tony loves the wild horses
and in those mountains watches them pass by
his only wish is to ride on the back of one of them
and then to die in peace
leave them on their own freedom
and never to catch them
and own them like a dog leashed
on the side of the fence

tony dies in peace on his bed
the wild horses are running passing him by
the most normal thing done
under all circumstances
of freedom

the meeting must be brief
a moment is made to compress all those 20 years
you want a place where you can hear
how coffee mocha is sipped
how each word of the past is uttered
without the clutter of haze

there will be no misty glass around us
only the clarity of our dreams
the coming years will be fine
as we nod with each other with all respect
and then we shake our hands
and leave
we have chosen paths always away from each other
asymptotic and harsh.

in summer
i will ride on a carabao
fish on the river
sleep on grass

in summer
i will bathe on the creek
and gaze upon the kingfisher.

the comfort of home
during the heavy rain
at the veranda
sipping jasmine tea
and remembering you

I remember now
how it took us three days riding on a horse
bound for Marupay
following the trail along the mountainside
passing the forest and
the seven rivers

i remember no fear
because Papa was there.

write from the heart
and things become smooth like a new
bond paper
uphold truth
pursue beauty
take compassion

and by then
poems write themselves as though they are you.

sometimes we pass the same river
i counted it
seven times and yet you never noticed that
we passed the same river seven times

i checked my fingers, i have one hand and two fingers more
on the other
and yes, it is really seven, seven rivers, yet one river,
same feet, same company with you
we passed the same river, seven times, i noticed it
you never did
because you love me more than i have loved you
and you noticed only me
i am sorry.

i was thinking about the three of you
at first i thought that with all your sacrifices
it will lead just to nothing
but a very low self-esteem
which may lead to
self-destruction

time has proved me wrong since the three of you
have reached what i think
is success, in fact, the apex of everything,
goodness of heart, compassion,
humility, and patience
i talked to her and she has achieved what i did not expect.
she is sound. strong like a pillar in another land.
she is complete and never asks for more.
i guess, she is right all along. Inflict the pain.
Educate the senses with deprivation.
the most beautiful flower that i have seen was in the
desert
with leaves strong as steel
and flowers petaled with suns
and moons
enjoy your days. I shall recover too from the errors of my birth.

for you to become a big fish
settle in a small aquarium,
everything is relative, ask Gulliver.

your escape to them is unkind
how they have taken hunger instead
of you. The years shall come like a
caravan of camels over an oasis untold
princesses tell of unicorns to justify
the death of your horns. No one blames
you. The desert takes you for sands.

music is self-taught
as loneliness hums
love is true when it
passes and your hands
still open. Life continues
as Death ends.

what i taught my friend when he said he has not recovered yet from an unrequited love

did love ask you
how are you?

tell: i am fine, fuck you.

don't push yourself
don't beg

say: i've change.
i am happy without you.

( am not sure)

how to become a deep sea diver?
first, you have to go nude.
you need a rock to stand upon
then a certain height

second, you must have an ocean
darker than blue
deeper than you can think of
third: you dive, then you lose yourself
you never come back
you become a myth.

it is not the water
that quenches your thirst
forget the wine
it is not the bread
you have never lived with
bread alone

it is what makes us
sleepless
in Ermita
what makes us too restless
in zamboanga
it is what we know
what we really cherish
but which we just leave
alone
without forgiving.

you may say it is beautiful to see a kite fly in the sky
it is like a cat wagging its tail
a picture of joy perhaps but you should have tried being a kite
floating

do you know how is it to float? that feather without wings
you do not know how is it to be a cloud or a fog
how was it when you are skinned out of love, when we were young and your best friend leaves your place?
there was crying, and then the floating begins
you are the child without a mom, a stranger without a definite
destination
a man scraped of any purpose
that student who changes course every semester
that woman shifting from one man to another
that businessman always losing money from one investment to another
you know what i mean. There are so many metaphors of failures. So many stories about losing love and life.
you have your own.
and you know what i really mean.
it is hard when you float and so it is good to know how to root.
know this soil. grab the fertility of its secrets.
make roots, the more roots the better life can be.
grow deeper, stab the silence of the earth.
grow more feet and arms and fingers.
hold tightly to what this earth can give you.
live.

i am rooting
deeper.
i once was a cloud
a fog
a feather and i did not
like it

it never did me any good
it made me fear even my own self
i lost the corners of my room
i fear the image in the mirror
and doctors shake their heads
there is no cure for this disease
i am rooting deeper
i have a hundred hands now
holding to the branches
grasses
trees of the earth
i fear nothing now.
I am proud. I am rooted.
a boat finding its port
a rope tied to the pillar of the shore.

and the worm asks the bird:
why do you like me?
and the bird says: you fill up
my hunger

can't you like me for some other
reason?
worm, i do not think, i only eat
so when you fly, or when you decide to
take me into your guts
you do not really think about me?
i have no time for it, i do what my
instincts tell me
i fly because i have wings
i use my beak because i am a bird
but why did you take me when there are
other worms on that tree?
common, you are the most visible worm
the most accessible one
and so i had no time looking for some
other worms
no, you have taken me because you love me
and you eat what you love
and hence you are so cruel
you are not a worm, you are a woman.
i am a bird, and i could be a man.

it has been raining
one wonders when will this rain stop
you and your kind are the drinking ones
the rain becomes a reason

the thirst of the earth are your thirst too
the thirst for stories and lies and evasions
there is a way to choose what stories to hear
even under this rain of beer and rum
that moment when i begin to learn the meaning of a hum
the justification for that beauty of slowness
and gentleness of the spirit in the middle of a
never ending quest for what is right and acceptable
the rain is a story too, a hum, a monotony
which levels us all into the reality of waiting
by the window to the world beyond us
inside a cafe with just a cup of our own tea.

oh, the leaves that fall
from the trees
may be blown away
after a time may become dry
turn to dust
and be forgotten

but wait,
the dust turns into atoms
and soon shall become
nutrients of the trees again
that grow the leaves
that give those flowers
that bloom and make the air
of this earth
well scented again

a surge of feelings
a crash of images in the attic of your mind
there is so much noise
of falling things and shattering of glasses
in your ears
a flash of lights like fireflies
sudden thrushes between here and there
a pendulum of what you want and
what you regret
a trickle of silence
a spread of seepage of dew and dun

everything is happening without a thought
it is like a bird bumping on the glass of the car
you are driving and there is no going back
to see if it is alive
or dead.

my brother is still on the stage of
keeping a farm
counting the sack of rice and
the possibilities of rain and
shine

he finished a house and through
with the giving names of his children
he built a fence and felt the security
of the lock in his door and gate
i just watch how things are going
no conclusions
how his children are having minds of their own
seeing mistakes and wanting to correct the system
when my brother caged a sparrow
they get angry and leave their house for
some other escape
when they come back they show the signs
that they are not happy anymore
and they want to leave
someday
that seems to be their only dream
for the meantime that they cannot stand on their own feet
they pretend obedience
and swallow the food that they do not really like
i guess that is how life is
really
the new breed do not like to grow rice in the farm
houses are not meant for residences
and fences are just inhibitors of freedom
they despise what my brother loves
my brother shrinks into sorrow
turns himself into a child again
looks for a smoother skin and
sweeter tongue
and i guess he simply wants to get even
to recoup what he did not have
when he was once like me
strong and yet
very unhappy.

when you drink a glass of water
you do not have to read the history of glass and water
how they once met for the first time
how they find themselves in the situation where one
is inside the other

when you finally hold that glass to drink its water
you do not recall the structure of your throat
the guile of the tongue and the story about your tummy
how they keep things to themselves
and how eventually you satisfy your thirst and think
about someone else
more important
i think, that is what spontaneity is all about
instant taking, and satisfaction and then
moving on.

the sins
are roots
of my
earth

the clouds
cannot take
and make
me drift

i once drifted
and do not
like it

the sins
keep me
rooted and
i am not
shaken

when the
right time comes
for the cutting

the uprooting
accept may i
for the right
drift
when i have
finally relinguished
what earth
in me is.

she dislikes me when i go to the market
when i have listed what to buy and the first thing that i meet
that thing that i need
i buy

she says i am too careless
loving true the one that comes first
early morning

for the day is long and the sun has so much to offer with its light
i could have waited for the moon for more comparison
but i do not like delay and i work on first impression and so she dislikes me for that
i only have errors for her

she wants me to be with her in the market where i must follow every gesture she makes
i have to repeat every word that she says
to the vendors in a row
all, scheming people looking for nothing but profit from my innocense

i have nothing to lose i tell her
i have so much to give and i give without thinking and she says she dislikes me more for this

we are not compatible she exclaims
and i must leave you soon after this haggling and taking
i am honest she says and
it will not do me any good

i guess i will repeat her words now for her
i do not doubt it.

i like to write deep from the heart
of me
i need a shovel
perhaps something sharper
like a scalpel
so i can make a probe
a wound and

i like it perhaps when i
bleed
so i can find the words
like a masochist

at first i really wish i were the saddest
sadist
but i have become a feather that lives
in the clouds

always subject to a criticism
i have never been that good as you
but i am
i think
happier

perhaps i like the way this absurdity is taking me
i have grabbed reason for long
it gave me this stern face
this hard jaw
square nose and this feeling that i have opressed myself
that much without pity


i know what they mean now
they mean nothing to me
i know what i mean now
i am nowhere

you think that you can be true now

now that no one knows the roots of your being

you think that perhaps in the beginning of thought

everyone tells the truth and there is no fear whatsoever

and this is the place where you first step on its sand on its shore

someone greets you and you nod and without saying you begin to smile

this is the place where they will conceive who you are for the first time and

you want it to be you and nothing but you.....

you open your hand and you wave at each stranger and then you sit on one of the benches

of their park and you gaze at each of them...all strangers, all without names, all wondering too

as to who you are.

WHAT HIS WIFE TELLS HIM

that lady with so many tongues
destroyed our friend
the tongues have told so many stories
which are never true
what we did was grow so many holes in our ears
and the stories of course become nothing but winds
we shut the door of our caves and we turn into mountains
and that lady with so many tongues
could not find us anymore
that friend whom that lady with so many tongues destroyed
had died a thousand deaths
lucky for her because she had once a thousand lives
and so there were so many stories about her
and that lady with so many tongues
with our ears with so many holes shall never hear
the stories of our lives
the beauty we have kept as secrets to ourselves
and that is how mountains come about
how caves have shut their mouths how since then
the world in its silence have become more beautiful than
ever
once upon a time.

the mountain with its
strong back
simply echoes what
the winds are
murmuring

that is what i do most
often.
i like the sky more and
the majesty of the sun
that is what mountains do
as rivers wind around it
as winds pass by
as clouds sometimes hover
as fog creeps

there are conversations in the bus
we keep hearing without paying much attention
their lives are temporary
and they last while we are still inside it

always hoping
when to reach that final destination
our eyes are busy on the side of the streets
the houses, the trees, and the passing
scenery
in a flash of seconds that keep on
changing more like stories about here and there
in pictures
you may keep your silence and then pretend to
the man beside you that you are listening to him
and that is easy, and he keeps on telling you the stories
of his youth, the cares of his wife, the hopes of
his children,
and you would not bother stopping
him or inserting your own version of yourself
who cares anyway? you have your own stories to tell
to yourself which you cannot tell anyone
lest there be no more secrets, no mysteries
lest there will be no longer you to keep and cherish
you know it well, once you share a chapter of your life
it ceases to be you own,
it now belongs not only to the lonely
man beside you, it starts to be owned by the world
this world that owes you nothing
and in return, you too, owe nothing to it.
and then the bus arrives and you step out
and you leave him, wondering perhaps why
you are the listening type.

and the worm asks the bird:
why do you like me?
and the bird says: you fill up
my hunger

can't you like me for some other
reason?
worm, i do not think, i only eat
so when you fly, or when you decide to
take me into your guts
you do not really think about me?
i have no time for it, i do what my
instincts tell me
i fly because i have wings
i use my beak because i am a bird
but why did you take me when there are
other worms on that tree?
common, you are the most visible worm
the most accessible one
and so i had no time looking for some
other worms
no, you have taken me because you love me
and you eat what you love
and hence you are so cruel
you are not a worm, you are a woman.
i am a bird, and i could be a man.

the one you talk with
has many questions and you
focus on his dimension
trying to figure out what answers
are desirable for as you know
people love to hear answers
that they expect

and so your question is:
what answers does this guy want to hear?
(do not figure out the truth
he may not like it
follow his questions like a river
and you must put the fish that
that river likes
or just turtles
or just the messy mossy ones
to make things cooler)
what you do is know more about him
his past, his biases, his likes and dislikes
and hence when the first question is asked
answer right away,
the one that does not hurt
like his past,
the one that he likes most in the future
the one that makes him happier
or let us say, the one that makes his life
more livable
( do not believe that misery seeks misery)
(haven't you heard that he attempted to
cut his life last year?
we know that story,
his sins, his failures, and disappointments)
do not answer using a rope
do not think like himself.

the sound of poetry
is the sound of denial,
not all denials are
horrible

some denials are the most
truthful image of truth
and behind all these the most beautiful sound
of your poems come
in the form of hidden honesty
the one that says i am not here
in front of the other.

do not capture the best
neither shall you say i am
just keep on gazing and

moving into the journey of
that soul within which till
date you have not really held
with your own embrace
you do not have to capture
the best and say i am the best
for it is the best that captures you
and then it says: i have the best
and of course, you will never know.

EID
today i must
remember how Abraham
was ordered by God
to sacrifice his only
son Isaac

perhaps i must think
about doubt
how i too, doubted
God's orders
perhaps i must take
that leap of faith
perhaps if i had a son
i could have killed him
myself and say
it is God's order
and i must obey
but what if God had
not sent me a lamb?
what if i had killed my
own son?
what if God allowed
me to kill
and never stopped me
at the end?
History will condemn me.
There is only one Abraham
as There is only One God.

do you need an army to let them know that you are here?
do you need company in that walk of your solitude?
do you need a friend to listen to the sighs of your soul?

do you need a child to continue the footsteps of your future?
do you need a wife to comfort you in the place where you are rested?
do you need a government to get what you want in this world?
do you want to be ruled?
do you need a cup to drink your water in the river?
do you need a horse to complete the journey that you have started?
do you need a follower of your thoughts?
do you really need yourself to understand finally who you are?
do you need life to understand what death is?
do you really like what you like?
i am not asking you.

after we talked
i already know what you wanted
i toyed with that idea
and then when we finally meet
each other at the agreed
time and place

i already know what to say
but i only listened
to what i already expected you to say
to me
i toyed with that idea
as always
as i have always done with the past
with all of them
and they all like me
just like the way you like me now
at the end
you say, this kind of thing won't last
these toys
won't last longer than we think
we both toyed with these ideas
and we
since we know already this kind of pain
we did not pain that much
(perhaps a little like that
grain of salt
like the way we toyed with
one another)
with tongue-in-our-cheeks
we part and we do not use any word
any longer
when pain is anticipated
what can pain be?
obviously, the one that you already know
does nothing to you.

I always understand
this manner of keeping things of the same color
and glow
size and even scent

i know what hands are
and the lines of those palms
the hardness of these nails
the sensient
transcendence

i have seen arms that elbow
those that obstruct
what you need is what you want
what you love is what you keep
nothing is extraordinary in all these
and so i am not a stranger
to what you have to say next

now i must get even with you
i make a dam and keep my water
i leave you dry
plain and simple
i am this high and must not seek
your level

i have seen thirst and hunger
and even death
and i have seen to it
that it is not mine

THE SONG OF SELFISHNESS

i've seen the truth
and heard its sound
i've seen its light
surging and strong
i've touched its softness
caressed its directions
i've seen it leave me
because i have always
said to myself
< I am not ready>

THE SHADOW OF THE PAINFUL PAST

a shadow rises from the sea
that night when the moon was weary

the shadow drips and comes near me
and without any word touches me
i offer a glass of wine to keep it warm
to keep it bold so that it may soon speak the word
the word that i have never heard before
when the sea was calm when the place is deserted
the shadow tries to show the face i love
the body i long
the memory i had been for long wanting to
still keep
because i always remember
and then the shadow does the trick
which i have long embraced and accepted
it still leaves me
in this darkness.

YOU keep a box
like my size
my head is still larger
than that
my body much bigger
and my feet and hands
never fit

I keep the movement
between here and there
like time and home
and chasing and hiding
and saying and
then in my chosen time
this silence
You keep that box
and you call me and say
This is your home and
You live here
You'll have no worry
about growth and change
This is the place of
painless plunges
I know my name
Every curve and edge of
my Body
I take this fingers as friend
and rivers
My self is not your boat
My mind not your port
I am myself and my secrets
I have a home and this
Comfort room
This tower, and this vision.

an isolated island
has only pebbles and sand
for its love
all affections are settled only
on the foams of the sea

the caressed hair of the wind
the simplicity of the plain
if the world is in chaos it professes
its innocence
if the world ends tomorrow in a nuclear
bombilation
it hears nothing but the buzz of the bee
the hush of the butterfly's flutter
it does not disregard its beliefs
it is an island and it knows not how this world
shall end.

a fugitive
finds a shell
goes inside the
labyrinths without
a string

a fugitive loses
himself
and he likes it
for no law shall
find him
the genuine loss
is when
you, yourself
cannot even find you
and that is what
fugitives like
always uncaught.

a rainy day
that day the rain falls heavily on the roof.
the leak has been managed.
the doormat is replaced with a new one.
the dogs are inside the house and they
are everywhere. The biggest one stares
at me on the dining table.
i stop sipping my coffee.
The smallest one, coy and secretive,
sleeps beside you in bed.
the other three are so unruly
waiting to eat the white cat on the
ceiling.

you have chosen sleep.
i take the black raincoat
open the door and heads
towards my favorite hang-out.
the soup is ready and she hates
dog like myself.

have no fear
you did not kill that chicken
i will witness
it was already dead
when you
overran it with your
wobbling truck

he says he could have done that
better than you
but by then you have already done it
himself
he is far away from you and shouts at
the top of his voice
he says he could have been the best person
for that
but you have done it yourself and so
you have become the winner since you are the doer
and he is just, as always, the wanna be.

how to be useful can be
tragic
maybe at the middle part
we are the steering wheels of this
vehicle

or the secret contraption that makes
everything so easy to move
or destroy, for sometimes we are
the happy tools of destruction
we claim to be the pillars and the
pillagers
someday after all these, we surrender
our heads to our executioners
but they will not do it for us
they will not take the honor
we are those who wait by the road
for the last trip towards home
we are useless now but we are
proud with our hopes
they will take us, they will take us
they promised to take us back home.

an isolated island
has only pebbles and sand
for its love
all affections are settled only
on the foams of the sea

the caressed hair of the wind
the simplicity of the plain
if the world is in chaos it professes
its innocence
if the world ends tomorrow in a nuclear
bombilation
it hears nothing but the buzz of the bee
the hush of the butterfly's flutter
it does not disregard its beliefs
it is an island and it knows not how this world
shall end.

it is its day today
the night outside my window
moves with its darkness
under the moon
dressed in the coldness of
its fabric
it makes the sounds of
the midnight cat and the owl and
the wolf,

it is its day, and i am enclosed
in this room
filled with light and comfort
and courage
between us
is a belief that the best thing
that must happen is this bold separation
this unkindness
this kindness in mutual cruelty
this life and death
that we both have to choose
and accept

the fugitive

a fugitive
finds a shell

goes inside the
labyrinths without
a string

a fugitive loses
himself
and he likes it

for no law shall
find him

the genuine loss
is when

you, yourself
cannot even find you

and that is what
fugitives like

always uncaught.

dawn

dawn is a good
investment

i invest so much time
in it

some memories
scruples that i never get
over with

much time is spent
remembering and trying to
learn

how to avoid the same
mess
how to rise above a
drowning

how to redraw the route
of a great escape

from what? from whom?
these are no longer
the mysteries of my own
faith

dawn is a friend
it talks back and i sometimes feel
that i am

an undesirable kid, the one who should
be blamed
for broken toys

dawn is my own paper
where i write all my sins of
omissions

if you begin to read what
i have written
in that dusky sheet
perhaps you will not like me
forever

dawn is a bosom
and i make love with it
as usual

i feel this comfort when you are
no longer with me


the days will judge me
but dawn i know, in deep understanding
shall acquit me.

memory lane

lately, he has been talking about separations
how painful the process can be at the start
just like a wound with a pus
but somehow when that infected thing
bursts and the cause is removed
the relief that is felt justifies all the
fears and anxieties

she likes it too
the way she dismembers a wing from the
body of a bee
how its sting has to be extricated so that
it cannot penetrate another flesh
and cause inflammation

he too remembers how he once disassembled
the toy robot that Papa once bought him during
his 5th birthday
when Mama went away packing all her things
and took the bus to ozamis

things repeat themselves and they all know that
and some people despite this knowledge allow these things to happen

not because it is painful but because it finds at the end
the reliefs they are seeking.

a rainy day

that day the rain falls heavily on the roof.
the leak has been managed.
the doormat is replaced with a new one.
the dogs are inside the house and they
are everywhere. The biggest one stares
at me on the dining table.
i stop sipping my coffee.
The smallest one, coy and secretive,
sleeps beside you in bed.
the other three are so unruly
waiting to eat the white cat on the
ceiling.

you have chosen sleep.
i take the black raincoat
open the door and heads
towards my favorite hang-out.

the soup is ready and she hates
dog like myself.