so you are afraid to fall in love with me?

there are words that need not be spoken
like you telling me that i care for you
for how would you know what i feel for you?
it would be too self-assuming
for you to say that i really care for you
what if i do not? what if what i do is nothing but
an obligation of one human being to another?
what if it is not love at all as you would want to impress
me with it? what if it is just a projection of yourself?
you loving me and me not knowing it
me not believing it, simply because you are also afraid
to love since i may not return that love with its face value,

there are words that need not be spoken
matters of the heart, presumptions that good deeds
are shadows of hidden desires, vested interests,
blessing in disguise, wolves in sheep skins

in love my friend, you just don't make assumptions
at the end, you may regret it, for despite my emptiness
my ugliness, and my loneliness, i also know how to choose.

it is something that i have never spoken
but if i speak it all, it will only be to you.

do you really like a free meal?

you like free meals
they taste so well
nothing is bitter
everything is sweet

why do you like a free meal?
you save much for yourself.
why do you save much and not
spend anything for yourself?
you are into the vice of misery.
You are the miser storing much
and still beg for more
hence the free meal.

there is no such thing as a free meal
if you only know the real score
you could not have eaten that free meal on the table.
everyday you eat this unnecessary gratitude
tomorrow you shall pay it

with what? your dignity, even your whole life.

the butchers

they come and take care of you
and you are too happy for their concerns
you are well fed and all your complaints are well taken
from cough to fever to even the simplest symptom of boredom
they are ready of their medicines and good accommodations
they protect you from cold and from heat

and then you become big and fat and beautiful
tonight, they are having a drink, and your name comes out
tomorrow you shall have your last meal
you are the next to be butchered

what is your name? Mr. Contented Pig.

we thought we know because time has been so kind with us
we were silent though and pretended that what we know cannot hurt us
we were wrong
for every thing learned there is always a price to pay
pain in exchange of some nuggets of wisdom
anxiety for every knowledge that comes our way

those that do not desire to know are too lucky
they simply wait and do not worry at all
things come to them and they explain themselves
they simplify and what they do is just listen
they are not interested and they are not harmed

yes, look at those pigs, they do not know what pearls are
they do not have any worry that soon those who pretend to care for them
shall butcher them and eat them and feast for all of them

now do you regret that we are the cream of the crop of the worriers?

i like the composure of the shrink

he has always an explanation for what we feel
what we are he says have roots and he can always trace
the reasons and from where we must listen
and then we can start living whole again

he knows how shattered are we and he has always
his incantations: Freud says this and Jung and Erica
and Erickson, and Watson and Pavlov
i sit on the couch and we keep on talking
i am in a trance and i go back to my childhood
and there he was the hand guiding me in this play
a reenactment that points where the real problem lies
incontinence, instability, bed wetting, sexual fantasies
unsolved fixations, the phallus and the vulva,
the fingertips and biting of the nails
slip of the tongues, he is so unforgiving
and then he scribbles a lot of things on paper
prescriptions for the day: a stroll on the beach,
a conversation with someone who died
a journey to a dream, a soliloquy, a dialogue
of the spirits of the trees and the mountains
the sea goddess, the nymphs on the flowers,
the fawns and the gorgons, the dragons and the cyclops,
medusa and the stones, i have all them in mind
my hands tremble, my feet are shaky
and here comes the shrink handing me the tablet
and the drink: you just don't die,you suffer, you must
embrace divine light, and be patient, prostrate,
sleep more on the couch, follow my hypnosis.
i like the composure of the shrink,
he is patient with my pretenses, ... at the brink.

at a loss on what to say

clumsy words
holding nothing but the emptiness
of air

molecules unseen moving
in random directions
shall i identify myself with
just one

and claim that i am lost
in such space of
invisible ions

i am always at a loss
what shall i say?
about these feelings
unrequited

i want to touch your lips
my hands are bound
i want to say i feel love
my tongue is tied

like a sun i tower above you
so helpless
i fade in the dark
there are no stars in the skies

the fifth gospel

after the four gospels
we are now ready for the fifth

learning to live our lives
within the christian hives

we are not individuals
we are a community of equals

we hold each others' hands
we move and sing as a band

in harmony we shall thrive
despite the number of our tribe

after the holy week, now, on the 8th word

the reenactment is over
the tears of the rivers all evaporating
as bouquets of air
offerings to the sad sky

in our clothes seeping are the promises
of the underwear
we say we have learned a lot
in the silent journey inside us
we grasp for a new breath
it is purer and cleaner and refreshing
we were dead and so we rise up again
new sons and daughters
from our hair the white petals grow

from the gray clouds a sun reborn smiles
we are now ready for the 8th word
unspoken but we know what it is

still and ever shall be: love.

poem # 3

the path today is dusty
slowly, i walk and you pass by

on the same direction
you walk past me like you are in a rush for something

you're fast that is what you want to tell me
i do not really mind for you do not exist at all

i am thinking of pebbles. They are unmoved.
They are faceless. They are saying more important things

than your speed, your fast paced conclusions,
you think that you are as high as a cliff, and unreachable by the worm

you are wrong, i may have been drifting like a cloud
i gather rain and then i feed all that thirst on the earth

i vanish soon leaving no mark. That is all that i really wanted.

poem # 2

everything has a reason, that is the tenet, nothing happens by random
that is a restatement, perhaps an accent, and emphatic stress for those who still doubt.

every reason explains itself, whether you know it or not, they have mouths and minds.
though they do not speak to you, or think of you, they think, they speak. A premise.

the fire tree blooms today, and there is fire all around the wildlife part. Warmth is intentional.
Fire for summer. Warmth on a hot day. There is a reason. The petals speak for themselves.

an old pedicab under the mahogany trees, the driver pedals its way on a dusty path.
a child wearing an orange shirt sits restlessly wanting to jump screaming. Noise in stillness.

the trees are shedding off yellow leaves and the ground accepts a good cover. There is no sound.
the grasses are starting to wilt and the moss on the pebbles are dark brown. Time to die.

the joggers are here feeding an activity to this oval the silence of which is finally broken.
Summer. This is rest for most. The holy week and time to reflect. Meanwhile the sun shines

on top of the world, the clouds are cottony and so white. The wind blows on my face.
There is a reason for everything. That is tenet and i know nothing happens by random.

I scribble some notes on my mind. Stating what is not spoken by the sun, the trees, the mountains, the joggers, the dusty path, the child in orange shirt. The pedals squeak and

I am watching and listening. There are too many reasons wanting to be written. Anger, and
pain and bliss and company and solitude. Why do you think that this world is not interesting?

poem #1

walking, just walking, sometimes just this
no thoughts, no decisions, just plain walking

you see the light of the day
striking on the trees and plains and the daffodils

you are not part of it, you are just walking it
you are met by the wind from the mountain

you are not talking you are not interested about
what this wind these trees these daffodils are bringing you

you do not show any interest at all about some leaves falling
the light spreads and sprawls on the grass and sand and pebbles

you are not dazzled you are not completely covered by light
you are just walking, stepping into God's own creation

spectator, just plain walking in, not involved, not commenting
just plain watching, those that crawl and sprawl, those that stay and leave

those that simply lay themselves as plain receptors, grass and sang
mountains and trees, and daffodils, those that merely wait and unmoved.

solitude

if you begin to dislike people
finding stains and dirt and freckles on the face of another
if you do not like to listen what they want to say
if you find a list of mistakes and you say they ought not to be forgiven
if you like to be with yourself as though the world is one indifferent shape
if you begin to hate and keep things to yourself like you are an alien

then, you are not ready yet for solitude
you still suffer, you have embraced the loneliness
the alienation of the self
you have inflicted the cruelty upon humanity even if you are not there yet

silence is like a spool of white thread

silence is like a spool of white thread
take the the tip and walk away

at the end
after you have traveled a very long distance
you come back and tell me
if this is worth it

the long silence of the white thread
what did it tell you?

you come back.

upon the blades of rice plants

upon the blades of rice plants
the light of the sun lands

completing the silence of the
red dragonfly

when we grow up

we look down the road
and remember
all those things that used to tickle

we giggle and soon we wake up
the smiles do not serve any purpose anymore

the stares and silence now control us
we are numb

transposition

on the dry pavement
summer stones
and pebbles
and grass with dews

early morning light
pearls and diamonds and
yellow mantle crawling
spreading

when i appear to you
one of these days

what is it that you want to see?

my hands are hard
my ears covered
my eyes in haze
my body in trembling

this is not what you want to see i guess

you want greek pillars as my feet
my eyes as gentle as a roman saint
my ears attentive as a echoing mountain
my body strong like an old castle

but let me tell you how is it to grieve
for someone that i have loved and lost

how is it to cry and yet not wanting to have tears
how is it to be lost and pretend that he has the mastery of the ways
that he has the manners of a man mastering the art of cultured restraint

tell me if you all know these
if you can relate to these miseries

perhaps one day when the world is ready for me

then i will show myself filled to the brim of reality
like a glass emptied of its contents glistening to the rays of light not filtered by the mist

we are but offerings

we are but offerings
we do not own a thing about us

our thoughts are not ours
our body merely temporary

our souls just smoke that
rises to the sky the purpose

of which is merely to vanish
we know all these yet

we embrace the hope that
there is more to all these

crap, that there is more to
smoke like a scent that

sticks to the walls of the
earth that gives a name to

what we are from the beginning
we hope that there is eternity waiting.

believe in yourself

there is a light within us
we do not keep it inside for soon

it shall burn us alive and so
we keep ourselves open to

the blue skies and to the
full moon at night so they

all can see us flicker like
a star glowing in the darkness

of our longings we keep this
light burning and burning

night and day till we are
all consumed till we are all

gone like a candle burning
itself to nothing

an invitation

now that we are here
inside this dark room

i give you the right
to undress me

to touch me and
caress me

to kiss me and lick
my body and feel

what i want you to
feel and hear what i

want you to hear
this beating of my heart

this radiating love this
palpitating pain.

creativity

there is a sorrow that i do not want to speak
it is something that i cannot give away

there is time that keeps on going and if i stay
i will just be left out and buried in this delay

there is a grief that cannot really be spoken
there is this pain that goes on and one

there are empty parks and empty cafes
there are closed doors and locked rooms

there is this self sometimes that does not open
there are fingers that remain closed upon themselves

there is a song that i can only sing inside myself
there is this poem that keeps on evading what is it that could have been said

all these are mine alone and all these keep me moving on
remembering, loving in silence, keeping the tears frozen, creating what could have been unreal.

something late

FINALLY you tell me
you like an empty house
something minimal
all white with no curves
just straight lines

you want is small now
something that makes us close
something that shrinks
to make an intimacy

you want a house just
for the two of us
i am thinking if these thoughts
are a little bit late

my dreams are different
i am thinking of a bird-house
i am thinking of grains
i am thinking of water

something that i can leave
something that i can give
something that flows away

descriptive

you're on top, you display something analytical, tails and heads in perfect harmony.
explanations, rationalizations, conclusions,
therefore,
i am.

then you are down. Colors come. Red, brown, yellow.
Metallic, rust. Shedding off. Tarnished silver.
Cracks. Lost diamonds. Melted gold.
ice turning to drips.
whirlpools. and rocking and pushing and shoving.
no why's please. You touch the lips. Sssh. No words.
No answers. No questions.
Just sitting down. Looking at a sunset. Orange turning to black.
Pure pitch black.

then the stars. Distant stars. You touch your hair.
Breathe the air. Suck them inside your lungs. Expand.
Close your eyes.

Now you are seeing all things in the dark so vividly.
Memories.Children running on the beach. Chasing. Hide and Seek.

On the table clothed with banana leaves, the food are laid.
Bare hands attack. And you gobble and haggle.

Meanwhile, the sea breeze arrives. The beach is empty.
The cradle swings and takes you to your youth.
Imagine what once was there. Just laughter.

You smile. Close your eyes. And then you remember.

shallow waters

not at all times that we stay on the deep
portion of the river we get tired sometimes
our limbs soft and weary we long for a little rest
a place where there is only foam and bubbles
and the sand and pebbles touching our pelvic bones.

there. On the shallow waters we rest our weary souls.
No thoughts. Just descriptions.

No descriptions. Just silence.
No silence. Just a driftwood.

No feelings at all. Numb and dumb.
Dry leaf buried on the sound. Dead shells.

there is this island

there is this island
a very small island where i once escaped
away from the death that the crowd has inflicted

there is this lonely island
where the only house i have is just an old chair
and throughout the nine full moons i simply sit there gazing

looking at the small tree the leaf of which is only one
its veins too tiny for my eyes to love

it gets lonely here most of the time but i owe all my life to this very small island
it saved me once from the death inflicted on me by the crowd

my body becomes a geisha of gratitude
my mouth becomes the kiss of the slave woman to the nth power of Abram

i live in this island and on the last drop of the day
i become forever

there will be another north star in the heavens
and it shall have my own name

there is this island shaped like a heart and it sheds real blood because it is real
i am but a white grain of sand

perhaps, but i have become this grain of gratitude and i have become a star
forever hanging on the heavens.