THE LOGIC OF THE STRANGER

from one tree springs the trunk and the branches
and it seems to me that each part of us always wants to branch out

leaves fall inevitably leaving a
bald space
sort of, i want to go this way and sometimes
i want a
clear butting and
i want to cut you away from my life
so you can grow on your own
independence is a dream of all living
creatures
the strangers look at us: one tree, just one tree
and so pleasing to their eyes
giving shade is enough comfort for a passerby
and hence, i know the reason why,
you are still part of me.

ADVICE TO A LONER
I will attempt not to
misspell
loneliness

at any rate let me inform you
that i have always
correctly spelled it during those times
of extreme depression
to spell it correctly
i need to see a flower
blooming in the desert
that i created myself
and since someone asks
for its scent
i have to make the necessary concoctions
it could be jasmine
or cherry perhaps but i know it all depends on me
and my
way of imagining people and places
colors spring from the rods in my eyes
and scents are sensed by the sensory of my nose
if you are lonely
why not join me in my cup of tea
sip this
it is good for your tongue.

learning from you

three things before one dies

plant a tree
write a book
have a child

not necessarily
in that order perhaps

or make another

write about a child
in a book
and draw a tree
on its cover page

somehow
one must avoid the
chaos

or consider the
situation that you are
in

imagine, what if the
tree bears no fruit?

what if the child in the
book will have
two mothers?

what if the book
will cost
your one and only life?

ask:

have you lived
at all
before you have died?

having that personal space amidst the chaos

the way she lives
in that big and crowded city
is simple
like being packed
sardines inside a night train
bound for home

she sits there, opens a
book
about romance
and focuses her mind
on a page
like a moment in her
life
she feels like a planet
traveling her own orbit
keeping a certain
distance
in order not to fall
or explode
there is a need really
to prevent a head-on collision
with some
inevitable realities
keeping balance
not that high to hit her head against the sky
and not too low
to drown herself in the ocean
it is, as she narrates,
just being between heaven
and hell
that safe boundary between
good and evil

someone inside us

there is someone inside us
someone who is outside the fence
and wants to go inside a house
who keeps on waiting for the right
time to open the door
and then close it again

and there is another one
lurking behind a door
peeping upon a hole and wanting
to see the world out there
always planning a escape but
who cannot
because he holds the key and
then loses it
after so much thinking on how
to really live
while waiting for the light that comes
only from the moon.

without the eye contact

when we talk
we do not really look at each other
in the eye
we have so many places to hide
and we choose the words to conceal
what we really want to say and
mean

i try once to see you straight
in a moment
a flash of having to be candid
even for once
you evade my stare feeling the stab
of truth
and i respect the way you avoid the
pain
somehow we are two islands
set apart by the deep water and lovelier
still
between the rush of the surge
the storm

when you were born
mom did not tell you that the stars in the sky
made a thousand winks
a feast of lights
and a rendezvous of universal droplets of
distances

all the planets however maintain
there respectful distances
trying to show how dignity works
what they did not tell you however
was the silence of the world
tiptoeing not to disturb you with your
first cry

upon robin's death



unexpected
but it happens
most of the
time

the comedian
has been pleasing
to others
but he was never
pleased about
himself
sad, sad really,
but who knows?
he must have seen
more important
than living life
he must have seen
the light and we who live
still in the dark
whatever that is
are saying that
it is another waste of
life

keeping yourself busy
feed the cat and the
dogs

scatter some grains
and seeds for the birds
water the plants
they cannot move to get water
for themselves
clean the furniture
dusts are ugly
open the window
see the branches of trees spreading like hands
to the sky
keep moving
do not nail those legs on the floor
they love to walk
imagine the good life
say your stories
drive the monster thoughts away
pray, pray and pray
live and let live
still the wise choice for me

the quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog
near the bank of the river
the secret to life and living it to the full
is not in the foxiness
neither the doggedness
nor the nearness of the river
it is only one word.
the verb: jumps and always related
with its partner: quick
it is the moving and moving and moving
change the scenery
know more people
it is not the place but the traveling
not the river but the water.
not the forest but the trees
it is not the lushness of thoughts
but the reality of a warm embrace.

he thought about love
he anticipated its delights
all delights
until one day love came
and it brought him
pain and

since then he had second thoughts
suspicious about
love
and lovers and
everything that smells something like it

sometimes when the air brings a little
scent of it
from a very far distance

he pukes and he imagines the pain
and he says

i may never love
love again

his ass has tightened like
another virgin
in town again.

faking it

without the eye
contact
the words become
obscene
the conversations
have become
too personal

the masks have
become our very own
faces

we were looking for
love in all places
only to find it here
and then after the kiss
we taste something that
we can compare

and then i must complain
it is not the legal
tender

the saliva is fake.

the new arrival

back to the room
the silence keeps sticking
on the curtains
unmoving despite
the breaths that
he had brought along
to make the
lonely room envious
of his
becoming.

this is supposed to be a private recording of a life's struggle and you therefore does not want it to share.

but by then you are like a stranger on a journey to nowhere and you want to stop but there is no place to stop

so you keep on moving carrying nothing in your hand or shoulder and you are alone and the road is endless

and there are no flowers along the way, no bird, no cloud
and it seems that all these that happen  are but a dream unfolding like a hood in your head

soon, soon is the word
and understanding follows who knows?

when the end comes

some spiders
on your belly
roaming
uninhibited

your hands are
bound and your
mind flies away

you are left staring
and doing nothing

there is nothing
you can do about it.

everything is just a
reflection of ourselves
in the mirror

when the past comes
strutting
in the room where
we rest
where our feet are
still rooted to the
navel of the bed

we delight seeing
its way of dancing
before us

we do not feel like
rising
and going out to meet
another

or if we do so
we always meet something
new with the face of the
past still dominating the
halls of our present

how can we grow like
a vine on the canopy of
trees
or an orchid in the
company of barks?

when our arms are as
tightly bound as the
pickles inside the jar

when our minds are
laminated on the
the letters unopened
on addresses fading
on the faces of outdated
envelops inside those
dusty cabinets of old.