things happened so fast
she says death is preposterous

a friend was drunk from a
reunion
and drove his car back home
alone

his body stiffened
he was dead last night

and no one found him
the police came late

death is fast and furious and
flattering

he courted it and voila
he got yes for an answer

when he goes out into the world
there are no arms waiting
it is loneliness that walks with him

so he decided to stay and close the
doors and windows

thinking that in this way the world
will love him as others expect

the rope of loneliness chokes him
and so he prepares to go back into the open

he dresses well enough to face the wind
and dance with the shadows

they demand that he tells him his real name
and not wear a mask and sing the usual song

he refuses to cater to a brutality
he goes back to his room and reads a book

and closed the door again
and he grows up into a very strong silence

confident upon the soundless nook and
expects no one to call his name again

at the end he learns this game of
responsible loneliness

the one that does not speak when hurt
that does not smile even when seduced by joy

when we are too near
more is left behind

when we leave
we carry less in return

we either leave or stay
it is neither less or more

when we are full
we are speechless

when we want to speak
we think less

then we regret
it would have been

the other way around
the culprit is this silence

regret

i wrote a very long
sentence

and i pause at the
spot where i could have
put an end

and then i press the cursor
back

i have deleted you
in there

i wish to build a house
away from here
i have stored the necessary
colors of the paints
on the walls of my mind

i wish to stay in that house
alone
i will be in the company
of paper and
pen

i will fence it
it will be high

our house is not
my home

the night road
stretches its arms towards
an endless horizon
seeing to it that
we shall not reach each
other
the parallel edges
do not meet each
other
even you feel so tired
and fall
asleep

no one says
no one accepts
that there is nothing in there
between us

sensing that you do not wish to talk

or engage in

oral intercourse like those previous
free falling conversations
which we
conclude to be honest and candid and free
and agreeable

i stopped talking too

talking is not important anyway because
my fingers
have taken as many mouths as there are

without being loud

i respect your silence but somehow i detest your way of
surrendering to the helplessness of

silence

i remember when i was told that tomorrow will be my last day
and which happened to be false

i visited friends and knock from one door to another
telling them

that i love talking and that talking relieves me from the pain of
having been given only one day to live

when i have not gathered the sunflower which shall bloom in February
when my book shall arrive next week before
i shall close my eyes
and cease breathing

we were under a pyramidal roof
surrounded by coconut trees
beyond us the sea and some white painted boats

the seagulls are busy catching fish on their beaks
while fishermen arrive with salt on their bodies

and it was that time that i notice that this world is so beautiful
and the people too friendly

and yet
when we leave and be away for good and think that out there
there is more to all these

there is that sense of obligation to comply
this is not our home but just a hotel and we must not be too ungrateful to stay some more

because we did not pay anything at all.

the difference between
you and me

is not the sameness of
our miseries

the difference is that you
are an open window

that has closed again
but i am a window that i

broke and never close
because there is no more reason

to keep me closed i am
sinfully opening to the

changes of the clouds &
the course-less drifting of the wind

i do not pay attention
to direction now
except perhaps on the basics

of having to feed my day to
day existence

when you arrive here
i am no longer myself

and then you leave
saying i am the useless wind

of the house and i deserve
no room at all

early in the morning
before i become myself again

words rain in my eyes
like tears

salt to my tongue and
biting

i want to put them in a
bowl

treat them like salad
days

but i do not eat words
neither do you

so i let them pour
on the vacancies of the

floor and they drip on
the earth and

gone & i said i have no
time for thoughts

thoughts do not help me
find my arms

i rush to go and be myself
again

on the wings that you
detest

above everything else
i resume

catching breaths
like words

feeding myself like
paper

last night
i was a flat tire

it is the usual
deflation that

makes me sleep
and she is not surprised

anymore why we keep
this matter happen

the reasons are laid
on the dinner table where

the food has gotten so cold
and the mantel unchanged

we keep busy
that is the only way to live

we keep ignoring
that is the only way to learn more

and keep the parts of the house
intact the furniture stable

on four feet on dusty existence
on days that we let go

because there is no more reason
to make them different so

we can stop and gaze for a while
and say we love to be here

when the news of any disease come
we do not think anymore of hospitals

or recall the best doctor in town
or whether we sacrifice time for it

it is enough it is enough
our mouths are singing

we do not think whether we
have gone crazy

we have no time for all these
we think of place far, so far away

and if there is only one that offers
eternal shelter we are ready

to set aside home, kin, and
memories

to escape
asphyxiation
i open
a lot of windows
and wear
my self-made
wings

i do not land
i skip skies

drift on clouds
nine to ten

i try burning my
skin with the
sun's terms of
endearment

it will be a whole
day affair

i speak to no one
and no one speaks to me

so many
so many words trickle like rain
in my hair

thoughts wet me all over
like flood on the grasslands

when the day is over
i go back to my room and

lay my self on the floors
wings hang on the ceiling

i repeat this all day
and i am not destroyed

the separation makes me live
loneliness is my bread

between shakespeare
and bukowski

i prefer bukowski

brautigan smells better
than shelly

this is my way of telling you
that i am shallow and cheap

on the other hand when i
begin to write like
bukowskin and brautigan
combined

i know that somehow in that
pretense of yours
you still like me and read a lot
about me

inside your room, and then
with affection
you kiss every word
that you think i do not really mean
writing

every day
i climb a mountain
and i like
it
three more mountains
to go
and it will be dark
and i like it
when i arrive there
i will be very tired
and i will have a nice sleep
beside the stars
on the grass under
the moonlit
sky

dadi

oh she was miserable
she is always crying

her handkerchief is dirty
with her tears
and make up

i told her there is no reason to panic
everything here
is temporary

i assured her
her woes are much milder than the woes of those
who are here
and listening to her

and i let the other four who were with us
speak about their mess

they tell their own sad stories
how they escaped from hell

and then Dadi starts to smile
her handkerchief is dry

and she leaves us with a happy heart
to comfort her

we have to concoct miseries much
greater than hers

and then we start all over again
back to chapter 1

i always know how to create a happy world

i do not have to wait for a designer of
a happy interior

there is no place for a home maker here
i can manage

i cook a stew of happiness here
put them in a bowl
there is no recipe or choosing of
ingredients or even
measuring the quantities of salt and pepper
to be put there

whatever is available
i cut and make part of the menu
if it is hard, i soften it
if it tastes bland, i add salt and
seasoning
and if i want it sweeter
i do not have to ask for an opinion
i put whatever is my
dream and liking

i have learned to live alone
and happier this time

you must see me
perhaps next year
and i will not invite you
anymore
to enter my
new house

if you give me a ring
i will not answer it

there is no more rain
in my pond
the fish who is alone here
does not surface and show to me
it mouth
it has always been toothless
the moss are annihilating themselves
and the stones are
bald and
old and
dead
the nipa palms are cut and left there
there is no more roofing to do

you have abandoned me
and it is so painful

you are old now.

when i step into the room
i could have told you
but you are the one always speaking

"the king can do no wrong"

i look at the pile of books
silent damn books

i am following your footsteps
into that
hateful anonymity

when time brings us all here
we are told
we have not really done anything great

the books of our lives
will be consisting of empty pages

you were so engrossed in speaking
and i am lost in my
boredom

i was thinking of those that have not arrived here
those who have also given
hope like me but they are still in some unknown places

i turned off my cell phone
this time i must confront the void
into speechlessness

into my failures
for what i have not done

before i left the room i took one book
it is not that the king can do no wrong

there is no king.

as i drove the car last night
i passed by the thick crowd of people
in a big circle
the old yellow bus stopped and
some motorcycles were
blinking their lights

the ambulance finally arrived
in short seconds

two bodies of bloody unconscious
males were hauled away

blood flowed again on the floors
of the night

i did not know who they were
what they did and what they dreamed
from where they were
the women that loved them
... i am not interested
i am tired of this routine of
deaths almost every night

i guessed another alcohol caused
mishap, perhaps

i always wanted to be back home
and it was already late at night

i have had
that round faced
stone in
my hand

i felt its potential
for perfect
roundness

it was smooth and it
could make
a difference

it could be something
greater
beyond itself
beyond the concealment
of my hand

i see time shrinking
like a drying bubble
of rain
on the ground

and so i threw the stone
away

no one knew it
i was not that interested really
about potentials
or about
perfection

time shrank
what is the use of hope?

when you walk away
i am not sad

what i think most
is that you must find the right path

this one is not for you
i have seen your footsteps break
themselves upon
those roadblocks

i have to drive you away
for you do not grow well here
a moss to sand
a seed on a rocky ground
a tower on a pile of sand

you are destined to be great
in the land where your feet are desirous
like some kind of dancing feet on those
dancing shoes
like some kind of fingers fidgety on those
guitar strings

law is a serious faced monster
with blind eyes and sharp claws and
venomous tongue

the fool in me

i always think
of you

do not forget
that
i always think
of you

though i doubt
if you
also think of me

i like to think
that you also think of
me

upon a hill
under the moon
and stars

i always think of you
even inside my dream
i always think
of you

i dream that
you also think of me
as i always think
of you

i realize i am a fool
until last night
at the mall

when i see you in the
arms of another

like a vine clinging
to a tree

like a jacket to his
body.

when you die
i shall not cry

i shall not have
you my tears

i will just wave
my hands
like the sea
to the land
where it does
not belong

i shall not smile
what relevance
is earthly joy
to heavenly bliss?

i will give you a wink
like a lover
signaling our
future meeting

i have secrets

those valleys and
hills that i love and that
i can exchange
my soul for

those sunsets
that i adore and which

you cannot see
and ever speak

for which my eyes
feast and delight
my hands hold so
dear
like the sun and
winds

too many of them
not one, yet, you can
feel

i am dead
because of those
that you have
never seen
or tasted

and so forgive me
for all those
lies
those excuses

i am alive
in the world of the dead
because
of too much
bliss

my hands even in
thousands
my eyes even in
hundreds
cannot be
fully contained.

rain from
the roof tops
finding its
way to the gutter
exiting
at a post of the house
near me

sputtering
my silence that hides
in my
unutterances

food for the
mosquitoes

that is what i
am
at this very moment

when i am
trying again to
compose
these lines
for you

be a candle
to me

shine in darkness
consume yourself

cry, cry,
in silence

consume yourself

be those tears
wasted on
the graveyard
of the one
you love

be gone....

affection

my favorite dog
named pretty is
sleeping beside
the soles of my
feet letting me
feel
its warmth reminding
me
that there is such thing
as
bestial affection

there is always death
coming

death has always
been here with us

it is silent and does not
say anything

it is us
in this delirium fearing him

we talk too much
until we are silenced by

death
and death still is silent

it knows
what the ripe time is

it knows
where it is taking us

it knows
that is why it is silent

it knows pretty well
that soon when we completely know

it, we shall soon agree completely
it is beautiful as it is silent
as silence is beautiful

it is filled with so much wisdom
as wisdom is silent with its beauty

it is the only truth
that we must abide

and after that ordeal of pain and
worries
needlessly the anxiety of the unknown
that is spread under our
feet

we are victorious with it
we passed
as we passed away
we join those who are silenced too
in full wisdom and
beauty

death shall tell you
now you are perfected.

the promise that love always triumps

it has been a quite a time
sorrow was here

it has departed
i am glad

it did not leave
casualties here

in the road there is
a woman bathing

with sunshine
walking towards the park

on an early morning wind
meeting a friend

(could be a lover
the way he kissed her on
the lips

and held her hands
like a fragile
glass figurine
of a princess)

then the rain has put
a gentle shower

the rainbow shows
unexpectedly above

the poplar trees
poised in the beauty of
such a promise

that love always triumphs
whatever

bliss

the hills
are legs spread upon the plains

waiting
as some flowers spread their scents
on the thighs
of the valleys

the sun arrives
in its naked grandeur

since then
love, and love and love
has filled the
earth

winds so soft
and clean and fresh

the heart of the earth
beats
for love and love and more love

the sea is quiet and
calm

and then tonight
the moon and stars

engulfed by
a sigh
you unleash
sleep

sleep has
not cradled
you

you wish
for its hands

taking the shape
of a fist

you wait
but when it opens

it caresses
another hair

and so you
persevere upon

a thought
that is drunken

upon a sigh
that takes another
sigh

you moan
and love
finally
remembers

at the second look you feel wasted
that beautiful face seemingly should not have been yours
it does not fit
the wrinkled soul
that you are

how unlucky is this body
to have you
how sad is the turn of events
how miserable has the other become
because she loves you

and then he closes the windows
and doors
he spreads the drapes to drive
away
a figment of light
he walks away from the
world outside and now
stays within
as another world opens like
a bud
into a giant flower
where he alone
becomes the stamen
at a certain moment
secreting the
nectar of his
own making

a sky is made and clouds
drift
a sun appears
and light so much light
satisfies his thirsts
and hundred
hungers

it is so calm
his world is at peace
in a soundless
sphere

justice is an
eternal search
a way of
balancing
that does not
balance
at all, or sometimes
maybe
when you feel you
are near it
and yet it becomes
too slippery
to your touch

this morning i
like to tell you that
i like to do justice
to love

that i have not rendered
what is due it
that i am a kind of
a shortcoming
a big lapse
a slippery hand that slips
away from your
body

i like to tell that you
i am unjust
not having loved you so
well
or even if i want to
i simply can't

you are running with time
you are short of it
and at the last hour of
the rush you tell
me that it is time to leave
and that something
shall be done

you kiss my forehead
not my lips
you tell me " i love you"
and then
you say "bye"

i have not told you anything
because i know
that you are returning
because i know that i am
not

or must i contrive about
new choices
that there are many ways of
loving you

that there comes a time
when the moon is full and
we are together
under its light and we say
that despite everything
those lapses and
shortcomings we keep on
that hold

we love each other no matter
what
even if we do not love even if we
feel nothing
even if we are deprived
of any emotion
even if the shallowest feeling
does not touch
us with its fingers again
the fingers of a
child
unborn.

on that morning
when there is no water
when the face
needs washing
and you did not
wash it
when you feel
like not doing
anything about your
skin
you actually fell like
you have
many layers of skin
on many faces
that you become so
afraid to see the mirror
and find out
what is really wrong
or if there is
at least one aspect
where something
right can exist
even for
a moment

you let time
pass away
you do not hold
a part of its
skirt
you are not in the mood
for a skirmish
with the seconds
or any single
minute

you let everything go
you have no hold of
anything anyway
and you keep yourself
still
as steel
unmoved by that feeling
of unbecoming
that situation where
you feel the
mud drying all over
your body

you dream of water
and rain
something to drench
the wall inside you

you are helpless
there is no sense to
a cleansing
or a removing

you continue with
your task
the one that does not
pay
like a crime

i always console myself with the idea that i am not
at all alone

there are too many of me, of us, that we all become one boring
brew of liquefied images
coffee flowing on the carpet and wetting it and there is a fume
and the dust are captured on the stains

what i feel now is the feeling that i do not want anything at all
that i just write what comes to my mind
without choosing

and i am bombarded with thoughts and i am always on a defensive stance
a recipient always, passive and relaxed

things that come like rain to an empty earthen vessel
gives that feeling of fullness
which is too pacifying to the weary mind

then the vessel is filled with water and water pours out its liquid body
to the ground
to the grass to the canals racing to another path

we try to follow it
it has myriad options and we are at a loss which way shall it be

words are like that
they pour upon our void

others are blind and keep on talking about
hair and heads and hands

it is just myself that feel
emptying and filling and running and taking the journey again

what you see is the stillness of the body
a shadow on the wall

the night and rain sometimes come together
i choose to be your moon

and you are there looking at me
i am full, your gaze empties me

into a profusion of gentle dancing light
on your face

i never said a word
in the silence of my own understanding

you are so far away like a fallen star.

while in bed i am enumerating a lot of things
that i really don't know

what they are and where they come from
and what use could they be

in my emptiness i think that something fuller this time
is what i need

like hot water perhaps for a cup for an afternoon tea
but the image is too ordinary for a whim

of this imagination something's got to be better this time
something that i have not touched with my hand

that i have not tasted with my tongue
i know, i know what it is , but i know that i cannot have it

and so i just lay in bed, enumerate the other things
silly and wise, and empty and full, and paths and mountains

and labyrinths, until i am a flash in full speed of images
until i am sleepy and then i forget what is it that i know that i want and yet

i cannot have
and i begin counting sheep and ships and imagine the whole ocean blanket
to my body and
face and then
i sleep

i am tired and when this happens
i do not mind what happens next and
i do not wish about anything

i am done.

the fire is burning within
a body of fat

it is a niche favored by
heat and goes into a journey

of melting and flowing
into a conflagration

into a chaos that consumes
everything

where one is finally lost
and gone for good into the air

into limitless space
after which, all the fears are gone

and what is left
is only that relief

a calling for the annihilation
of what was built

and when everything is empty and
soundless

another beginning begins to breathe
and once again

this earth grows some petals
of land

leaves of mountains
lovers find themselves back in their arms

into the pond
sounding the first splash

and i shall remember
the legend of the frog

there is a straight path
and you want to walk straight to it
you cannot, there is this desire to
go inside a circle and hide
behind those curves,
there is this wish to find a resting place
a glass cage
a one-way mirror where you see all of them
and then
no one sees you
sometimes i look for some reasons why
this behavior is sought

there is this straight path that nobody wants to take
it is too tight in there
and everyone sees you
and their gaze hurt a lot
and you do not deserve to suffer upon their causes

no wonder birds travel on clouds
and build their nests
how men made walls
how women hide their faces on hats and
winter coats

there is this secret that we keep
that we bring even to our death
it is this secret that makes us what we are

others miss us
because we have never told them

the trees wish to look inside the nests
where birds have already flown away

we smile because they tell us to smile
we project what this world must be

or ought to be, but after that last click
we go back to the

beginning when we were going somewhere without a definite direction
when it was raining so hard and we found no shelter

when every part of us, present and future is wet with
anxiety, and there is no sign that

the rain will stop, that the door will open showing us the way
to the fire

no two persons with separate arms and legs will have to stay in one room forever
the feet walk away

the eyes fly
thoughts roam the world and will be glad to know each cloud

of doubt
each sting an education each wound

a seed of growth
we shall soon know this and we give way to our soul

traveling, traveling, until you become so strange as a creature i have not ever
met before

a myth, a story,
and then you smile realizing the truth of being blown by the wind
dusts, yes dusts,

that is what we are
and will always be, into the nothingness of what we have
not ever
thought before

you are first
if you keep on searching, you will know more than what is necessary for tomorrow

you are the first to know and will tell those who know
to obey the dictates of silence for a while

there is no more argument possible in this
but only that silence that rifts what flesh is found in the bone

do not worry that much, there is no need after all
because i will be next

and i am not telling you
you will not be glad, but you will not be alone anymore

there are things that do not jibe
round peg to a square hole for instance

birds that dive and fly in the belly of the sea
or fish that swim in the molten lava of the earth

us, for instance, is another thing
we have ceased to be human tired of the power of words in our lips

we should have kissed as often as we signify a love that does not change
but, we are some of these things that do not jibe at last

our dances have become awkward
people are watching and they just couldn't say it honestly that we have to stop

us, scarecrows
not scared but powerless over the vultures that feed on our flesh

over those birds that steal the grains of our youth
over time that is too cruel

us, feeding upon us,
about to puke.

there is a time
and i know it has dawned upon you
late that night
that you do not want any pore of your skin
or tip of your hair
for another scrutinizing
scan

cancer is just a cell
that screams and goes berserk
runs amok
in those complacent organs

soon it will be a time-bomb that explodes
and kills everyone there

you are prepared i know
and there is nothing to worry

cancer is your paid ticket to another trip
this time the place will be exciting
exotic

or quixotic
possibly since everyone goes there anyway
and those who left earlier

so far no one came back to report upon
that journey

look for a travelogue
there are no notes

enjoy the trip
grab the ticket
it is free

the flight is certain
nothing canceled
nothing rerouted

but this time there are no duty free stores around
you are alone
(perhaps still scared) and you look at the board

there is no fixed time yet

oh yes, the doctor will tell
not the travel agent of yours

if you challenge him
he will not answer you

acceptance for that challenge to be separate
lives on separate feelings
on separate beds
can be as silent as feathers falling on a silk bed

then silently he turns into a line of red ants
taking slowly bits of leaves
and some tiny grains in a secret place
of his heart
buried somewhere else that even his eyes that see
do not know

where is it? where is the new home of the
bleeding heart? where can it rest finally when it is healed?

he does not tell you
he is building his dreams again block by block
invisible tower reaching another sky

orange and red
flaming hell

FLIGHT 5J-548

I met this petite lady

she was still on her second year
of a nursing course
when her aunt retired as domestic helper
in bakau

she had to take over
the employer paid for her passport and documentation

she works there for two years
vacuuming carpets
washing dishes
dusting off walls and windows
taking care of a baby
and sometimes cooks for visitors

she is round
and will do everything just to earn
her money
and please her parents
back home

she is 25, too young to be a family bread
winner
and an export labor
a heroine for another
locally written novel

she has her boyfriend back in mandaue waiting
but he could not meet her at the airport

her parents do not want her to marry
the jobless
Pinoy

"home for good", she says when she bids us
goodbye

deep inside me
i wish her independence

i know that happiness
is too elusive

but anyway i wish her that
too

DOMESTIC HELPER, Singapore bound

a woman is leaving for
singapore

back there to resume her
work as
nanny

late hours again before
she sleeps

she waits for her flight
at dawn

outside the glass wall that separates her
from the country

there are no more people
the atmosphere is that of a dormitory during after a semester break

she opens her i-phone
and watches

her hand with a cotton wiping her baby's mouth
spilling milk from her nipple

the coldness of your indifference

i watch a bon fire
it spreads upon a bush

into the forest of
dry trees

i watch a conflagration
i am inside it

i am burning and burning
still

i am not consumed
i am fire

i eat the forest of dry trees
i spread in the bush

until all is consumed
and then i stop

i am back to myself
nothing really happened

then we resume the conversation
about fire

you speak about it
your heart is not involved

you never felt any heat
i know because you are cold

there is no heat in you
you, in a few minutes, die.

the spectator who is not disturbed by the rush

I Get off the room
late bed to meet a perfect day

i sit alone
on the seventh stair facing the road

it starts to rain
gusty winds from the sea are arriving

hair is blown away
some dreams too

there is this joy you know
by simply watching

busy people rushing for shelter
waters beginning to rise on the road

you are not disturbed
nobody touches you

you are no less than that railing
that corner of the store

that road sign
that because of too much familiarity in the street

nobody asks
no one minds at all

prejudice

even when the lion
smiles at us
we still withhold
confidence
even if the lion is
sincere
and does not think of
evil
like eating all of us
as prey
we always think of
the worst
even if it is just a picture
of the lion
smiling at us
we still suspect
that this can be a trap
another deception

a lion is a lion is a lion
and will always be lion
no matter what

our weakness
is to see a Madonna in
every creature

a mama bear
and a baby bear

the skin of the earth
is cold
and melting

the sun that watches all
these
can manipulate warmth
and then
exploit

the heels of Achilles
are exposed

how many of us
shall die without
noticing it?

an understanding of the floor

a love
bird
sleeps with
a cat

the floor
does not cease
shining

those who had
taken the heights
who had wings
who must
go back home
still shall use
the same feet
to land
on the water

it is this grace of
defeat that
i see

to be back home and
not drown

pigeons live inside the ceiling
taking the entrance of the broken side of the gutter
i can hear them coo

some eggs hatch and some fledglings
are cooing

one day i have not heard of them anymore
and the rats are singing

like pigeons cooing
these rats wanting to get attention

tomorrow i will take away the gutter
so the pigeons will know that we are missing them

early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,

harbingers of
a new day

up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,

she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing

the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut

one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken

early mornings when
the hens are silent

when the ref murmur
a nameless song

when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child


one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use

at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling

a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows

there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself

it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave

i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.

the selfishness of the kindred kin

the truth is
i do not think of you
even when we meet and you hug me
i do not think of you
even when you make me live again
or so you think
i do not think of you
when you think you carry me as a burden
and that you are in suffering
i still do not think of you

do not ask me why
it is you who thinks for me
you have carried away everything from me
that goodness is choking me
that kindness is killing me
since i cannot move
alone by myself
since you think of me as helpless
good-for-nothing

i looked to the left side to see those
who were watching us
i was sitting on your lap as you focus on
the one taking the picture
it was 1967 when i was barely 5
i did not know then what was the significance
of the taking
i was crying for attention
and no one cared
childish they all complained
why i was there
disturbing the mood of their occasion
it was when school ends
when parting could have been cheerful

when you turn me off
what can i have but silence
i become the inanimate television
that watches you
stoically
i do nothing more than what you
can do to yourself
i do not have those eyes that can say yes
neither do i have the courage to say
no to you
i am the wood and wire assembled
insignificant because you have decided
to deprive me of my own
meaning

i neither have life nor death
to offer you as
relief

many times
you refuse me entry

many times shall
i attempt

until you give in
to my prayer

there is no stone
bread for constancy
of dripping water

the irritant sometimes
wins

slept on the sand
the wind was cool

under the old tree
between those
leaves

skies in
small pieces

like
a jigsaw puzzle

he never for once
imagined that he could kill

killing
the simple thought of killing
makes him puke

he tried once
killing a fruit fly
in a snap
reasoning that it infected
its dessert
that whole night
he could not sleep
for he was
worn with guilt

his brother is a moron
the worst in class
makes most of the fame
by killing
many fruit flies


he is the top of his class
but he laughs at him
short of respect
for his fear of killing

"it is a phobia" his brother says
and just like everything else
runs berserk and
becomes an unreasonable
generalization

let me cut this story short
he did not make money
waddled in poverty and
feared the art of killing

helpless n& useless in-himself
his wife
deserted him and his kids
lost that respect
because he will never kill
a fly again

i do not want to make this
story long and
agonizing,

know what?
he killed himself.

this dog is a pet dog
it is cute and
affectionate and will always
see to it
that the skin of my feet
touches
one of its
hair

i like it this way
i do not need to hunt to give it meaning
neither war
to let it prove that it is worth
keeping

all i need, and want
is simply this chair, this simple home
carpeted with the comfort
of the dog's
white soft coating

socrates revised

a life unreflected
is not
worth leaving.

not all paths are the same
not everything are carved by tradition

somehow you deviate not because you want to deviate
it is just written in the lines of your palm and there is no way
that you can avoid it

oedipus rex is not an exception
what he wanted to avoid he instead entered
it is the tragedy that leads him precisely
to his own tragic fate

someone was once asking: who wants to be myself? and no one answered
quite well
most people find themselves unwanted and that is tragedy by itself

" i never wanted to be myself" the ugly creature in grief said it frankly
to himself who never answered him

you end up unsatisfied and resigned
how heavy is it to carry oneself as a burden
how unfaithful one can be
what a disadvantage to keep an enemy within you
what tragic moment
to hurt your feet with your own hands
to torture your mind with your own thoughts
to pluck out your eyes from your sockets because you do not want to see yourself
or to uproot your very nerves that you think are the ones hurting your bones
to tear your heart apart
and shatter your fragile self into some kind of irreconcilable pieces

what if you were just as gentle as the wind caressing the waves of the sea
as warm as the sun landing on the valley
your hands are not dichotomies
your heart never a wasted part of your body

what if ...you forget the self and think of it as nothing
so that you shall become the wind of the earth
the sea of the continent
the earth on this universe? a darkness moving with space which has become
the part of everyone.

upon receiving the wedding invitation

i once told her
marrying the one you love is not just a matter of luck. she has to accept
it is not always beauty that wins
the updated ones get the best news in town
and those who have taken the first move
gets the prize.She is getting older, and not as beautiful as the rest who already
married and sired their man with many children.

the early bird gets the worm.
the beautiful woman loses to the flirt and the daring.
it is not just the wisdom, it is also the scheme of things
the way she arranges her hair, puts her best foot forward, lying sometimes about
age and experience,
or whatever, she must know better than i who was also caught in this web
of deception
where love suffers, where a woman sometimes has to take a man
because it is getting darker
not the kiss but the child,
that which time secures her the days of her wrath
the time of her
sunset,

when the flowers finally wilt because the roots
have never spread their tips farther

now he has to lose because she stoops for no reason at all
but to conquer

tongue twisters

that which you do
not know
never hurt you

that which i know
which can hurt you
but which i keep away from
you is what
you shall never know

that which you know but never
tell me does not hurt me
too

that which we all know but we never tell
never hurt us

that which hurt us but we never tell
we never know

we stay in this together
and people do not know and they are never hurt too

not everything can be imagined
lest your words become the 3D leeches

that do not really exist
pure breeze from a mountainside of nowhere

it is safe to open the door go down the stairs
walk along the street feel the sun on top of your head

swim in the air of this city dive into the crowd
hear their open conversations listen to the horns of the cars

create more distance tire your feet sweat things out
making thoughts more sensitive to the twitches of the faces of all the people
that you meet

carefully evaluate the lines of the tongue in cheek
scrutinize slips of their tongues

follow the lines of the curve body of the woman that you love
using the soft tip of your tongue the power of taste-buds

one cannot really just survive on the theoretical wings of angels
the feet of the dragon phoenix

shallow and deflatable as toy balloons are
do not draw the street and alleys in your mind

walk upon them and feel the water and the mud and pebbles and sands
to every pore of your skin feel the tickle of the bacteria of the wind

actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today

a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged

does her duty in the street
gathering dead leaves

as i watch
it is a bright day

the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus

a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree

a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard

a lady with short blue jeans
jogs along the shore

the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon

like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street

we sleep because we are too
exhausted

not really because we are enslaved
by the king of
work


but we are
we have become the kings and queens
of too much worried

preoccupying ourselves with
this state of
unfeeling

this loneliness that has dawned in our
days

widely awake to an unacceptable reality
dress in such a fashion of
denial

afraid that we shall be the first breakers of
the law of tradition

people shall mock us at the sacred
places
scared and scarred for soon

we shall be ostracized like
over-sized ostriches

our heads cannot be contained in closed cages
we want to fly
but we are too big for flight

we sleep because we are too exhausted with the sameness of our faces
years have made us twins

and we do not really like it
we need more moments of silence to make a wall

to change us away from a familiarity that is killing
what we want in love

there is no fire where we sleep
we are sculptures heavy on our bed

dusts have accumulated on stuffed toys
teddy bears that need to be discarded

our words are enough to promulgate its judgment
we still like it when we hesitate to say and choose not to say

what hurts.

if you are everywhere
where shall i see you

it will not be specific
like a street with a specific number
or that
widely accepted landmark
like a
rock of Gibraltar
or a room at the second floor
numbered 6

if you only tell me
specifically
i would not have been in this
doubtful mess

are you in the sky
or at the top of the mountain

you tell me "i am in your heart"
but my heart
i stabbed by the sharp knife
of sorrow
are you pain?

i am looking for you
everywhere

pity me
for i am tired and my feet are wounded

i cannot be in everywhere
as it can be nowhere

guide me
are you at the bottom of this ocean
of grief?

tell me
i am willing to dive there
and die

i could be an early bird today
that catches no worm
but i do not really mind
being early is enough
having to find something to eat
because there is nothing yet
to prey upon
is another

at most an early bird does its best
one time
after another time
till it is also being
eaten
by another early predator
who makes
the same complain

she keeps on waiting
he is numb

but not really dumb
he is just numb and getting number

numbers come like some significant
ages and hints or guides

as he get number still as she keeps waiting for more
of what does not come

he is not really dumb and neither is she
as she keeps on waiting for what does not come

she is asleep now
as he enters the room with all the lights

off.

because he keeps on talking
alone by himself
you do not have to make a guess
that something beautiful
is really wrong

because he keeps on writing
all that is sad and so beautiful
how can something be
so wrong?

because of too much concern for the house
that someone other than yourself may live in there
and steal away what you are keeping there

the furniture and the kettle
the glass and the spoon and the fork
and the spam and sausages and
wheat and bread

because of too much worry for what a house can
be
so much home has been wrecked
so many homes were not even conceived and born

because you want a nice and expensive house
now you don't even have that dream of a home

at the end it is just you and
as usual all alone with a little
difference though
that in this particular moment
the moon above you is full and
floats as calmly as a mellow shade
of borrowed light
soft and tender
above your hair
there is home in loneliness now
no one screams and blames another
there is no running anymore
away from something broken
or shattered glass with pointed
pieces
you lay your body upon soft green grass
under the thin golden shade of light
feeling the the life of earth
gently gently beating

when sleep does not visit you
till 11:30 in the evening
you take your time waiting for it
as you dabble in poetry

here is a friend that understands you
and listens to what you are talking
in that cautious silence of his metaphors

the evening becomes a romance of one soul
and one body all contented in the grace
and beauty of the gift of thoughts
and words

he toasts that imagined glass of wisdom
filled with that wine of air
and then the laughter that spreads
that no one hears