we have friends who during a
party ask us
where have we been all these times
what we have been doing
on those spare days

and we answer that
we have been writing poems
and trekking the country for metaphors

and they all laugh while holding their wine glasses
thinking that we are joking
and finding us all
funny

"cheers! we'll drink to that" says a friend
to celebrate those days
when we merely talk about stocks and dividends

pretty is sweet and rose scented
i go only for the hugging and the caressing
she licks me though on my feet and toe
but no matter how lonely
i do not sleep with pretty

i still have fears of the fleas

let us be candid and wild about this my love
our love, lick my love, my love,
suck my love, my love,
i will lick all the love you

have
suck mine that i too have
love goes like a pendulum
to and through, and through and through,
so lick, my love, my love,
suck my love, my love
until we are all through and through
until we are filled and emptied in this then and now.

let me hold your hand so i can take you there
on a chair
i spread my legs and look up to the sun above us
you kneel and i be your god for this moment
you root yourself to earth like a sunflower
you shed your leaf you bow down like a slave
you find my treasure my dews
for now i became the shape of another

a leaf am i
consume me, you worm!

there is dignity in what you do
makes man a king
you go to earth and open your mouth
letting in the quintessence of manhood
think of humanity
without this the world would be so many
swallow that pride of masculinity
inside your grace and kindness
accommodate this offer
man and woman entangled
tendrils so entwined
let no bud turn into a flower
let there be no fruit
for that is what they wanted

there is a waterfall on my belly
there is a dam on my pelvic bone
i cannot stop this
i will let go a river
there will be a flood
needing you.

be the parched earth
let your cracks be mouths
i will be the rain, i will be the flood
do not destroy humanity
take all of me, this flood, this rain, this dam is broken
i let go a rampage of emotions
i explode

you be the space
you must take all that i am
all that i will be
tackle me, swallow me
drink me
o thirsty earth, my love,
my life, my outlet, my current.

a pool lies at the foot of a hill
there is a bush of mushing green
beside a rotten tree are mushrooms
birds drink here and then sing
a crystal pool where Narcissus
rests and stays for a while

at the side of the bank are white stones
a frog licks a fly
drinking upon a dropp of sperm

Narcissus is sleeping
soundly upon a grass
under a tree
it is windy.

she left her for good
but he manages to stay
and keep himself
sane,

he sits naked on the stair
caresses the loneliness of his flesh
and squirts his substance on the floor

at least he did not spit on her

what i think is what you get
this is all i have
a finger, a thought, a tongue
i can offer you a hand
if you want
if you stay, i can offer you greater
than all these
you may have my body
and if you care for me more than
enough
you can even have my soul
but if you are true more than enough
that you take time
burying me when i die
then i can give you
more than my soul and my body
but you may not like it
so i may ask: won't you take my poetry?

don't laugh, i am a serious writer.

last night was different
inside my dream i was gentle
kind to myself there was no blaming
no enumeration of sins and no formula for what must be done
it was more of taking things like a shallow river
i step on it and there is no qualm
no sounds of wild ducks
just the cool, calm waters with slight ripples from the drops of dew
from the leaves of mountain trees,
last night, we were different
we simply gaze upon our bodies
naked as we are to the honesty of who and what we are
i kissed you on the mouth and your tongue licked mine
we closed our eyes we caressed our bodies with our hands
not a word, just a savor of the fleshy feast,
no justifications, no explanations
we grip our fingers
we bite our lips
on joint orgasms, a celebration at last of having discovered
our souls, fused, divine, and forgiving.

it is like my test
do not anticipate this for an answer because it can be that.
i do not go for filling in the blanks
for that would be too easy neither will i ask you to enumerate
for how can you ever have a good memory,
i go for an essay
the one that ask for justifications
where white can be black
and black white
with a person like me and like you
based on the need
and our desires
reasons abound like a bunch of ripe grapes
sweet sour
we pick them all, make the wine, ferment, and then
we sit like lovers
drinking our inventions.

Raffy in Las Vegas always knew what to do with his life.
Nothing submerged, suppressed, everything waiving like hands
Welcome, welcome,
Happiness, there is no tint of sadness on his face
Lovers abound, There is no shame,
There is always that touch
That tickles his legs
Of hair and
Tongue,

He forgets home

where his face is stuffed
Like a bear.

A sea of cloth on an early morning
A wooden boat afloat
The cloth of blue and gray clouds
Still touching
Hands and Lips
A man wearing a straw hat
A woman on green skirt watching
Him sail back,
A child cradled on her arms
Serene in sleep

it is obtuse, and you must
take the form of the isosceles

not off tangent
do not be strict on
perpendiculars

take the angle where
love fits most
where the groan is least

the pain
negligible

love maximized on trapezoidal
compromises

the dream

i like this to be simple.

she was tiny and smooth
like a shell
(not the shell of an egg)
a sea
shell, she has a song
from the wind
it is sad, but i love it,
her, she is the other woman,
on a bamboo bed,
she my time unexplained
i make love to her
she pretends, i am hurt,
but it does not matter,
i am lonely, and feeling so lost,
i am a ship
needing an ocean not an anchor
i have no port
of origin and arrival,
that night, the sphinx
was shattered, and the following morning,
she was dead
asleep, she was so exhausted like a slave
woman, feeding me the love
that i have not tasted,
i was a puppy, yelping for help,
for meat,
and then i wake up
early, for some
anxiety, what time is it,
where am i,
i am leaving, i offered her
not flowers, i planted a kiss,
it was not part of the
contract, but just the same
i kissed her, for she is dead asleep
dreaming perhaps of the
man she really loved.
i put on my pants
combed my hair, and silently
left the room, locked the door,
and be myself again.

it is as simple as that, back home,
i do not need any complication.

.. and so we went to her place
in a house where her only furniture
is a bamboo bed

she holds my face
she kneels down
she kisses my hand
as though she is my slave

... and so something which should not have happened happened
there's that tinge of guilt
i wanted her to say she loves me
but she didn't

she made me happy all the way
all way through that lonely night
on that bamboo bed

that following morning
when she was still fast asleep
i kissed her hair
put something beside her
that she loves most

it will make her survive perhaps for a month
even without love

you dream about a court litigation,
there was this man, emaciated suffering
from tuberculosis, his bed is worn out, blood stains
on his pillow and blanket unwashed, you can estimate
how this foul smell emasculates him,
he does not sound a complaint,
yet you know he does not like everything around him,
including himself,

there are cockroaches feeding on his saliva
drying and more are coming from his mouth,
no one cares for him, he is left alone to die,
and you see these things above him
you are the spirit of his dream, his son, and he
is your father,

there are unresolved issued between you and him
years ago, you are ambivalent,

did he destroy you? or was it him who placed you
in the throne of your success now?

Hamlet, to be or not to be,
you murmur the lines in your sleep.

you wake up, remembering a friend under the same circumstances.
some of them, too, died in despair,
unable to understand the madness of the Furies
existing in the mind of the weak and
the feeble minded.

things are simple. Doubt is a reality.
Ambivalence is human nature too.
What is important is this: they belong to their world now
and you are on your own
in this contested Paradise.

Why not enjoy it now? Savor, and just be yourself.
Go on. Write about it and be the redeemed man that you are.
With God beside you, who can be against you?

Ah, not even your cruel father. Not even your insensitive self.
It simple. Life is simple. Do not complicate it with the unnecessary
Metaphors. Words are nothing but words.

Dreams are just dreams. The cockroaches are merely symbols.
The man with TB was never him. Funny, but it could be you.

Meanwhile, you take a walk, and be under the power of the sun.
Stare at it. Close your eyes. Savor what red is there.

he scratched it accidentally
perhaps when he was asleep
as he was wont
to raise his arms on his forehead,

and with uncut nails
he caused a wound therein
infected by his carelessness
his hand touching
barely almost anything dirty

he looks at himself on the mirror
studying
the gaping wound like an
eye staring back at him
asking

why should a man raise his hands
even when asleep?

and why should he wound himself
unnecessarily?

why does he not care about
the possibility of the complexity of an infection

that may even
cause his death?

is this the kind of surrender
he had dreamed of inside his dream?

his way of finally giving up life
since it left him with nothing to offer?

he looks at himself closely
now, he becomes a strange man staring at
another man he thought
he knew too well.

that quick little brown dog
jumps over the fence
near the bank of the river,
it is not your dog,
but you happen to be there when it
jumped,
over the fence near the bank of the river
into the river
that deep river with an overrunning
of the water
the dog was struggling to swim back
to the safety of the bank
but it failed and the dog was taken away
by the river and
it was gone,
you wonder why until now you think about that
dead dog
it is not yours but it sticks to your mind
as though it is yours
somehow you think as though you own it
and that you feel so painful about such loss
and you cannot sleep
and then you dream about that quick little brown dog
that drowned
it is barking so hard trying to be alive again
you wake up
with lots of cold sweat
somehow you think again
inside that dream
the face of the quick little brown dog
that jumped over the fence
into the deep river
is yours.

i imagined her again
that early evening when she overdrank her wine
she was bent at nothing
but simply to relax herself a bit
from a broken heart

she was tipsy, she walked towards that room
dimly lighted, she did not close the door
she undressed herself
walked naked and laid herself
on the carpeted floor
which i could see from where i was seated
trying to compose myself
in my own way of recovering from an old wound

she stood again went back to the door to close it
as i did not follow her
she did not smile
neither did she speak a word
but i understood

the following morning she dressed herself
put on her shoes
whistling her way out of the door then closed it
i went back to the usual pretense

i slept
till ten.

the night is very cold here
on top of Mt. Malindang

the old woman sits on the ground
(there are no chairs here)

puts her arm on her knee
and begins to roll a
leaf which she dried under
the sun the whole day

she tears a small portion of the tobacco leaf
rolls it on the other leaf and then she
lights the roll on the gas lamp

she puffs her smoke
to the moon.

everyone understands
what silence is all about

there are no more stories
from exhausted bodies

the souls are rested
on top of wilted grass

and then everybody is
fast asleep
for tomorrow's same work.

i am new here and i
am beginning to understand

what is this big mountain
all about?

why is it here
and why the people are not
at all complaining?

some flowers bloom late, some buds
just wilt

the rain makes no promises - and so there
goes some stories

of johnny-come-latelies
and pretentious marriages.

do not define it
do not defend it
do not attempt to prevent it
i comes
unexpectedly, and goes beyond plans,
no stars draw a map
to where it can be found

an evening talk, an
early frost, it comes surprisingly
even on mornings
when you take
breakfast alone, it is sexless,

it assumes a face
the moment you see it
inside your heart
or on the highway on evergreen Volkswagen.

ask me, and i will answer:

i got what i wanted from this life, but despite
that fact, there is still the question
to and fro
like a doubtful philosopher
like a pendulum of grandfather's clock:

what did i really want?

i did call myself my own beloved
(am i not narcissistic in this sense?)

i felt myself with my own fingers, my chest, my body,
my thighs, my feet


so attached to the ground
like i am monument
of a war hero, but there is still this question
that walks to and fro
on the yard, like a doubtful philosopher:

who am i really? why am i here?

a strange dog

this dog has no eyes, and so it feels most of the time
through its tongue
it believes it comes from the genealogy of the fish
and so its swims

against the current of the river
inventing its own gills
it closes and opens letting all the water

of the river pass through

i am not surprised, in fact, i can relate to this dog without eyes
and inventing gills for it to breathe under water

that is what i do, most often than you know.

what is the meaning of a closed door?

half open, you signify a little doubt
about what to do,
there is this dichotomy about leaving and entering
at the middle of a decision,
one stops to ponder whether who at the end is hurt

will it be just myself? or someone else,
someone you like to love but cannot

then you go outside and close the door behind you
locking it and taking the key
you own the world now, what is inside that room
no one can take away,
in this case, there is the decision to come back
until the mind
settles for the big thing
whatever is it
you cannot say it
for the meantime that you still have the key in your hand

time passes. You let it simmer
defrost the hardness of the cold

then you come back and open the door again
nothing taken, but this time you leave the key under the rag
and you tell somebody,
the one you love, that the key is there
and it is all
hers.

that is the saddest thing that you can do.
but i know, inside, it is the happiest thing that you have done in your entire life

ever.

the art of leaving

one is too obvious, folding the clothes,
putting them all in the bag, closing the door
and walking out,
this happens almost everyday
to people i know,
and i see tears, and i feel what they feel,
some claim they do not know how to laugh anymore after that event,

a few are envious, we keep this marriage working,
though they do not ask how or why, we show them
about distances,
the paradox of unions
and dissociation
how two people miss themselves when they are far away
emotionally

i guess i must also tell them about my departure
the art of leaving
vicariously,

you are here, but in quintessence
you are never here

giving no importance
to something trivial like a scar of long ago
still sticking somewhere
at your right foot

it is almost dark when i arrive
at this place,
beside the cemented road
a garden of wilting flowers
petals are filled with dust
the trees along the way
towards a bungalow
are shedding off leaves,
sonorous, the place is getting
strange to me with its own
kind of quiet
the door of the house is half open
the swing on the side is not moving
the air is strong
and leaves begin to be flown away
i enter the door
dusting my shoes on the carpet
scarlet in hues
light is filtered by dark green curtains
i remain standing
and you are there waiting
for this final talk
it is strange for i feel
that i do not belong to this place
anymore
i am taking away all my stories
and a book of poems
there is only one thing
i like to say to you
we make an agreement
there will be no more elaborations
no justifications for our past actions
nothing hurting or unkind
we are tired of the pain

i am leaving.

no matter how you plan
there is always that possibility of a failure,
no one has control about
this necessity,

it is not an option to flunk,
you all worked hard for all those years
to earn the title and gain the trust
but not all will make it
some will have to take the bottom
of things
the failure of an endeavor
success cannot exist
without it
one cannot see God
without the
appearance of Evil
one cannot be strong
unless he had been
weak once
i cannot be divine
unless i start
from the bottom line
of my humanity,

if i can see clearly now
it was because i was blind for all those years.

move on, let not that failure
make you fail.

a mosquito finds this place
colder, there is a shift somewhere
he flies into the warmer
places where blood
is abundant
somewhere in the north
he takes with him
dengue and malaria

that is a fact, on record
with the Department of Health

this cannot be fake.

you bury your face on a
sand of work

you cannot breathe
you have not time for breathing even
you take almost everything
in one instant
and proclaim that this is the last
to boot

until you find out that there is no more place
for hard work
those who do not work so hard have already
been given
what is due for you

they have learned the art of praise
and worship
and they make the difference

the need for drama

let us say, Goliath, finally realized that he
really loves

Bathsheba who is now in Chicago

finally taking care of the old woman.
Bathsheba sent the rumor that she is now living-in with somebody
and that is the end of their marriage.
Goliath isn't huge at the last, and Bathsheba isn' t that pure anyway.
They lead their own lives now.
As true individuals.

The journey of separate souls
is a big drama.
One does not really like it.
But this happens.

Crying, and then of course at the end,
one gets used to it.
Behind two kissing lips,
the sun rises after.

a blind spot

there is a certain point in life
that you arrive at
not knowing what to do and you
decide

on a question without an answer
relying on the
auto-resolution of the problematic
propostion,

sick minds get well without
medication

sometimes,

lizards grow the tail that you cut
when you were so angry

wounds heal without notice
days provide them time
to take care of their own bleeding

on a certain day i am struck with so much light
only to find
that i cannot really see what is in there

its color particularly
mistaking red for blue
white for beige

even black for white
and people who rely on my vision
become so disappointed

this sense of injustice sometimes blinds
we go for the murky water hoping to find a fish
without gills

it is traumatic not to be understood
it is scheming for me to see to it that you will not understand

but this is my game and your game too,
exploring the senses of letting things go

intriguing biographies, taking too many names that at the end
confront us too with
having no meaning at all,

what is this? pure baloney.
yet so interesting, let the day pass without so much worry

relaxing, unknown, and so colorful, red and yellow trying to capture
the essence of an afternoon, even without you

and then there is only darkness and silence
and a star so near the moon, like love blossoming into a flower.

a piece for you

did i tell you once that i also like to become an echo?
that i like to ask the simple question to the mountain
like: Hello? Is there anybody there?

as though, there is this scene that the world has ended
and i am the only one left,
and there is nothing but smoke and emptiness,
boulders of rocks with not a tree to accentuate the final scene of survival,

or a moss to tell me that life still exist
on a creek without a single dew on its priceless pebble,

know what? i am happy today to know that you are still there
so far away like an undiscovered distant planet that the light years
have not known yet to measure

i know that somehow we share the same madness.
Poetry.

know what? Be happy too.


I have someone else.

acceptance poetry

stepping inside the room
you close the same door
sleep on the same bed
but this time, think of someone else,
something else, nothing extraordinary really,
something lovely, and indifferent,
something about dreams

that never come true,
those years, wasted time,
leaves that do not serve any purpose
falling on the ground, rotten,
gone.
you accept these as part of you.
and then you
soundly sleep.

symptoms of a loser

blurring visions
that see tired tigers
retreating inside a cave
away from humanity,

cracking bones
shouting for repair,

falling hair
lots of locks on the
pillow that early morning
when there is no feeling
of waking up,

a mouth that is shut
munching words
and swallowing pride,

a heart that no longer
weeps,

hands that reside
inside the pocket,

feet that refuse to
take another mile
of tolerance,

poems growing
like molds on
left -bread

a cockroach proclaiming
victory over
unwashed coffee mugs.

poetry ar 4:09 a.m., left arm is numb and fear creeps in the bones

discover that poems
are mere feelings,

others
who succeed at this
craft

have nothing
to tell really,

falling out of logic
and taking side
with images
like a slide show

of
children's pictures
with their overprotective
mothers in
fantasy land,

riding on glazed teacups and
having pleasantries
with Alice
in Wonderland,

know that poetry is
a crutch,

a dam of
emotions, to protect
the fields of corn
below the belly of
the great river
of destruction,

you write more with
a numb left arm now,

the fear spreading
on the chest,in your bones,

as the hour
gets creepy, and
threatens you with
an abrupt goodbye.

there is a rush here
to take the bus

you're late for almost
every appointment,

it is raining and you
have no umbrella,

you step inside a car
only to find that
the heel of your right
shoe is broken.

fear has more to offer
now, than love and lust.

and then, you keep on
writing about it,

as though, words can
help.

tolerating the loquacious

seated, formal, behaved,
and stopping to read the
morning paper,

the tv is on for the
usual morning news

,

the cup of coffee is on
the breakfast table,

the usual rice

and sunny
side up fried egg
and dried fish to go
with your wish for
the wholesome thing,

salt and sugar and
something sour
like a piece of
lemon to accentuate
your need for a variety,

in front is a woman with
curly white hair, big earrings like
a mystic,

she speaks in crystal ball magic
reminding you
of your inevitable
pain in the future,

you are her slave and
you listen,

though you are not
interested,

(shit, shit, you have these
words hammering in
your mind)

finally, you take a glimpse
of her mouth and lips
they look like scissors,

her nose looks like
a wrench,

she looks older
than you think,

cranky like an old
rice mill,

you like to get rid
of her,

you know this woman,
her name,
and her being a
part of you
even for a lifetime,

you create a certain distance
like Mars and Pluto,

farther away, you settle on
the orbit of earth,

this marble planet, known
for its coolness
and tolerance for
evil.

you're not quitting,
you love that dragon inside
your hot, creamy coffee,

and then you smile, and tell yourself,
after she had spoken
her declamatory pieces,

it is a beautiful day!
it is a real beautiful life out there!

you step inside your car, drive for work,
and let life manage your life somehow.

On A sunday with Tony

this Sunday i will be with Tony
my cousin with one right arm left
decorating his frail body,

an old cranky machine ate his left arm,
his wife left him and his only son
does not recognize him anymore,

oh, it's a sad story, and it's
pity in real action, but i let him
express himself,

he is a good mountain
walker.

this Sunday, we agreed on a trek
in Tabon, where the trees are still trees.

The path is narrow, and
the grasses are taller.

we do not hunt for birds,
we simply watch them.

we do not speak that much
we agreed to simply listen

the sound of the forest wind
the shadows of the hills cast by the setting sun

the mud on our feet
the sweat on our brows

at night, when we are all alone
we begin to tell our stories again

those where wives are not interested to listen
those which do not make husbands cry

over a cup of hot coffee
i recite a sad poem that i still have no the courage to write for once.

now it is not about love
it is more about death and revenge

Tony will like it.