite the series of falls
but once when you hit the
point of its most vulnerability
it breaks into pieces that
more or less
take the shape of diamonds

just like you when you go into
the most seldom sobs
diamonds are the shapes of
your precious tears

the stars above him

their silence speaks more
stories on the night sky

a man lies on the grass
looking for Andromeda

the rain starts to fall

she is a tiny yellow
butterfly
that hovers over
my ring finger
too fragile
i keep my fingers
open
throughout the night
long.

he does not know how to make long letters anymore
circuitous comments are strangers
in fact, he has become a one word man saying

thanks.

i let the darkness of dawn
fade away
as i sculpt metaphors
from the night that
gives me nothing

a restless night
an empty room
on dead lights and
dusty drapes

one from another world
could be another room and
another house
figures out that this must be
one happy world
of ponderous loners and
there are too many of them
worshiping the Word
bowing before no concrete
images
letting themselves be carried
by the fluidity of their own
thoughts: the three faces of time
its 24 nooks,
the fast ferries of its trips
hoping that one sees the
light houses in this dark moments
that in the following morning
when the sun is bright
one can see an island
one arrives at the port of destination
and then disembark
for good.

here,
the first thing in the morning is not a cup of coffee
but it simply sounds like that
it is cold as usual
and the heavy rain last night just stops
i avail for something that is warm
that must make me survive
but it is as personal as the
warmth in my own
armpits
nothing about a cup of coffee
it could even be the bland taste of my
own saliva
that i do not spit on colder mornings like
all these
keeping myself intact with my own
resources
nothing from the outside
nothing about cups of coffee and
toasted breads and
melting butters
it is the fingers that we press upon
ourselves
words that we play with our own tongues
inside our mouths
hugged by our teeth and
gums

there is a poem that looks like a map
the syllables are trails
and there is a word that sounds so
striking
and you equate it with the "x"
where the treasure
is supposedly found

and you keep it in your mind
always figuring
"x"

"x"

"x"

what is really "x"?

as a treasure you mistake it for
the usual gold,
the usual finds that pirates steal from ships
and keep in secret places
sometimes under the sea
sometimes in the desert but the marking
of the cactus is gone

the poem has a lot of them
but do not be disappointed
for i am no pirate
i steal none from innocent ships
no galleons
nothing about search and visit stuff

in fact, it is not a map at all

it is a park where children play
and where we figure out what next to do
we wait for a while and then we go
yes, to home.

at first the house is one kind of a party
more friends are coming
you even let the mailman to have a drink
and stay for a while
though he has nothing to say just like
the masons and some carpenters

then the house was almost burned
there was so much panic that day
the whole village talked about it for weeks

of course, the house as usual is silent like
most rocks
to regain its solidity
it listens to the refreshes of the sea breeze
it resumes its pacific nature
facing the sea and learning from the past storms

then something so horrible happens
but no one in the house is telling about it
the pillars shook and some walls gave in
a part of the roof was taken by the hurricane
but the house is still in tact


changes come into play
the gates are closed
the mailman is having a hard time pressing the door bell
the mail box is broken
and some thieves are anticipating that someday
they can get in and make their presence felt
perhaps to take
what is essential

what they did not know is that
no one lives in this house anymore
all the memories are put into boxes and kept in the cellars
the house has become one mummified pharaoh
a pyramid that points to the sun
the village only talks about the built-in mysteries

it is one kind of a cadaver surrounded by flowers
whose heart has been removed a few days ago

and then the talk stops
and that was only when the last prayer was said.

the beggar of a relationship is not blind.
his eyes are sharp, keen as the eagle's.

he may be limping, but his legs are perfect
for the Olympic marathon

he is in a pitiful state, not able to understand
that mutuality is a requisite for true love
that in happiness, two must dance the tango
of give and take, like cars enjoying the luxuries
of two way traffic, wide highways, accurate directions
on proper speed limits, full gas tanks,
good brakes,

and on long journeys, the luxury of having to
stop and shop
and find the best motel in town
enjoying the scenery on top
under the fullness of the moon
and the twinkles of the stars

in one moment, when a star falls
both of you, shall make some wishes.

when the academics failed her
she deciphers the labyrinths and
finds the exit door of this complicated
tunnel.

Not regretting love
she quits the books
she embraces love and
readies herself for
another chapter of
pains.

The truth is there is less
drama in happiness ever after.
Something that you cannot forget
is when the lover dies
and loved one survives and
at the end
loses herself to the island that
no one finds.

The ending is hazy.
The book closes on a misty day.
The writer says
I do not know. They are not real.

do not insist. God has a way of punishing
your unreasonable widow
persistence, the Greeks are warned
about Wooden Horses,
and Achilles' heels,
do not insist. Don't you know that sometimes
God grants prayers
purposely to punish
those who are hardheaded?
Pray what God wills you to be.
Do not insist.
God knows better
Before you were born
He knows what is in store for you
Till the last
breath. Till you drop dead.
So do not insist
Natural laws cannot be compromised.
Legal laws maybe.
Man made ones, those that twist
and pride on
Compromises.

Do not insist. Let God flow inside your
Heart. Let the seeds grow
As he sets the fertile soil
of the mind
As he gives the light in your
Sun.
As he prunes and cuts
and Makes you
The most beautiful tree
within the forest of your hair.

for craig

it is not the snow
you know its coldness already
you have experienced frost
and perhaps seen the movie about it
how painful can all these be
white, and prickly and
soft perhaps like a gentle flake
but you know how it gets too lonely
most of the time

did you say that you like someone
and then somehow that someone starts
to evade you as though you have
leprosy?

that is a mild form

leprosy used to be that antisocial
but you know that there is more
than what was
that....

Adenine
Infantrymen
Dementia,
Somnolence

take from it
or perhaps scientifically i once taught
you in our faded Physics class

in magnetism Craig, do not forget,
like poles still repel

and it has not changed since then
despite the blending of the
bends.

at the point somewhere between
loneliness and
independence, one settles on faraway places,
to see how things are
from a distance, and you find out

it is you that seeks the company of others,
spends for their drinks, caters for their caprices,
enslaved and deprived,
it is you that has behaved as the insufficient one
always begging for
a relationship, and you conclude that you have
always been
the lonelier one,
the insecure one, looking for others' entertainment
dependent as an accessory metal to
their diamond natures,

but it will only be for a time, soon
you discover it and fights back, i mean,
you begin to question your own behavior,

and you shy away, feeling guilty about your
weaker side, and you begin to build the fences again
to make a good neighbor
of yourself,

you write in your journal, i have always been
a defeatist, needing always the hands of others,
those that press upon me
choke me and had almost killed me
those whose arms have become ropes around
my neck

you quit. you ponder again.
you look at the stars at night and marvel upon
the distances of each
and their solemn silence
their pride and self-esteem
always whole, glittering,
against the darkness of the
universe.

you should have known that this poem is written
because the loading of the surfed cases sometimes takes that long enough
and so here i am
composing this, without much meaning and
seriousness really.

It is nice to be a turtle sometimes
slow and sure and humble and little
and be the river's best friend.

says the rabbit.

the little boy from the city takes a ride
on a cemented buffalo beside a nipa hut surrounded by
coconut palms on top of
green grass

the little girl wants to share the ride just right before the
camera finally clicks

imagining the protest of the snake that they killed yesterday...

if only the snake had a good tongue
and fairly a good speech training,
the one that they killed yesterday
for having invaded the fence of their
territory
snakes are not allowed to roam here
and catch for mice
or frogs,
it could have said, " i have nowhere to stay,
and i have no food out there"

the bamboo groves had been uprooted by you
our holes are covered with cement
the bushes are burned
the caves have been turned as tourist attractions
we are snakes
we too have rights
for food and shelter
and i did not come to bite your children
i only come
to ask for home
and there is none for me anymore.

the sounds of dislocated birds
(homeless ones)
mark my morning, here,

far beyond, the mountains are
denuded
the trees are cut massively
man's greed again,
the caves are invaded for some
kind of a need for bat soup,

slashing, something of that sort,
the saying goes, as God creates,
Man destroys.

it was only less than a year
his grandchild was charred by fire
that razed their house and car

they are still in mourning
the wife died two years ago
of an unknown infection
the doctor declares that there
was something incurable

his son had to stop the lawyering
on a broken tendon from a high fall
but he seems not to be shaken

a man needs to be shaken
like a tree that must shed its leaves
to grown new ones

last night he slept while driving
his Honda Civic
running over five pedestrians
scurrying for fish
one died on the spot
the rest of the four were badly injured
and had to be rushed to the hospital

his eyes are sharp
he is 78, retired and still teaches
Special Proceedings
he is thinner now
and still skips lunch
to stay fit he says

everything can be paid
there is always a price for every man
no one sticks to a certain integrity
unreasonably vis-a-vis
one man's need for money
in order to survive
the high cost of living
and dying

it boils down to money he continues
pouring his legal wisdom based on his
50 years or so of legal practice
money does not only talk
it covers crimes and washes away man's
sins in society
he says some more but my mind like a black bird
flies away from a steel cage
wanting the freedom of the mountains
the wider expanse of the horizons
and oceans

i like to leave but he grips my hand as though trying to say
he hates being alone now
in his distress
(the one that he cannot accept and
does not want to talk about it)

there is always a hypocrisy for past greatness
building its empires in the bones of those who are guilty
of reckless imprudence
of those who think that money is the living god
that man is nothing but a creature
of debits and credits

i bid him goodbye
and wish him luck and as usual the cliche of having to tell him
"God bless you"

again serves as
another empty rhetoric. Man says sometimes what he does not
really mean
and that makes no difference with man's
concubines too.

now what is happening?
we are not in the mood for a duet
we go solo, i sing the songs of the farmers
you sing the song of lovers petting by the
side of the hill

we are happy
parting away
we are two singing birds
drifting apart

soon, without the waste of words
we understand what sweet farewells are
all bitterness forgotten
sins forgiven

and when we meet again
we shall admit, perhaps we should have never shown
what we want them to believe
we should not have told them
what love tales are

on the other side is the coastal beauty
of sky blue clear seas and coconut palms
at the opposite of the other side one takes
the road leading to the green mountains
the forest trees are nest of birds and
the branches are playthings for monkeys
below the mountains are villages
sleepy and peaceful and cooler with
fresh air and flowery gardens
a vast expanse of rice and corn fields
rivers still teeming with fish
the people still opting for peace

this is our paradise. Come, stay with us.

we still have our flag
flying high every Monday
on Fridays we fold them
together as one
national treasure

there are no wars here
that may tear the flags
for more bandages

i am glad and still proud
to be Filipino.

he passes by the house
though there is a doorbell he calls my name
(in fact, he is shouting that there is a man
with a covered face overtaking him and
takes refuge in the flowering bushes beside the fence)
i compromise and pretend that i agree with him
he is drunk, his wife left him, his children too
and lives in the old house
all alone,

and so where is the man? he says it is a shadow
a robust one, and it is running too fast past him
he is tipsy, his curly hair is glistening with oil
i mean it is unwashed for days
he is with a gay friend, a transvestite and
more beautiful than his wife

there is no man, there is no shadow,
i know, that he is lost, there is nothing to fear
but he has all these fears
of insufficiency, the incapacity to know what the real problem
is.
My house is fenced. I cannot invite one like him and have a drink.
I give him a bottle of whisky, and tells his transvestite friend to take him
to the old house,
now at least, he is not alone anymore
someone is warm, someone loves him now, perhaps
higher than his dog, that waggles its tail
as soon as the front door is opened.

she spends most of her time
(she does not know perhaps that it has
been shortened)
building a new house
choosing the landscape of her new cottage
at the Mediterranean territory
had some chosen lovers to sleep with
on those lonely nights
drunk more, laughed louder than before
the following dawn
before the first fighting cock in the
fenced house cocks
she lies there
breathless....slashed throat, bathing with
her own sticky drying blood
alone and even those walls and
soft expensive bed do not give the clue
as to who
and why.

puma

spots like giant big black lice
all over his body
specks of long whiskers
claim the dominion of
his mouth that hides
the power of his sharp teeth
spotted as sin
yet well revered in the jungle
of lawlessness
where restlessness for sure
is virtue at its
topmost hierarchy
to kill, and eat, to be full
and still bloodthirsty
very much like to the dovetails
of my society

What do you see in everyday?
books piling against its other like layers of
geological metamorphic rocks
aged, and hardened by the volcanic eruptions of the
beautiful
mind,
(self-proclaimed beauty of those
incomplete clauses demanding
sentences, and periodic disturbances
of unmindful commas,
somehow, one feels dogged,
tail concealed between the legs
because of these towering masters
who even in their uttermost silence
since they were not created with
mouths and tongues
now claim the dominance of
masters)
you listen to the songs of Solomon
the dreams of the singing ABBA
dismantled by the intricacies of
their islands of
loves

what is in store for the wanderer?
the lust that subsides like uncertain ebbs
what lies there over the green pastures
separated by fences
of restlessness,

you grope thoroughly through some kind
of syllabic fingers
you have lost the ability to quit.

a heap of dry leaves
under the trees

trees like fingers
stretching to reach
the moon

on the marshes
of the big river
the full moon sits
silently

a dog barks
this morning
at the wrong person

someone calls my
name but i do not dare
look back

promises are
feet without floors

faith is always
a blind item
and people accept
them always to
be true
and all giving
and
reliable

blank walls
speak too much

doors close
at the wrong hours of the
day

windows imitating
the natural
beauty of some
sexless eunuchs

facing the monitor
i am the nuclear
sun
threatening the room
that the explosion
is near

the dusts run in panic
the winds
stir the pebbles into
rebellion

etcetera is when
you do not know what is next
from your
self-proclaimed
knowledgeability

30.

he asks me to utter
his name
a la Rumpelstiltskin

for after all
it is his thinking that a name
counts

that a name solves a
problem
and that dropping names
sometimes
creates the
ripples as some people
shiver and
give in

i wonder
why God did not give his name
and address to
anyone.

finally i come to the
conclusion that
friends are not necessary
so i may be
piqued and enter
into compromises
and accounting of
whether i have given more
or that they have given less
and so one by one
i keep a list
whom to junk
and whom to keep
and oh my


i can't reveal
if i still have ten
fingers anymore

at the highest bridge on the city of
Cebu a man in his twenties
climbs the pole and sits there overlooking
the city
the City is in panic
for he must be saved
his name is taken: Juan
Molina, 32 years old,
a thief, jobless, and without
any known relatives
and he is so hungry
and it is so hot at the top
and he is coming down
if there is something to
eat

they thought he is going to jump
and kill himself

which is not the fact of the case
he simply wants to see
the whole damned city
of leaders who cannot understand
that he too needs work
to have money to buy something to
eat to pay for the rent of his boarding space,
his bills, and his toothpaste
and soap

all the while the city is angry
this man must be sent to prison
we are so disturbed
and he creates the massive
confusion

sad, sad city.
suicidal masses
luxurious lifestyles of the rich and
the famous elite

most of the poor and the
lost do not ask anymore where is God?

the speed casts upon us
a flash of what we have forgotten who we are
slaves of traditions
geisha of oppression
bars and locks, and meatless contentions,

just this noontime
everything flashes on the window of the car
unable to piece what all these means
i finish the journey
go straight to the usual paths
and when i go down and talk to the guards
of the gates
i am met with indifference
asking for myself to make an identification of
who am i

something too philosophical analogous to the
commands of the gates of Delphi
know thyself

and i remember the burning bushes
as i pretend to be another kind of a god,
and i utter the words,

i am what i am.

here we are again pinning needles
in our epidermal existences
trying to pierce every flesh
carefully noting every bursting of pus
and blood
mapping out the cartilages and bones
of our sorrows

two years more and perhaps another
twenty years of
existence
in order to understand the meaning of life

a life that lies there naked
so tempting and scented by the thousand jasmines
and saffrons
on spiced blankets
rosemary and lemon grass
and basil in every seams
of the pillows

the hands of time keep gripping
what ought to be mine (or even hours)
it does not know how to give
what we want to sip and savor
and caress

the eyes of the storms stare at us with
anger ready to strike us with its fits
and fists

this pilgrimage tiptoes on slow feet
because we are all tired figuring out what is real
oasis from the
mirage of the heat of the desert beyond us

we like to see the white seagulls feasting on a school
of fish
at the coastal collateral of our side trips

a little drink from the hands of the vestal virgins
some kisses from the dewy lips of dawn
a warm morning's hug, and nights non stop
fleshy circus

there are many things more to do
more events to attend too and many other letters
to compose

by then night has come with the gifts of silence
and then i say, " i do, i will keep on doing what is there to make
the best of yet to come"

keep listening Beethoven, keep dancing Lady Dianne
we are here watching.

7:25 in the morning
a ray of light
strikes the bridge of
my nose

mummifying
phenomenon

for how long did this
ray of light
travel
what distance
before it
reaches
its unfortunate
destination?

outside the
white bud blooms
alone on an array of
heart shaped leaves
how pure
how undisturbed
how lonely
shall it be
under the clear
white linen sky

(perhaps,
my thoughts alone,
but nothing
jibing with what
it really is,
as usual)

things rush
events want us to run faster
time is silent
actually it is as silent as a
still painting of
melting candle
but the hands of the clock
creates all the noise
with its new battery
of anxieties
running in circles
arriving
at nothing

all of these
around and above me
want to make me run
and rush
to that finish line

i am not an athlete
neither am i
performer of some
incentive loading
companies

sorry, i am nobody's
personal property
i keep this hobby
wearing the hobbit
of the Franciscan
probing what is real
and spraying red paint
on what is
fake... x is
dead.

outside i hear murmurs
of children, shouts of mature men
calling their women,
sweeping the yard of dry leaves
from trees of last night's
storms

i hear screeching sounds of
cars heading to the city
rushing
as though they are always
late for
appointments

the school bus carries the
teeming sounds of
kindergarten kids whose mothers
keep on saying
God bless you all and i

who is supposed to be at work
in my cubicle
just a stone throw away from
where i am seated
still keeps on tracking voices
that cover the inner voice
of my longings

it is frail and fading
and humming and still wanting
to conceal the true notes
of its song

e.e. Cummings, it says,
it wants, the rhythm
of comings, but i must have been
in the wrong direction
for a long while now
i have always focused on the
ambulant sounds
of departures
loud and deep at first
and then
fading and thin
like a needle finally
dropping on the
hay floor.

on aching eyes
and osteopathic backbone
one must keep the
art of
writing, because that is what is art all about,
talking about
self-denial, the mastery of the
perfect art of
restraints, how to place your hands on
your chest and feel
the rhythms of that
isolated and well protected
flesh and bone
covered
heart, everything is there anyway
like bread and butter and
rice and fish
on that white painted breakfast
table, with the matching hot cup of
coffee and
table napkin, sky blue, and
silver wares, like the river passing
through an arc bridge
in that Chinese painting hanging on
your gray wall,
well,
your hands are somewhat
Olympic runners
taking pride that the fingers within
their hold
can write well even
though blinded by too much light
drivers without headlights
reckless and
wild and free like lovers always
having inklings to
change partners
till the next sperm
whale that comes
diving flatly on the Indian ocean
breaking glaciers
melting ice
flooding the world of
concupiscence

somewhere beyond the
grasp of my fingernails
much different than last nights
grips on that
smooth back of the geisha
is the thick and black
skin
of elephantine shame
but,
who cares? you don't.
and i too,
don't.

this, i must make clear,
but i know,
all these seeds fall on
rocks of salt, where not a
messy moss ever think
to stick.

an exhortation about a dog

i

the dog that licks my
feet
every morning after
i wake up
does not appeal to my
senses anymore

ii

the dog that licks my feet every morning after i wake up does not appeal to my senses anymore

iii

the dog
that
licks my
feet
every
morning
after
i wake
up
does
not
appeal to
my
senses
anymore

iv

but i must
allow it
still
because it is the law
between
the dog and me
and this
dogged
society

v

and so the dog still
licks my feet
every morning
and at night
i do not ponder about it
anymore
i do not ask
i have no questions
for asking

vi

the dog sleeps with me
at night
in my bed
and spreads her legs like
a spoiled
prostitute
and she is confident
that i cannot kill her
because that is the
law between us
and dogs

vii

and society keeps guard
on this
and if i continue
having this dog's tongue lick
all over my body
and feed her well
and make her a part of my
life
till death do us part
then society
shall have a thousand hands
clapping
for my obedience
and fidelity

viii

my honest neighbor
(who does not want to be mentioned here says
that actually)
she's one kind of a typical
bitch

(and i will neither confirm nor deny
it, but please do not tell
anyone about it)

that is the law.

magpie

this i know about you
you identify yourself in the mirror
and you pass the test
of self-criticism,

you have become more than
a bird,
and true to your calling,
you have become
his rare
beloved.

the scent of oranges

when you peel
the orange
i smell the thrill of
citrus

it is the same peeling
that night
when you feel like
peeling the foreskin of
my penis.

we seldom talk
and i sent the message
there is peace in
silence
there is love between
a space
there is understanding
in not making
connections
there is respect
in not asking why
there is goodwill in
not knowing how
the when in my life
is none of your business
the what belongs
to me alone
the questions are mine
to answer
and your answers
actually intrude
the dignity of my
privacy
the pride of my own
independence
the sanctity of my soul
the warmth of my
armpits
the thrill between
my legs.

this early morning
i take my walk
on the path leading to the
ricefields

the men are killing the worms
with Japanese pesticides
the white herons feed on
poison

what else could that be?

the national geographic makes
the news
that eggs of herons easily cracks
and fledgling do not survive

agricultural teachers die
of colon cancer
and the causes remain
undisclosed
there is no cure

for men killing air
for companies making poisons
the herons still fly and catch and
eat the double dead worms

the air is foul and
turn back from the walk
i cannot carry my heart
it is heavier than
steel.

when you walk away
i inhale so much air
and feel the comfort of
the little space
that you have built
in the house

i mark all vacancies
and begin to paint the boundaries
from where you stand
the steps that slowly take their
exit from
the garden of
daffodils

how i wish to tell you
that i like this situation
when i am left and you are gone away
when i can think much
without so many distractions

your words on the wall
your thoughts hanging on the
china cabinet
your finger prints on every
empty cup

i think i could have been
free a long ago
without the benefit of
trials

on the breakfast table
i sit alone
and distinct from other mornings
with you
i turn off the tv
not wanting to hear any news

i have created a distance
to destroy the evil of
familiarity

faraway
i become a tower of light
piercing the
dark ocean of
darkness of
our twin midnights

this morning
i sleep
i turn the fan off
and dream of
coconuts and
sea waves

i fall like a dead leaf
on the bosom of
the river
and on a lifeless journey
again
i drift

the rain is the wall that divides us
i whistle
to make a connection
you open the window
and we created a world
between us

i need to climb
the long stretch of your golden
pigtail
to finally kiss you
my Rapunzel

at the peak of all these

ramblings, perorations,
at the height of artistic leanings
those that hide behind the
revolutions of the masses
offering a pyre of those
innocent bodies those that steal
a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese

at the peak of all these poems,

so many of them, all subjected to the
torture of the master of
governance, all foxes and manipulative
machines
designed for the preservation of
power

at the peak of all these speeches and
rhyming poetry

what is there to feel? what is there to
reap as fruits?

at the peak of all these restlessness
one can hear the toll of the church bell

another funeral, another march,
ash, incense, last stone, wooden niche,

shovels, mud, heavy rain,
sobs that we always hear and yet keeps

on reckoning, such a short time
badly spent for the fury that will never be

consumed, a problem never solved,
a crisis always in whatever time in whatever

nth life, what is the essence of all these?
let the silence do it.

there is more to get
than what we just see
on the surface of those
petals
one can deduce what
life is

the wilting for instance,
the shortness of time
that is left for all of us
sometimes
one must suspect that
all these
are but farewell
speeches.

behind the heavy rain
as curtain between our self-made
distance
i shall keep the music within
the hum
of self-belief, the home of
my heart, that inner
bone within my ear,
that secret vein
between my legs

shall be beg for a bowl
of understanding?
we become beggars
like them
who even in the most
uncompromising situation
still asks
if this angle is proper for
praise
that this pose is still the best
for everyone's liking?

been there, and tired
now, i am standing tall
and proud about
what i have done
and now they must
beg for me
and i am vengeful and
spit on them
and walk away
like what they did once
at me....

never again
i tell myself, shall i beg,
never again shall i
be insecure
there is no genius
to one who perseveres
there is no special weapon
but faith

trust yourself and
move on
with your instincts and
mindlessness

the best way to eat, and healthful at that
is to chew what small food is there,
savor the taste of every molecule,
and swallow bit by bit like pulps of orange
sound a bit, of this ahh and ohhhs
and say over and over, oh this is great
let them all hear the slurp and your burp
and don't mind what the other people on the
other table say

like you you are paying too
the price of honest and candid living
has taken the share of shame and glory
had been full and shall be filled again
moment by moment, piece by piece,
molecule by molecule,

on such an atomic existence,
till the next nuclear burst.

i must slow down and try to stay home
that is your message today,
i am not surprised, home has always been
my sweetest prison.

you cried on your first pain and tell
everyone about it, sharing the pain, thinking
that with others knowing it and saying "our sympathies"
can lessen the weight of the
burden and ease the pain,

i tell you, it is a matter of getting to know pain
familiarizing the drama of the heart,
scrutinizing every neuron of the emotion
getting to know life, and eventually preparing
for every inch and step towards death

for that is our destination, annihilation, but
something higher than that can comfort you,
birds fly higher so they can see from certain height
the smallness of lamentations,
we travel fast, and not arriving somewhere but
we gain something as we tread upon the pebbles that
make the mountains stumble

there is no use for cries, they are for the novices,
we must swallow that bitterness and from its effects shall we live.

for class 2010

when i have given everything inside myself,
the last breath even,
then i must stay, and once again this summer
like any other summers,
for another batch, i will say the same parting words,
"go on, without me"

to save yourself you have learned to lie.
your wife does not want you to live
perhaps she hates you
this i think i should know, because on
every lie you make,
she is there to correct it and claims
that it is not so, that this is it,
what lies you make, she is there always
ready to correct, perhaps, she does not love you that much
she loves herself more, and that is the truth.

for why should a poem be so caged in form
and a slave to clapping?
let the poem be
the ordinary man in the park
the woman buying merchandise in the market place
the child playing on the beach
under so much sun
let it not be a fence
a manicured lawn
a piece of architecture another form of white marble sculpture
let it wriggle like a worm on a Sunday rain
a butterfly hovering on that wild flower
a grasshopper on the grass
sands of the shore
sunlight and sunrise
a cup of coffee every morning
a sleeping pill on our anxious nights
an insomniac woman begging for sleep
a mad woman on the street
a soldier writing a letter for his wife at home
let it be nothing important at all
let it be something always new
no dictator here, no form of government,
let it be anarchy, and
let there be no diplomacy
let it it be fluid as a melting wax on water
let it be everything and nothing
too.

i do not know why a caged bird sings?
or shall it sing when caged?
or shall it cry instead?
i know cages, and i have met some birds,
i have seen birds on cages
and i have heard them sing on trees
i have listened them when caged
it is not a song, but a cry,
it is not a dance, but a struggle,
it is not a poem, but the saddest prose.

again this is just an outpouring
of rain
all my loneliness dropping like
rain
all my sadness dripping
like rain
again, this is nothing about
anthologies
or who gets the Poet of the Month
thing
in any community magazine

this is rain outpouring
this is a form of therapy
on everyday malady
nothing about art or musing

when tomorrow rains again
i will be here

when sunshine comes and
flowers bloom in the field
when my beloved sings and
sleeps with me in bed

why should i be here?

i am armored
on my hand is the sharpest sword
i am ready for battle
to kill the enemies

your enemies

when i am about to win
and stab the victim
you are there running
towards me
asking that i be forgiving

your enemies are spared
and they all laugh at me

my armor is rusty now
my sword not as sharp as i
once held it

now you have enemies again
asking that i go to battle

who are you? i am not stupid anymore.
Use other mercenaries

and if there is now
Go, fight yourself, and have yourself killed

so i can offer you flowers
for the dead
so i can for once rest and smile
and tell myself

i am free and i work for no one anymore.

Tuesday night
is not your Saturday night
it is all the same
Tuesday nights

words from my mouth
falling on the ears
of those who want
to sit on tomorrow's chair
of power

what do they have in mind
money, honor, glory
and Tuesday night is one
of those nights

where they work for what
i have all despised
and set aside

inconsistent here i am again on
Tuesday night
assisting, guiding, letting them see
the light of the
door that opens to
where i have once closed away

like you, i do not know what to do with
my hands anymore
it is holding the gun and not aiming
at anyone

they shall search for one
for only one
and take pride in it
as treasure of a
lifetime

i am not that one
for i belong to the many
those series of
words like trains like
ordinary public commutations
boring whirring sounds
others call it pollution of
traffic sounds in the city

i am not the one
i am the many and no one loves this kind
the faces of themselves that
they hate
in the quantity

the ordinary foulness
that's left in the canals where dead rats
lie
those that they avoid
reminding them of their own
lousy selves

the ordinary air that everyone breathes
and yet have
taken for granted
for air is quantity like the sea and the oceans
they are not the one
they are the many
the masses, the crowd, the ants and
beehives and

the pebbles of the rivers
whose faces are all the same
not one unique
for the altar of fame

we are all in these
the quantity....

imagine
how butterflies live the moment
in an hour
a day perhaps
they are all dead
wings clipped gladly
they give in
to the murderous joys
of the boy
or simply by the natural
caprices of the winds

imagine how happiness
is savored in
such short moments
everyday
life and death
interchanging
like two faces
day and night

imagine myself as a gathering
of butterflies
all over my body
my parts all with wings
in dusty transparencies
imagine how i disappear
from you
even if you have not
touched
any part in me

for i am but a moment
an appearance of
a series of disappearances
for i am but
a mirage always gone
when you
come and want to see me

our foundation is respect
in the house, it is the floor
we all sleep on it, out tables and chairs
are placed on it,
in fact, what we eat, to include the appetizers
and desserts is all based on
that menu of respect
it's when i told you that we may grow
together in this
but you can always take a different
direction perhaps another
point of view another perspective
to see the same object that i hold
and cherish
we go smoothly on this
we appreciated different flowers
on the same glass vase
assuming much that
the fragility may break
and we can still collect the pieces

in one wedding
the mother speaks about trust
as she gives away her
daughter for the man of the hour
and when it was my turn to speak
i speak the same about
respect and she added trust
which honestly i cannot even
mention
because all the while
a life lived in mistrust
from my point of view
always learns
how to survive
find a way when things go wrong
when betrayal as a
common instinct like a tiger
eats the pawn

i have told you
i always doubt and recalling Descartes
i think, therefore, i still exist

remembering cabantian

i wonder if poverty is still worth writing
that little child once in cabantian in 1979
eating breakfast: a glass of water,
chunk of brown sugar, a cup of rice
that was all that i saw
and i wrote once a poem about poverty
and poured my heart out,

i went back to the same place last year
the shanties are gone
perhaps the child has become another
work force in the banana plantation
or perhaps he had gone somewhere to the big city
serving as bell boy at the hotel
or waiter in a pizza house

or perhaps before that happened
he could be one of those salvaged victims
in the crusade against domestic rebellion
one of the unsolved disappearances in Davao

cabantian is silent, as it was silenced before.
no one knows. Perhaps he died at 15
...i do not really know and i do not want to recall.

for now i do not go to church
and hear Sunday mass,
i am coming back as always
early morning
and late at night and between
my busy hours
to savor this forbidden place
with no other objective and wish
that i be finally bored
in this kind of hell
choice and find this place later on
to be horrible
seriously, and sincerely
from the inner conviction of my mind
so i may never find myself
back to this place again
and then finally i tell myself
now i am convinced
now i win
now i must leave
and i will never come back again

but when will this really happen?
only when i am dead?
when it is too late?
when it is already irreversible?

the new spring

when water gushes forth from a rock
it simply does what it is supposed to do
gush,
there is no mouth to speak
nothing hilarious about advertisements
or strategies
or self-aggrandizement
it gushes forth
day and night
unstoppable, restless to its mission
to quench your
thirst

for Earl

now you know what a silent scream is all about,
it is when your letters lie there naked and yell without a sound
and people
close friends and those that know you before you begin saying
that scream
say, yes we knew it
and we are comfortable with it
with you
there is nothing to hide everything
is as obvious as a cloud
the usual sun at midday
the full moon
one evening when you are so silent
as the thousand stars scattering themselves
in that big, black, empty
umbrella space

you think people will believe you
someone laughed, this is not the truth, this is a joke
this is nothing but another gimmick from
Earl,
the ears are plugged, but the eyes still see
it is your touch somehow
that must reveal it in another personal thigh
the fingers that glide and hold
the inner secret
it is me, you say
but by then nobody is interested anymore
and so i say, give yourself a break
have a hell of a good time out there
no one minds
no one is interested about you
and your
fake silent scream
we met that once but we refuse to hear

a cat...

it comes back again
i have shooed it away yesterday
it walks on top of the roof
silently it sits there
at noon,

it stares at passersby
when i return from work
it is still there
waiting

i do not know where it comes from
and i do not like it
it is white and does not make any sound at all
i shooed it away still
and has no plan feeding it

there is something disturbing
not about this insistent cat
it's this struggle within, the storms that people do not see
perhaps, this cat
and i will still drive it away

unloading,
this is the plan
book-less is the bookworm
in school empty handed
she wants to be as light
as a spider's web
as slick and thin as
the tick's feet
sliding on one of the bristles
of the Persian carpet

unloading
she slips through the crowd
in anonymity
one grain of sand
in the shores
of the common man

by the river the spinster wades
like a black swan
all alone not waiting for anyone
the bamboo leaves not blown
by any ill wind
begin to fall
one by one until all that can
be seen
are needles of morning light
cutting through
the early cold by the banks
to the marshes

on the tree of life
there will be more leaves
and twigs and flowers
on spring
and more luscious fruits
for eating

there is somehow a
need for trimming
what excesses are there
twigs that go awry
leaves that lush for too much
shade
and so we do just that
cut some twigs
take a look and cut some
more
remove some leaves
for sacrifices
for us to some more
and some time
see heaven for once.

ok, no money,
ok, there is no fame,
there is nothing to expect
from those mothers of art,
their children unrecognized
no share, no will,
nothing to expect, from all these
children of art.

ok, you sit alone, by the window
you put your folded arms,
you look outside
the people pass you by
and they do not bother
looking at you for the second time

ok, nothing delicious for breakfast
this month's rental is not paid
electricity bill lies there calling your attention
this is a poor guy, inside a foul room,
shits are all around

favorite expression: f....
age forgotten
wrinkles multiply
sour face
forested hair
thin chin, deep sunken eyes
restless fingers

ok, no friend really wants to read a poem
or if they read, one visit, it is out of pity
not even respect

don't cry. there is nothing worth crying.
just sit there

tomorrow they will bring the news
a friend writes a letter that for once he will dabble in poetry
and he has written one
though too personalized and needs further editing

you look at the ceiling as you lie hopeless in your bed,
you see images of hope
nothing angelic, there are no wings, no halo
not white, blurred, brownish, chinks
pieces, naked words, unfinished dialogues,

the unknown people at the other room
can hear you laughing
you laugh so hard
alone

perhaps, this time, you shall win.

we shall say, we are honest,
there is no cloning, nothing imitated, we are
trying to be original,
we do not listen much, we talk much,
we write much, in fact,
it is an everyday undertaking like defecating
and brushing of teeth
and looking at the mirror
and washing the face
shaving and combing the hair
and talking to oneself

nothing makes us that happy
not money, not honor, no laurel leaves on the head
not a number of unfaithful lovers
or plastic friends,

this makes us happy,
another one 'bites the dust' another lousy thinker
writes,
another mouth opens, another ear breaks,
another one comes to you and says

is my poem good enough?
to you, another one belongs, this non-exclusive club
of breathers, of
'lunatics' of persistent lovers
junked most of the times
and yet lovelier still
the second, the third time,
the nth time
around.

nothing is that important
nothing significant in days
nothing as exciting as a feast
nothing hilarious
(he says not a fuck, there's no event
no friends inviting, no lovers for a tryst
there are no offers, not a bridge
for the island, not a boat
nothing settling
all floating)

yet you keep on building your bricks
touching your dick, wanting a break
you write the lines, you fill the gaps between
struggling with all these empty moments
these rigid hours, these rugged days
these steep years, on stiffer necks
chasing nicks, and spitting fires
and vomiting some green slimy portions
of those regrets

he says this is something unspecified
confusing, ambivalent, and to ambiguous,
what do you really mean?
hollow and light and floating,
you mean, existence?

i do not want clarity
this will breed too much familiarity
and soon this will amount
to nothing but
contempt and disrespect for privacy

he says, there you are again
speaking and yet too concealing
what the hell am i at? and what about you?

i have nothing to say and if i want to say something
i do not really mean anything at all.

ah, this is so much ado about nothing.
this is life, i am telling all of you,
there is only this lack of interest to be intimate
this laxity
this taking for granted what essence is there
scents and memories
past and future, the present about to be eaten
raw and consumed.

beneath my feet
i hide my shadows and
they escape like
fugitives
under the guises
of their
sad stories

beneath my hands
i clasp my emptiness
and shaped like a ball
you mistake it for
fullness

you are confused
and i look amazed
still unfazed by your
feigned confidences

beneath my hair
i hide my thoughts
beneath my skull
i hide my soul

beneath my beliefs
i hide a number of faces
beneath my heart
i tell love stories

beneath all these
are the shallowness of them all
something that nobody expects
for i am simple
as a yellow paper
where you list
your unpaid debts.

do not blame me for
simply telling you stories
i am nothing
but a storyteller
in my own time

do not blame me for not
having to hold your arms
i too, am air, like you,
too temporary
arriving now and soon leaving
in a span of seconds

do not blame me for forgetting you
as early as now
do not be angry
for i am like you,
the one that assumes a name
shakes your hand
and then goes away
shut out
from any enclosure of
a memory

i have not seen you
you are air
that passes me by
you are invisible and you
want to teach my heart
to love
so you ask the help of the
scented flower
and you made the petals dance
the buds open
and you have finally taught my
heart to sing
the songs of love
under the fullness of the moon

i feel you then...

can i change you into something that i can kiss
and touch and sleep with?
you are air still,
you are invisible,
i feel your essence but i cannot touch
your presence
my arms are empty
and longings still haunt me
you are still a certain space
that is never filled up
by any substance

you will pass me by
and i will feel the absence later
and this will amount to nothing but pain

more pain and so
i have decided for once
on a shorter notice
that as early as noontime
i shall forget you then
completely
when sunset comes.

to both of you
i shall not be at the middle
of this mess

the song that you shall hear
from the bottom of my heart
is for someone
who is not here with us.

there is only one flower that i have
i am hiding it behind my back
and it is not for you

it is for someone else..

i am hiding it behind my back
so you may not see what it is
so you may not quarrel about it

it is for someone else...

i have only one flower in my hand
behind my back
it does not have complete petals
it is wilted and does not have any scent
it is dead
it is a dead flower and it am hiding it behind my back

it is for someone else....

this is an old flower that i have taken
from my antique trunk
tonight i shall burn it
and it shall have the smoke
which shall tell my story
to the cold moon.