you pretend that sleep is your friend
but sleep is honest enough to admit that there is something wrong
with the bed
the blankets are talking and the pillows
are protesting
your hairs are mad
your eyes as usual do not tell the lies
that your mouth and tongue have long mastered
and the teeth that grit
knows who at the end
shall win

your mind is not a friend of anyone
its insomnia the heart fears
can kill anyone

it is not late
the wind finally knows its enemy
it was not the tree that it uprooted in one of its storms
not the clouds that it had blown with rage
not the sea whose waves it tumbled in a tsunami
not even the boats it sank
not pitying the passengers and crew who were swallowed
its whirlpools have been wrong
upon itself it must know
its winds its own storms
its enemies all
at the
end.

now what you hear is only the sound of the rain outside

there is no lamppost, it has been taken away just this morning,
well understandably there is no need for light
there is no feeling that
in the brightness of a new day
darkness can have digits

but i heard of a man who carried his flashlight
at noon
declaring that this city is as dark as the deepest floor of the ocean
where the gods
of rage have been hiding

and he warns that the rage continues
that we honestly still feel this matter inside the guts
of this modern days

that sometime the ocean will bring its own darkness
with the storms

and we who take pride of the light and the
grasses of the earth
will have something to write

perhaps not really that gentle and calm
and perhaps we are too clumsy for this

at exactly two o'clock
and 1 minute

the i,
makes a sigh like a well
pronounced syllable

and perhaps by such
a perfect clarity

the night clearly understands
what is it for
and why

an idea is not always a ray of light
it can be a mirror under your bed beside your shoes
reflecting a ray of light from a leak of the wall
of your room dressed with curtains

when you lie there thinking about nothing
saturated about this modern opulence without
any efflorescence at all

you face the window
as usual you have closed it

there is no light there is only this faint sound
of the wind
this suppressed sobbing of lamentation

there is no light at all
and so the idea about faintness and fading
becomes a Sensurround

evidently it has lulled you to a deep
sleep

a thirst remains a thirst
a thirst for everything
a hunger for everyone
always dissatisfied...wo/man

the world has nothing to
do with rain
neither shall it be given credit
for the sunshine

on its roundness and within
its own orbit
it settles upon its well founded
indifference

the rain stops, the sunshine
shuts itself at night
the world still spins
and we keep counting upon
its continuing
revolution

those ahead of us
devotees of the craft have arrived at the
conclusion that the best lines
must end in a suicide,

those that remained have always prayed for them
and for all of us
still in this usual everyday

of struggle, we wish we pray
keep us away from the best lines

give us the wisdom of the divine verses
the freshness of life

the helplessness of the baby
waking up and then crying for help

always wanting of affection
our poems must yield to the pink cheeks of youth

remembrances of the chemistry laboratory

this is the middle of the journey
there are many more mirages

illusions to uncover, deaths to conquer,
more time is devoted to filtering doubts,

decanting those seemingly insignificant
experiences, purifying the adulterated

legacies of great human thoughts,
digesting the chunks of abrupt and

wholesale misgivings, powdering those
less understood, mixing with mercury

to extract the gold in those passing years,
poisoning the mind, destroying everything

unacceptable, dissolving failures,
subjective processes, finally getting nothing

but kernels, a little chaff, on the petri dish
inoculated bacteria, tested with fire,

eyes gazing at the clouds from the window
of the sixth floor.

when i look at the past
i will always have something to say

i can write all the days of my life
simply glancing at it like it is

a movie watched by Howard
for months without a bath or break

i do not think that it is crazy
to go over the past images over and

over again, there is much to see and
say, for in there, i had always been

muted, i was blinded, in such a
deafening helplessness

now, i must ceaselessly mention it
to the world, as a matter of coping up

on such a short time, on such a
breath that is so limited, so so limited.

Upon leaving arvisu house

the last message of Tony was this:
you have finally seen the light

we who remain here are still
groping in darkness

it is hard to understand what Tony
really meant by that

years passed, 15 years more
Tony became a Jesuit Priest

then we met in Zamboanga and
we talked we avoided this thing

about light, we have nothing to
say about it, he said "You are fat"

i have nothing to say much
i hid the light inside my fists

Tony is correct in this world where
we live, it is a big circle and he

hints about something, it is light
there is no visible end and there

is no visible beginning we only
inhabit we fail always to explain

i do not wish to have a halo
above my head
this early morning

angel,
just be invincible

i have always maintained this in
my mind
i am better in this
frail body, these brittle bones,
these tiny fingers

society gives respect to
the kindness of feigned weakness
the humility of
having to appear like a hollow tree

as i step out of the door
i take the shape of this pigeon

the messenger of soft wings
whiter intentions

of what use is the
whiteness?

the purity that you
have maintained in the color of your
soul

of what use is the red
in your center?

it is just a piece of art
pure aesthetics without any function at all

forbidden flap
full of flimsy fabrications

you cannot put salt in a flower and
say you want to preserve it
like some sort of peppered pickles

white soon shall turn to a bruise
freshness into a contusion

ponder upon the shortness of the life span
of the butterfly

get wild like a snake
bite, bite, if needed, bite the delicious apple of discord

savor.

the dance of life is a circle
few have realized that there is a need to escape it
bore a hole somewhere
and break the
cycle

they say out there there is more to
this circle

there is no sorrow
and mind you there is also no happiness

and they say it is perfection
what mind are they using?

what light? what walls are still there that
they speak so differently?

until now
like a buffalo i wallow in mud
but with due respect
i am so well rested
in the murky waters of my
content

it is not at all about sadness
leaving is not sorrow
parting may be but it is on the other
hand
sweeter if only we understand some more
about the beauty and
freshness of
other places of the
heart

swell

there is this reddish part of meeting new
faces and
shaking new hands
exchanging
(glances) places and trekking
new terrains

thinking about clouds and
cliffs
the excitement of falling into the
eternal abyss
of that infinite emptiness

where is the floor?

in this bottomless ponder
where is the end?

if you only know we are in the middle
of this

up there there is nothing to hold
down there there is nothing to hug

here, there is only my hand
it is not a place but it will take you there

have you tasted the purity of
honey?

it is sweet but there is no sugar in it
it sticks.

at this hour
i do not dream of any change

at this moment
i let things stay as they are

let the white flower wilt
on the base
let the mosquito live
let it
suck the blood from my cheek
do not slap me

previous to this hour
if you only know
i have already thought of
another word
for departure

let this word sprout
let us try to see the color of its barks
the comfort of its
roots.

without hope
you imagine hope

you must imagine hope
there is no hope you must
invent hope

it is too tiresome
do not believe in hope because it is too hopeless
promises are not popes not pop but poo
pooh,

if there is no hope, accept, hope does not exist
what exists is you and you are not hope
you are real,
you are reality, and hope is lesser, much lesser than you

hope is a tree you are bird
hope is the pebble you are the running water
hope cannot hold you
it is not a cup of water

you are the wind and you are not suppose to stay
hope is a dead tree stuck on its rotten roots

fly away, so, do not just stay there and stare at anything
open your wings, spread and be gone for good

hope is a dead grandmother
and you are the inevitable grandson.

make a day
like an embroidered
handkerchief
personalized for your
favorite kid

the colors mix
blue sky
golden sunrise
green fields of hay
shimmering
glossy streams

at the left side
there is a red breasted bird
chirping

all silk
smooth so smooth like
your love.

we feast upon words
plate upon plate
and in magnificent
courses from the
Chinese chef

the words are
salty and
the sulfates are
somnambulists

we showed bloated
heads
and they begin to laugh
we look like
cheap poets making it
on
not so well attended
blog-sites

we wish we are bombs
killing some
racists and
pigs and
pachyderms

the days are over
we are into this sickness into this
common death
like whales finally finding
their destinations into some
bloody blobs.

the night is
a mannequin

and we are
the recent
harlequins
in the room

the night is
no longer a mystery
it is colder
and the lights are not
turned off
because of fear

dimmer
like promises

the floor is silent
like the carpets
the dusts invade
like a catacomb
ambient

the scenes outside
are horrible
dead birds hanging
themselves
on the twigs of
a fungal tree

nevertheless
a bunch of ripe guavas
wait still
to be picked by some
hands of the
boys.

the inner struggles
have been
not just few

the thinking
is like going to war
and massive
killings along the
way

the mind is a survivor
the body stands still


people see you
like a pillar
the house is strong
and the garden
is simply beautiful


clouds hang on the
roof
air goes in and out
this constant
visitor

the doors are open
here
the windows are
enigmatic

worries are like
urine
flooding the
legs but the mind
is quick
like a diaper

somehow the self is
as elastic
as the rubberized
path like the
one at the gym

one goes back to
the couch
recalls, relates,
a boat waits
to ferry you back
to your throat
and heart

there you spell
the words
perfectly and there
the blood corpuscles
have hands
and you hear them
clapping

well done
wait for the next
journey
outside the
veins

degrees of unfreedom

1. caught
a bird inside your hand

2.released
inside a cage and hangs
on a beam
at the side of the road

3.well feed with
grains

4. starts to sing
inside the cage

5. feathers fall
and unlearned
flights

6. so many thoughts
about bird-lands

7.death

8. no one sees
the spirit getting
out of the body
of the bird

9. into another plane
another cage

10. back to one

self-reliance

i wait for no one
and no one waits for me

copy: i am an island
i touch no one and no one touches me

does this sound like poetry at all?
does this sound like an existential angst of one who wants to hold on the hooks of words
fished out from the confused waters?

for one, i haven't heard the cries for help
there is only the sound of feet and hands flapping like the fins of a fish
as though
someone is short of breath
and about to die

i like this,
this way to the door of the music room
sitting on a bench
facing a piano
as i begin to press and let my fingers travel distances
each note
takes me to nowhere, relying only on the sound of its longing
no destination, no purpose

ah, like a cocoon hanging on a leaf
merely passing the time away

without the dream of a butterfly
inside its darkness

ah, everything blooms,
everything opens

let us see how can this happen to me
watch me as i too watch you

this must be life then, surprises all surprises
how can boredom be so real?

how can jejune be June?
what about the numerical ennui on the month of May?

listen, listen
drink the silence
savor this inner peace

<................>

you post a poem
it is not that you believe in the integrity of the site,
or the blog, you do not even attempt to find out
who are there and what causes are they supporting
you make a poem
because the words are there
and you do not even choose which word to use
whether this rhymes with this
or not
it is just a matter of a word coming out from your fingertips
and then
they are there
no filtering of meanings, no sifting of significances
it flows like a river, it runs like a creek, it settles on some ponds
it rains, and then it overflows
and you make it run again like a flood, over reaching
carrying all driftwood and all lost things
you go under bridges, you even go on top of canals
the words are terrible
now on the streams of consciousness and then under
the commands of the the subconscious
actually you do not know what is happening
your hands are merely riding on a wave
your sight relying on the ripple
you do not even feel that you have wings
but Of God you Swear
you are flying
the clouds pushing your heels
into Space into the sleepy emptiness.....

i travel through time when i look at you again
i cover so much space just to go near you and have a little smell
of what you are: an old scent the brand is faded since then
i never told anyone, it is inside my heart
imprisoned, there is no key, there are only bars and
there is no light, one can feel how damp love is
how faint its sounds for help
but no one is there except the darkness
keeping company to one who had long been dead
and still unburied

you can imagine the stink, the rotten smell, the
decayed existence
the heartbeat is zero, and not one visits to check
what happened after
it seems that everything simply disappears
well, it happened, and no one wants to recount,
there is no one who knows exactly
that real, saddest story.

when alive and young
he teaches what should be loved
telling all the reasons why
the heart patiently listens
and with its slow beat
signifies that it understands all
these and that
it knows what compromises are

for the good of the body
and the society
following the code and giving
honor to the family

your sister need not be ashamed of you
or you yourself humiliating your own kind

time sides with the obedient
and life proceeds smoothly like a road without bumps

soon the heart turns dumb
but too honest with its sense

though not drunk but feeling that it has overworked
its veins and crowded its chambers
with dictated feelings of what must and should be
it sighs for rest and now must stop

where is love you ask? it was never here
the heart had been empty since then
no one so true lodges inside it

in its emptiness the heart sinks and lays flat
on the dry land of the chest

flat, moronic in its stares, lost and never knew
what next to do
Reason tries to resuscitate but it never liked
its air, its lips
it dies, but Reason does not really know the
real cause

it justifies: it dies a natural death
just like everyone else.

on the last day
he stretches his hands
and say
you are my destiny
now i am all yours

how does the snake feel
after getting its new skin?

how does the new sprout
leave its old shell?

the chick finally leaving
the white and dry wall?

welcome says the Master
now shed off everything for
you are home.

when your universe breaks
in the same manner that other universe does
the most natural thing
that must happen

i, in my own, planetary motion,
watch the shattering and the bursting
of the bubble

it is not that i want to see
how you destroy yourself
i am not that
sadistic, the stars know me by heart
and the moon likes me for that

it is this
within you, after, shall be
the birth of the
new star

and this happens
all you have to do is just wait
because
as always stars are born
after an explosion

tell you what?
it will be the best stage to watch
the nicest thing that happens to you
also happens
to me

and once again the universe
celebrates again

each, happy again,
following each own
planetary orbit

with Sun as God
with the other planets as
friends.

a stinking dog sits below me
it has a way of feeling my feet
with its canal flavored tummy

affection it shows
and that i must understand
despite the dislike
i must somehow reciprocate it
with a pat on its
back

"nice dog" i say
faithful all the way

with its ultra sense of smell
it has not registered any complaint at all
about myself.

the mind as usual is at its selfish tour
it says after a hard day's work it deserves to be pampered by such experience
it goes to places where it has never been
and meets what in reality should not have been
it wears the uninhibited wings and arrives on such prohibited portions
hopping and hoping to find what it thinks it must find

upon arriving there it looks around and finds desire
mostly lust to be blunt about it
the one that it cannot hold when time is sane and sober
when it is at the embrace of logic and reason

it loses itself in some dark nooks
and meets the characters of this fiction
the dances begin
the drunkenness is bottle by bottle
and the unimaginable wildness is from one forest tree to another

then a hand with the faces of some shadows tries to pull his body
and signals where and how insanity must be
fulfilled somehow

at that moment
he stands still and remembers
yet not removing the masks and fingers
he ponders
that this cannot be
that this has gone beyond what it can take within
lest there will be bursting and
later on the scattering and the eventual dying
of the spirit

there are things which are too beautiful and yet cannot be touched
&
so

he backs out and flies away

coming home the mirror sees and does not say anything
but the welcome gestures are clear

the house opens its arms
the windows greet him about a beautiful bright day

the self who is king and sane is now in
breakfast is ready and
the morning news on TV is on display

there is no murder
and there is nothing about slander.

at the heart breaking ceremony
i have seen to it that i must be absent
it will be a great shame
& folly
for me not to shed any tear at all
that the mask of respect
for all those with broken hearts
in this universe
must always
be
at all times
worn.

like the leaves falling from the trees
yellowed and light
blown by the wind to the ponds
like a last sigh
from the muteness of its capillaries
as it lands on the pond
it shall make the ripples
for the calm atmosphere.

the pictures do not serve the purpose anymore.
you want to go beyond, there is no beyond.
you look for more of those pages, there is nothing there.
you miss the heart. You want to see that man stepping down.
Because there is no love at the pedestal.
You wait for him to admit that there is something wrong
among the choices, that nothing is right, even from those
all of the above.
Nikki is right after all. You wait for the heart to come
and please you.
When?
The time frame is an illusion. The humiliation is not over yet.
The kneeling starts.

this has something to do with the novel that
you have been writing
the one that you started many years back
about your hero
that you regret writing

now you want to change him
his vision and what he is going to do
in the next chapters
something that he cannot do too
because of what he is known already
to the other characters
they do not expect him to do that
the twist of his character is simply
too unexpected
and they are getting apprehensive
that this novel may not have
a happy ending after all

you think about it for days
you ask and even beg him to understand
that he must fall and be humiliated
and be condemned
but he definitely disagrees and warns you
that if that is the case then
he better be killed and simply be
ended in Chapter X of the novel

you feel pity for him
you think for more days
you give it time tonight
and you decide no to kill him

the novel will not be that good
to kill him or not
that is your eventual decision

at dawn you start typing the
next chapter
you keep him alive
but the novel shall be damned
the other characters of course
shall continue adoring him
till the last chapter.

there shall be no other sequel
on such a bland and usual novel
of that happy ending
that saddest ever-after.

mama looks at daughter losing
a race,
this is the time where understanding
is made perfect.

there is a time when you like to surrender,
everything in you is weakened
eyes are sleepy and there is no glaze on
the eyeballs as though it is staring to nothing,
your shoulder hangs but no one is choked yet
the rope is still an icing of the cake
the last sound a tip of the iceberg and you
want to go to bed and rest and take some sleep
but sleep whips you with sharp beatings
you are wide awake wanting to write about all these
miseries but you cannot
your hand rests on the shadow of its weariness
your pen becomes simply another imagination
the bed hardens like wood, feel its being steel,
your back aches, yet, whatever you do
not any position does you good,
just the same your eyelids drop dead
no one can stop you anymore
signing 30.

satyr sits upon a rock
and looks at me, there seems to be a problem
he says, i ask, what?
he says you are not that happy anymore
forgetting our place
and the things that you once teach us to do
now we want to teach you what you have forgotten
i am silent
i am changed i tell him

the sands of time have been slipping
too fast i point to him the horizon dimming like
a torch being put off by cold air

the sound of thunder cuts us
the rain comes and we lose sight of our
insistence.

urination is always a delight
an act of emptying and this time
when it is over
one feels the happiness of that
emptiness that i have been
telling you
not just the defecation even
but the vomiting of something
poisonous
this is our natural body
it excretes what kills it
what discomfort that has caused
its inconvenient moment
it excludes
segregates expels and
does not want to recall

trust your instincts
when you feel like vomiting it
by all means

vomit, vomit.

meeting is euphoric
tracing roots and looking
at the leaves
and marveling at the fruits
then what happens
next are the expectations
of what one can do
where the scrutiny begins
there will be demands
unsatisfied
prayers remain not
answered

that serves as a
sad ending
and there will be no more
surprises

plainly, too human

an ex-priest he took her
as wife,
well, she was once slim
and well poised,
then 15 years
no kids, medically
confirmed,

last night, i also took
someone beside me
very much like
her in all aspects,

same history, same ex-boyfriends,
and when they met at the
resto bar where we were trying
to have fun
or a break from the monotony
of this institution

i noticed they did not talk much
i guess, their language, which they
understood fully
must be different

short cuts, and
clarity, words are never
hindrances

there was singing,
the girl with a pigtail has angelic voice
the guy beside her strums the guitar
most of the good guys here
have white hairs
and the women are fat,
no one seems to be sexy
attending
the funeral.

she is pale, white, emaciated,
on that last day, her hands made most of the grips

she did not want Chona to leave her in that room
she wanted more pillows, but then the pain
despite the high dose of morphine
and the softness of the pillows and the coldness of the
hospital ward,

did not diminish the pain until she finally
made the final gaze and said the
last words, a la cell phone
terminology:

i am checking off.Then she died.

while the preacher explains
a point in the bible, that we die
only to live again,

Fredelita passes by, goes to the
other door, and taps my
shoulder,

winks and signals that
there are other friends waiting
at the lounge,

seemingly she is stressing
the point
death is not a serious matter
we who remain
have other responsibilities

talking with friends for instance
reminiscing,
things we want to forget
matters we want to confront
fact is
not all that die young
are good grasses,

sometimes, Fredelita makes
sense.

we all search for clarity,
thoughts are like parked cars,
diagonal parking,

like game cards, thoughts
reshuffle,
we organize, arrange,
trying to get most of what
is given,

then we reason out
why we lose,
blame it on random
luck is nil,

then we stop, we tell ourselves
this is just a game,
reality is not yet here

outside the house,
the dog barks, we know
a stranger is coming.

in trying to deny
mortality, or that fact that
wood decays, iron rusts,
flesh rots, things that run
break and stop, and
the throwing never
stops,

subconsciously, the house
is being repainted, the doors checked
for termites, what rusts
must be oiled,
everything treated,

but the fact is,
the white hairs grown in number,
the wrinkles are geometric,
forgotten words become
too many,

the denial is clear,
doubt wins, i win.

how can one stop sharing?

it is the same question as
how can one stop one's humanity?

it is our essence,
a nature second to none,

think, the quintessence
of what we are,

without the other, we die,
without sharing, we lose the salt,

we do not look back
what we did we left there

do not, do not look back
Lot's wife is only once.

daily poems...

these are little things.
ant-like, crawling, and may not
be good for your
precious attention, and they
are worthless,
beneath your feet, insignificant,
but you look down,

they know how to bite.

father's legacy...

father left a fortune
for the five of us, the mountains,
the three sisters are snobs
and a brother likes it there in
Tunisia,
i am left with skills perhaps
to convince you to stop
stealing from us.

Father is right.

welcome both
the black and white birds
often they come
uninvited perching upon
a tree that
fronts your house

meanwhile the stairs
that lead to the road
to the city wait for the
sounds of your
footsteps....

the presumption of happiness

i miss being
lonely,

she quips.

selectively she lets the
laughter in, sifts, and
covers,

ferments, and savors
the flavor of old

tradition, embraces and
kisses, and

lets go off
the hook, the fish swims

back to the usual
pond.

there is this mutual dislike
an expected repulsion

is there a need to say it?
must there be more insult

to an injury that refuses to
heal?

the world is a wide ocean
a vast continent

we must simply forget
and sail on...

the black parasols

the coming of the
rain is so sudden

but they are
ready somehow

in that silent place
of green grasses

above them she
watches the

openings of
black parasols

and then the problem comes
after the meeting of the
the turtle and the rabbit
after the winning and the losing
to each priority
the rabbit to the bushes
to the river the turtle goes

there is no saying that
after all, the warning is given
personally, the rabbit will
always remember
and so does the turtle
there is no point of reconciliation

the facts of life are here again
nothing to lose nothing to gain.

A SONG FOR MELY

when you ask for rice
i do not ask questions
i give you what you need
you deserve to eat

many will criticize
this liberality of giving
that i am just making
Mely lazy

Mely, you must eat
beyond right or wrong
weak or strong
Mely, you must live
i have no questions.

a stage show

in this Act, of this Scene
you are not the Actor, you are
the Spectator,
they will use the language that
you do not understand
it is not the first time that
they do this,
neither is it the first time that
you will hear them,
they have been here for so many
years, but you were then so busy
and you speak the language
of the restless, and the
fenced,
the world of cubicles

they do not demand much from you
they understand and they
ask that you must try to understand too

there is no effort
there must be no effort at all
just sit there and relax
in here
they start with the reverse

they start with the Ending
and there is No Beginning
when the Curtains fall and
when the other Spectators clap
when their eyes close
and when there hands are put
crossing their breasts

then the Show begins to unfold
and then Everyone will be
lost.

you must have heard the
cymbals
and the sounds of the broken
glasses
the rolling coins on the floor
the snap of the guitar
string
a tap on the wall
someone makes the signals
a pebble on the
glass window
the wings of the fireflies
tired of the
lights

eclectic, all sorts,
everything, what do you really
love to hear?

must we demand much?
i do not ask the river from you
a moisture will do
how can i be so unreasonable
to demand the mountain?
when all i need
is a soil on my palm
must i too give you some hints
on a grain of sand?
upon a single tear that
falls on your hair?
in the same manner
you do not need the whole of me
perhaps
a tip of my hair
will do
why not?

scattered lights
who understands the meaning of each ray?
one simply feels each
watches and
empties
everything from these tangled
convolutions

the sort of traveler

how evasive has fate been with me
now that i have given up what i have in mind

i have become a traveler without a destination
i have no intention of stopping somehow in this confusion

all those years are just a matter of intuition permeating
as
i, the passive weaver, denied, and and still keep on waiting.

it is not because one is fat or huge thatone does not fit
it is because one does not summonhis senses
and see therefore all the transparenciesthe shadowsbeyond the films
there will always be secretssomething concealed
but like children borne fromthe mountain's bellythe tiny eyes peep and open wide on those leaks of thewalls
they always know what is wonder
it is when the children in usbegin to play again and remember those gameseven how dark the night has becomethatwe see againthse fireflies of the hidden world
the tree andthe moon resting upon its leaves

for we do not own the
winds
and so what we can always do
is adjust our
sails...

each day
we open the pages of a book

each page is empty
this book of our lives

we write some words
we are careful not to hurt

and be dismayed
we always take the opportunity

the somehow
we also know how to enlighten

ourselves and be happy
with the originality of our thoughts

everyday is always an opportunity
to discover the little wonders of our

unique beings
there is no one like me, and this

i will always say.

if your coldness at dawn
cannot tackle the
morning sunshine
try some amount of
time convincing yourself
that you also know
how to outstrip that coldness
that you also know
how to win sometimes

because if you do not
then who will?

the bee
has never studied
the law on
aerodynamics
but
it flies just the same

why do you study
more?

the dew
they are temporary you know

but try looking at them
on an early morn

when they hang
on the leaf

when they are together
and then in a moment

gone.

smile,

show that window
to show that your are
at home
with your heart

well, there are
shallow days, nothing deep

something for my
feet,

above me the sun
one and only one sun

just the sun and my head
and the shallow waters
on my toes

and the noon time walk
when everyone is as usual

having lunch, and
my toes get wet and i

am making meanings
on the shallow waters

the body in the middle of
this air, the hands are like

eagles flying. the fingers are
turning into feathers

contempt

in paradise
if you were Eve

and there is
no Adam

i think i'd rather
be that
apple,

or truthfully that
apricot,

or just any other
kind of plain
fruit

the Chinese here
eat snakes.

she counts all her
numbered surprises on

that day of the
hearts

one of which is the
bouquet of red roses
sent by her husband
at # 5

in 1987 it used to
be at the #1 slot.

her kiss will
always be
a reminder that
an infidelity
is always an inch
shorter
to the grandeur
or the majesty of
the holy
matrimony

the walk is
negligible, compared
to the
words that are like
ships
homing to the ports
of my mind
like pigeons
roosting on the branches
of my hair
for, now,
tree, sea, boat am i,
rolled into
one

mother
sun, center of your planets
revolving and spinning
orbits holding
upon the imaginary
poles

distances make
memories more
apparent

hospitable thoughts
come to the rescue

what you must know
there is more beauty in sorrow

there is this wonder about
what is really happening and

what is really said, as the words
keep pouring like rain in a summer's

day, like sunshine amidst the
darkness of the room with a

roof leaking, like smoke going to
the sky, like fire from the heart,

like chimney, soothed by soot,
like lights turned on at dawn

like steps sounding its nearness
to the door, like leaves that fall toward

the south, like birds resting upon a
tree after a long journey

things are scattered, and there is no
stopping, the winds move in different

directions, like thoughts, unstoppable
by our grammatical restraints,

litters, finally collect themselves like
crabs inside a pail of water.

here i am
stuck bathing on the same river
wading on the same
early morning water

thinking, thinking
exerting force without
moving

there is no distance
covered

on such a work that
is worthless

got the energy but there is
no place for me

here, here is an earth
without a tree

here, here is a river
without a ripple

there is a fish over there
the only fish i see

i see, i see, it is floating
it is bloating, it is dead.

do not tempt me with
forever,
give me what is the
here and now

it is enough for me.
there is no future in love.

gestalt

is it the shape?
the shape of your face, your heart,
is it just the shape, of your body, the color of your hair,
the kinkiness of your eyes,
is it just the shape of the bowl that matters to you?

what about the contents of the
bowl, or if it is empty, what about the air that fills it somehow?
do you see it? no you don't, so

it is not just the shape, neither just the parts,
or the whole, there is something more in shapes and colors
and

even contents,

there is the will that bends everything
to mercy
there is the decision that convinces us all
to be one, this sympathy,

that empathy, that belief that i cannot live
without you,
that someone dies when someone leaves,
that life is better with us
in all these,

that there is life after our deaths,
there is this
unseen coming, this one that we want to
grasp yet
because we think we failed.

perhaps i have a third eye.
perhaps, because i cannot see this eye
perhaps, because this eye sees for me and it sees my
two other eyes, it swears,

perhaps, i must be gifted having this third eye,
seeing what happens next, and giving me the
details, and literally, giving me the shivers,
someone dies in an accident, someone's
decapitating someone,
another one hangs himself, the other one weeps
someone jumps ship and leaves no note on the
board,
on the other side of the view, at the left portion of
this eyesight, someone delivers a baby and
sleeps, someone watches and cries, tears of joy,
i must know, someone dives in the pool at noon,
and refreshes oneself, looking at the trees beside,
sometimes, time stands still, and the white butterfly
freezes,

for one thing, this third eye does not have a mouth
and does not warn me if i get crazy over nothing.
yes, i fall, and sometimes, i do not rise, i wallow in mud
and sometimes, i just lay hopeless in there, as they see it
i am the most lousy buffalo in town, and the third eye
sees this, but it has no comment, neither does it smile or
frown.

the muted truth, that is.

i am confronted with cabinets
all of them, in an array, locked and so private,
but i have a key to at least two of them
and now i am opening one,

this one contains the bread and butter,
i go inside it and do the usual expectation
i sit, i read, i make some notes and then
look at the window trying to check the time
in the horizon
this one makes me feel that everything must
be finished
so that by then it is time to go
and i turn myself off and then
in a minute on again
like a radio, or a
switch at the
garage.

i close it and i am free,

this other one, i too have a key, and i am opening it
now, has no bread and butter, but there are so many
interesting things inside it, it has miniature suns
and moons, it has tiny clouds floating over green hills
and there are creeks running and winding on the bellies of
mountains, it has
molecular butterflies, atomic bees and neutron ants,
and ionic houses,

there is a home here, homey, home baked cake,
self-made bread, personalized Spanish sardine,
special breakfasts, a view of the sea
white sail boats with names farther,
seagulls with tags, lots of seagulls,
and some swordfishes with buttons,
and corals with thumb marks underneath,
and sea horses with labels,

nice world in here, but this is not where i live.

i live in the third cabinet, i have a key, but i, for now
is not opening it.

Perhaps, never.

i

i have to write this matter in a rush
it is seven twenty two in the morning,
it is a bright day like a
sunny side up fried egg,

and i haven't had breakfast yet
it is not a holiday for me
i don't smile, there is no cheering up
pocketed smile, restrained yet trembling hands,

there is work in the office this whole day
busy, busy, busy,

i am on trial, (what i mean is i conduct trials,
slip of the tongue thing, eh)
and tonight i have to teach criminal law
at the law school
with more gaping mouths to feed
knowledge, skill, the capacity to evade the law
later after mastery,
that is it.

ii

i remember the star apple tree at the center of the school
it is shedding off its leaves and one car got hit
by its rotting falling branch: by mere pull of gravity
it has no life force at all to resist
a fall,
there is no desistance here, everything is accepted,
like this freedom too to destroy oneself
or another
negligent being, creature, thing.


iii

the place is muddy and the waters rise
and there is flood everywhere
and what appears before me is a lake
less the swans,

iv

the grasses here die of so much water and
there is no electricity, it follows, it is logical to expect some
short circuits during floods, and the storms
necessarily, strong winds, destroyed electrical poles,
fire,

the rooms are dark and the students are
leaving
i am as usual left alone with some questions
to be back home or have
a drink somewhere else where there is not
much crowd to know me and my
usual quibbling about
loneliness....i am not joking.

v

meanwhile, time runs that fast, like a bullet train,
i fall short of time, but here i am rushing to the
last word of this
poem.

if you agree.i think, it is none of my business.
i agree.

on the day of the hearts
why should you let that heart weep?

do not be cruel, give the heart what is
due for its day

give it a dose of happy pills,
add more blood to its vessels,
put more moisture to its skin
color it by all means
with the brightness of
twenty roses, red as red,
bright as the light of two
happy mornings,

give it its night too,
not as dark as that evil thought
gray perhaps, a little confusion will do,
but if you can, make that evening
romantic, a little teasing finger, lips that
search and find, longings satisfied,
if only illusions, then why not?

give it a drink it deserves,
vodka or tequila, make it dance,
a little tip for tipsy,
raise its hands, in surrender,
curl it in bed, and have it be filled
with love,

a meat cooked well and filled with
gravy,
a salad of fresh lettuce and tomatoes
garnished with Italy,

red wine, red cherry, satisfy the tongue
and the nose,
more fire in the body, rest the arms,
close those eyes,
live those dreams.

what we remember
we must too forget

what comes must in any
moment go

what arrives necessarily
must depart

too, too, these are the goings
and goings and comings and
comings

these are the waters flowing
in the rivers of our minds
these are the banks that never
stay stuffed forever... ebbing and overflowing...

i remember the day when Papa
quit smoking, when he promised not to visit
the cockpit anymore and gamble
and he fulfilled his promise,
and the family was happier then
less the fights, gone were the loud arguments,

i remember the day Mama died
because of joy
i remember how she resurrected from the dead
because of promises fulfilled

i remember those days of rain
how we bathed joyfully under them
how our laughter mixed with those drops of tears

i remember most those sunshine days
when we rode on galloping horses on the mountain trails
i remember those poems written for the beautiful orange-sunsets
citrus flavored moments
smokeless in the boulevard
pure healthy talk, less the worries, diminishing darkness,

well, those were the days that i like to remember
and by now, you must have noticed how easily i too forget them.

those leaves have fallen, and what we did, if you remember
is burn all of them.

yes, we burn all the leaves
we do not really like to see the ashes on the ground
so we summon the rain
to spread the foul smell of the dead
thin
and unrecognizable and we ask the grass
to spread
as quickly as possible
to cover the tracks

and then that summer what we see
we like to see
green grass, blue sky, fresh air
flying birds, fluttering green butterflies

we love those conversations
though we do not recall each word anymore

white smoke of leaves agains the white skies of youth

the leaves have fallen
now in heaps on the common ground
leveling,


let us go back to all those old places
where we once were young
watched by our
strict parents

we gathered all the leaves on rakes
and crates
we make heaps of those dried leaves

we burned them all
we saw the smoke passing through the thick leaves
of those mango trees

exited through those twigs
we saw all of them as smoke rising to the white skies

white against white
do you remember what did we really see?

valentine's is
more like
vicks vaporub...

rub me, make me
warm,
vaporize me.

what is said here need not be necessarily true,
so beware, you might be misled into thinking that
everything is a mess, and that i am feigning happiness.

people lie, that you must put as an accepted principle.
people sometimes do what they do not like to say
and say what they are not doing anyway.

well, be cautious, there are traps and hollow spaces,
mines of the minds, exploding devices hidden on the wall with ears.

i look forward to meeting truth in person.
tonight, at eight sharp, beside the line of trees, under the stars.

what she has in mind is all romantic.
valentine's day
enough of chocolates and roses
or this motel thing,
away from the home that we built
mutually for
25 years.

why not go out for a while?
be with all the strangers in that far away place
and celebrate love?
she suggests.
a beach perhaps, or an escapade with those zip lines,
or a hideaway somewhere
in the desert,

hmm, i said, let me think about it,
after valentine's day.

(still got a bleeding heart to heal,
hardheaded and battered, and angry still)

just the same, happy valentine's to you my dear,
thanks.

will she leave? he asks. I know she won't.
but that will be alright.

alone again, he thinks, life must be one
happy solitude, hurtful, on the hinds, and blinds.

WRITE A POEM FOR ME....

1. Got a giant (literally) heart shaped balloon from Jude

2. & the kids with inscription,

3. I LOVE YOU TODAY, TOMORROW & FOREVER.
   

4. It is now floating in our living room.
   

5. I wish

6. they could just volunteer to do all the chores

7. &
   

8. the driving errands.
   

9. 
   

10. Ha, ha, ha, ha.
    

11. Valentines is FUN with all the roses

12. &

13. chocolates (even in the office).
    

14. We are lucky and blessed!

15. "grateful & appreciative

(I am entertaining the
possibility of myself
being relieved from writing
a poem.

Copy and Paste
and it is originally from
the bottom of the
prose of your
heart.

why not?)

for Father P.

"On this holy Mahogany Alley, I was ordained Deacon, 14 March 1998..."

what is needed is only the
alley of trees, the white robe,
and the date,

it is the whole of life
already

no other name
except God....

at first we may like the show of human figures, the content of their dialogues,
mostly arguments and reason, there is beauty and excitement in all these,
we soon, get bored of these human bodies and their words,
and sentences, we begin to like only their shadows against the walls
inside the caves that we create for all of them

then the shadows begin to fade, meanings diminished, we only like
to hear the sound, after all,
the sound of their fury, less their arms and heads, the sound of their joys,
less the glasses and the wine, less the cigarette puffs, images of opulence and affluence,

then we realize, we do not need the sounds of the outside world which we have already
put in that little box.
we only need a room with a window
a view of the infinite space above us
the sail boat within, the ferry without the machine,
the last ride to the other border, the fog kissing the water.

inside a frame a boy puts some words
he does not know how to choose wisely
he plays his game and goes on without really knowing
what happens next

the words begin to move and argue with each other
some have become elves and pumpkins and they crowd inside the frame
unmanageable now
the words cross the borders of the frame and begin to grow transparent wings
flying away like a swarm of bees to the sky
and the little boy is left with nothing but the emptiness of the slate

when he grows to become a man
somewhere in the middle of his dying age
he understands what that childhood game is all about
it is about a momentary crowd, the gathering and the bothering
and then the wings and winds and wondering
until what is left is the emptiness which he knows well
as the synonym of what others have died of...

nothingness....all the bees go there.

by the time that this walk and
intermittent stays are completed
soon, i shall be like you papa
sitting on the bench facing the
porch watching the sunset...
i shall pour wine in the glass
as i shall pour all my waning desires
those wasted years
seeing life pass me by
i am untouched and i have not
touched anyone
except the cycle of those moments
all too human,
handed by the dictates of humanity
complete with the diploma
life completed,
ecstasy unachieved.

nice watching
it is marcelo and his friend
and they both work
for the pay

gina watches them
last night and she writes a poem
about it
last night...she begins... last night...
she met

love and makes it leave
marcelo and his friend walk away

because gina loves the poem more
marcelo is no writer
to understand what is this poem all about

gina the fading night and marcelo is the
morning and the friend
is a tree carved in the
room of their memories.

what if i go there
undressed, completely undressed
and i shall be confronted with the vastness of the desert
and i shall hear nothing but the
wind and the slush of the sands?

am i ready to scorch in the desert
and die and be one of the unaccounted skulls there
together with some
unnamed cows and
jackals?

the idea is horrible.
and i am staying here within these four corners
fully dressed.

moral. citizen x.

blank, it is blank at first.
suspect, there is nothing, there is no one.
wait. there is a hush.
there is a shadow coming.
wait. there is a word.
it is a bean sprouting
last night placed
on top of
a sack wet by the rain
of tears.

i hear the sounds of syllables.
no figuring of meanings this time.
just hearing a sound
of life.

it is enough. I am not scared anymore
to the question: is there life here?

the windows begin to open
and lights are turned off.

good morning.

the last part

shall i hear the sound of life
in its last like the skillful slice
that the sashimi master does
to the salmon
flesh?

sudden and
bloodless

fair weather

the big boat on a special trip
slices the ocean
smoothly like solingen

there's a rainbow on the
other side of the island that we pass

swordfish fly like a dagger
hitting the mirror sea and comes up again
with skillful wings

farther are the smaller boats
like leaves drifting

at the clinical laboratory
i have seen how a beautiful woman with long blond-dyed hair
stings the guy seated next to him

she calls him not with his name but some other word
that is so degrading

the man's eyes changed from sun to moon,
his mind wants to howl like a jackal but he keeps his restrained silence

he loves another anyway and she will just be a waste of time
for another useless argument.

old age

the fishes are lifeless on the pond,
the moss and the water hate each other
the spider no longer walks on top of the water
and hangs itself from the coconut leaf
in the middle of the air

some children use to fish here and now
the arrive and not seeing any ripple at all
or bubble
not seeing the reflection of the blue clouds
the children leave and look for
some other ponds with fishes to give

they do not bother throwing their lines here
the worms will be useless

he looks at himself intently like
he were a stranger,

trying to find out how time, they say,
distorts the personal truths in each of us,

his face is square, used to be, but it looks like
a triangle now, tip extended like a boat on sail,
his lips from reddish cherry have turned into
gray, heavy clouds,
his beard has grown into a forest attracting
monkeys and birds, and so is his hair unwed to chaos
before but lives with such a confused mistress,
his eyelids droop heavy with problems,
his eyelashes do not have the waves of the pacific,
his chin the arrow before has become the
bow,

he looks at his eyes with veins like craters of the moon,
and asks: why did he ever do such a mess?

i've met two kinds of
i'm sorries,
one is short and scheming and
escaped from the
gallows of the just and
the noble,

the other, got caught in the
clutches of his conscience
and with a self-inflicted gunshot wound
said the sentence
and finally rested in peace.

keeping what is due us
has always been our noble art,
sometimes we are counted as the
foolish few, not having anything to brag
except our not much spread
diary on integrity,
we have not multiplied much and
most of you hint that perhaps our lineage
is cursed, but we do not mind much talk really,
our revered silence is another noble
outdated technology,
we also give what is due to all of you,
keeping in mind, that the Goddess of Good Karma
is not asleep, but just sitting in patience,
slow paced, and cautious not to harm
the unwanted harmful grass.

we are patient too, and spiders inhabit
in the webs of our overworked eyes,
we are mocked, and we lower down our gaze
to the feet of the earth
we always get rain with the rain
scorched, nevertheless by the sun
but we are still thriving, despite.

one day, we shall hear about the death of laughter
and what we can always show and still be proud of
is our restrained smile.

the conversation last night
was the beginning of our own claim
that after all
our words do not really speak
for ourselves,

that what we are, shall,
remain unannounced,
we keep it, like an opinion,
we have diaries, with black
hard covers, that every night
we open and
make some more
Notes,

there are surprises within
without, there are only the boredom
of routines

i am not responsible for
what you believe,
i am only, a limited territory
for what i am.

finding the self in the self
gives you the wrong path

do not look to the stars
you are never there

look at the ground and
touch the hand of the blind
talk to the mute and be
the ears of the deaf

only can you find your eyes
in their eyes
your hands can feel the
warmth
that is not found within the
lines of your palms
only then can you hear
the sounds of your longing
that you can only understand
from their hunger

yourself is not in yourself
it is in the other
your heart is not in your
chest
it is in the emptiness of
another.

one's fixed finally
like a fly
on that sticky paper
unable to remove
its legs from
those limitations

the wings are useless
the winds are of no help
the wings of the the mind
cannot uplift
where the body is stuck
with the connivance
of the pelvis
and the hands

dichotomy...
that gap between the
flesh and spirit

must be dovetailed
by a prayer of mercy
the faith that makes
us sleep
when the eyes are
too weary

at the entrance
the door smiles and
wish you come in
with a promise that
inside there will be
no trouble....

seduced you get
in, and ...

screams are heard
later and the
the silence of
those guesses....

we wonder what
takes you so long
finding the right
exit

we who are not
enticed by the entrance
cannot wait for
you anymore

we shall now go
away

the last day in your life
is in your mind

when the mind shuts up
then that is it

the last day is at the tip
of the last word
that slips from out of your
tongue
that in a minute you
remember
but in the last second
you forgo
because it is just it

ping!

the more poems there are,
the shorter shall be the length of
life to live

this shall be proven by those
who write everyday
the next day,

the mosquitoes whose bellies
are bloated with blood
do not know how to murmur
anymore

did you say they sing at night
with you on their empty
stomachs?

and out of jealousy, you
snap them
and blood (money) spills
on the calloused
portion of your palms.

creativity also says with both hands
banging its chest
"there is so much to do but there is
less time to do it"

living is always only for the moment
tomorrow is just a thought just like yesterday
a moment not remembered
the other one does not like to remember

"we mellowed down" quips the ripe
pomelo which has only a minute more to go
before it lands on the grass below.

"we didn't even have life" concludes the stone
stuck on the ground

"we are human beings, spare us some
more time; we have unfinished business"
thus pray the senior citizens
at Abbey Home.

experiment #1

yes, we put the mongo seed
inside a carboard box and
there is no opening, not even
a peeping hole,

on the other same sized carboard
box with another similar mongo seed
an orifice is made,

the two sprouted but the one
with the opening finally finds
its exit and we meet the word
heliotropic as discussed by
the late mrs. villasica,

that was years ago,
we were then in grade six
at that time, and
martial law was declared
and there were those who
disappeared
those who finally became
mad, literally
no metaphor intended

then i learned such words
hamletting,
summary execution
government persecution
zoning
martial law babies,

i turn to the mongo seed
experiment without an orifice
deprived of light
though given water
and soil to thrive,

the cardboard box and
the dream of the borrowed light
of the moon

because there is no sun
because there is utter deprivation
we go for dreams as substitute
some died in that hunger strike

at least, dubbed as the child of the
borrowed light of the moon,
one still keeps writing and the other
one still keeps reading

call them the surviving
lunatics

not in the literal sense now
but sort of, in a lighter sense
metaphoric.

the curse...

<sup>as you must have observed,
she speaks, in tatters, disconnected
but transparent, and
transcendent, having that grip of
psychic possession,
witnessing what passed
and what shall come

have you read about such words
as awe, horror and pity?
and the helplessness that follows
next,
those frightened sing and
always will be unable to understand
her,
she goes backstage,
with the fall comprehension of
what's there waiting

her own murder.</sup>

there will always be more things
to say,
in some sense, not to be oblivious,
about the unconcern of the obvious,
he resorts to her
metaphors, the story of the breasts
and the nipples,
the middle part that speaks
about the strong caressing hands
and the ready pelvic bones
giving heads and
tails
making odds out of the given
evens,
all these, could be in the realm of
nothing but imagination
but which you who watch this man
daily
finds every bit a
bite of reality

Amy once says
what we write need not be about
us, and when we speak of us,
it need not be
we, and we need not be you and
I.

It is this universe that gets inside
the pouch of our hearts
pounding the sounds of calls
not really of help but
of expression

it is there, and had always been
there,
always waiting
to be told.

in a sense, we must,
not you and i, be sentient,
to become sensible.

about cassandra

"She evokes the same awe, horror and pity
as do schizophrenics", an observer has noted,
"who often combine deep, true insight
with utter helplessness,
and who retreat into madness."

facing the stones that
rise into figures of her own horror
she goes outside
and asks for the help of
someone who must believe her
there is no one
and that is the main agony
of her days
turning instantly into nights.

the tales of passion
are here again

i listen to Isabel
on her feminist stance

evocative
of future actions

the woman planting
trees in Africa
the others who
showed strength
in detention
saving their girls
the artist who advises
to keep the
good posture
and never cough

in sum
i am amazed on this
lazy Sunday
as i am looking for
words too
relevant to this passion
this existence
that rambles
and grasps for
the meaning of the word

i.

the town as usual
misses the noise of the
microphone
wanting to see boxing
bouts not just during
the Feasts
but also on ordinary days

this only second
to gambling
these fighting cocks
that dominate
the itinerary
of the month and all
the poor men gather
and try their luck
to get rich
even for a day

the church is nearby
and its bells are silent
copy paste
the silence of the
cemeteries

radically, when i was ten
i was honest, and the old folks
are alarmed
when the guests are insulted
about their
truths: like the middle aged
woman is stealing our
garlic
the man with a black hat
is ugly
or this house is dusty
and the roof leaks

Mama often tells me
to keep my mouth shut
but then i haven't
learned much
on such ambiguity that of
having to speak the truth
and on one hand
to hide it

at this age now
respect has become the
brother of lying
Papa is the model of
restraint
that when nothing is good
to be said
i better be silent
to survive
to make the system work
to be at one with
the world
and just be another
walker, breather,
cooperative soul
lest the family suffers
or meet
premature political
death

i like Ted's wife when
she says: Fuck you!

Amy is right
in the glass universe
you put on luck and fate
and randomness
serendipity
not much on the
intellect or the answers
but on the
incomplete matters
questions that ask
why am i here?
what is my role?
mix them all together
with a stirring
rod of anxieties
on the solid base of
the past
and there you it
such a juicy
creativity.

despite the noise outside
the exhilaration of the crowd
somehow we manage to remain
as intact
parts of the whole
rejoicing in our silence amidst
the noise of the world
the clumsiness of our outlooks
vis-a-vis the
ineptness of the system
well, what do we really look for?
this is just a short journey
we keep it crisp like a newly fried
fish chip
savoring the taste of our salt
passing time
watching the passage of others
our joys

we both have nothing to say
and we love it this way
only our hearts speak and feel
the mind has long surrendered
logic fails, reasoning gave us the
runaround
what our hands are doing are
simply opening to what is given
before us: doves hovering upon our
heads and then gently landing on our
palms.

when you go to bed
you feel the crumpling of thoughts
and you begin to whirl like
a planet out of its orbit
but there is not a rapid heartbeat
the moment your body touches
the bed
you fall asleep

familiarity with sorrow
and learning to play with the hands of
time
all these, make you a learned man
no fears, nothing expected.

soon you get attuned
to nothingness
there is nothing to see and
feel at the end
smoke is all that is found
outside
inside then everything
disappears
and what you hear is just
the fading sound of
your last word

nice logic....

if you do not want the cat to climb
your table and eat your chicken legs

then put it down the floor.

in my youth i saw flying plates
broken glass lamps, wasted rice grains,
invectives and curses were always
the sounds of the house,

i promise not to copy and paste
those things, sad,
disappointing, unfortunate human
conflagrations of the innocence
of some souls,

now i am free.

i listen to nobody but only the voices within me
it is peaceful, every event embroidered with logic
and reason,
searching for more wisdom
listening more than talking

i am staying and i like it this way now

the shells of the past were burned
the ashes thrown to the belly of Dipolog river.

let me put it this way

the procession always leads back
to the door of the church

and that will be the same matter
concerning your lapses with Gale

you are, for the meantime in the arms
of another
and he also in the arms of some
rumors

but soon these arms become numb
and the feet shall march back to where you

first started, the shoes fit again,
and both of you, embarrassed
with what your final words deny

back into each others' arms we
close our eyes
do not mind us
our hearts rejoice
to see love once again sprouting...

a heavy rain
a dark night

inside the comfort
of a room with
walls of wood

a shadow sings
silence

the monitor sucks the energies of
creation, and you who face this phenomenon
of addiction of having to write despite
the odds,
becomes a very dry parchment of
crocodile skin
removed from its fierce body
all sharpness pulled out
and on helpless gums
one must learn how to survive
under the hot suns of
loving.

these thoughts
are like the afternoon
beside the sea
there is a storm and
the waves are
as big as my rage
against a rock
that is never cracked
despite

my head keeps on
banging something that
is unbearable
indestructible

my love is like that rock
and so lies my rage
like the waves.