TEAR GLANDS

10:30 in the evening
october 29,
she went out the room
down to the ground floor
to the kitchen to have her
choco,

she could not sleep
something bothered her

between the kitchen and the
garage was a glass window
and in the left corner was
a string hammock,
it was cold

but there was no restlessness outside as
the leaves of the nearby tree
were still as a post

the hammock rocked itself
the hammock rocked itself so hard like a storm to her head

and then she remembered her father.

when her father died ten years ago,
her tear glands dried

the cause of his death was suspicious..

I DID NOT SAY i love u

there is something wrong with my
beliefs
perhaps my codes are rambled
again
my cards are in disarray and my
locks of hair are rising to the air
i look like an electrified hippie

i want to say i care for you and
even i love you but i just can't

there is a lump in my throat and
with my own hands using the mirror
of my car, i look at it, there is blood,
and there is a porcupine inside it,
wanting to come out, but it can't
entangled like a hook in the gills of
a fluffy fish, poisoned and dead.

BEFORE AND AFTER THE EXPLOSION

there is a big difference before and after
the explosion

i am not referring to what destroys buildings
and kills a hundred people

this has nothing to do with bloody bodies
and noisy emergencies and headline reports
and with due respect to all that terrorize us
and how at the end, we will be met with the
same unsolved mysteries, where the trains
run as usual to their respective normal
destinations, where passengers still line up
for more trips, where drinks are served where
stories of horror are for the meantime set aside
and forgotten

i am referring to our private agonies where our
bodies are being pressed by so many warm arms
and flaming lips, and secret trysts,

before the explosion the ravings are there
and reason even if dying is left unattended asking
for a glass of water that we hesitate to give

all those inside want to hear that explosion
and see what happens
in those deep-seated longings
like almond eyes without sleep for
many wars of the nights

and the explosion happens

the palace where you live becomes a place of ruins
the princess turns into a grasshopper
and you look for wipers of your car windows
and then people think that you are sick
very very sick, because your are listless
and in every corner of the room

you puke.

that early morning
we're strict on what to drink
my coffee
my favorite coffee you insist

at noon
you choose the best salad of the place
you like Greek

in the afternoon
you pamper yourself with the best bagel
and your favorite choco this time

in the evening you're full
and you vomit everything

the body system has changed
and it is taking revenge

and you cannot choose
the coffee is fuming madness to the air
and then it gets cold
and keeps on bragging " now, i can't have you and
you can't have me"

you can choose to die however
and take it
and if you do not embrace hope
deep into the sadness of denials
you can always drop the cup on the floor
and feel happy
about its breaking

the teaspoon is puzzled
all alone on that blue mantled table.

may you always remember
that above us will always be the stars
and below us
earth, stones, grass,
leaves

we can look up and be amazed

it is us, and us only who knows
what to believe

and what we believe ultimately becomes
where we are going.

we always remember
the souls who left us some
fortunes

lands that we already
sold
money that we have
already spent
some jewelries that
we pawned

we light candles for them
and bring them flowers
and we remember them

for loving us
despite our failures.

AT PAPA'S GRAVE

AS I light the candle
i will too, remember the white horse
that bit you
which they shot and died

i remember the loneliness of the grazing
fields after the incident.

All sins are always forgiven.
All hidden loves have no choice but to reappear.
When memories come, i pray,
Let those sweet and sweeter ones
be always chosen.

My brothers and sisters are here too.
All in the solemnity of silence
Pay homage to the law.

This day is the show of flowers, the dance of candle's flames,
In the concreteness of our personal appearances
To fill what blanks stares of the past
To erase what was missing.

the only
requirement to be a
poet, whatever that word means,
is the spontaneity of the heart

set aside the mind

our fingers are crazy
our tongues always want to sing.

I CAN

sacrifice church bells
to the craze of my fingers

they know what they can
do and will be doing

as i watch the screen
words are climbing their own
steep mountains.

they know their names
and they are screaming
their own chosen joys

to the heavens from
the cliffs....

A STORY

a friend in her 50's invited me to the birthday party of his Canadian boyfriend on his 67th year.

she has no job, lost her inheritance, and finds her luck to this new possible source of fortune.

a Canadian who can support her and save her from the shame of poverty.

he is quite rich by Philippine standards. He is a pensioner.
soon he will marry her.

when i arrive there, there are only about six guests. Like, a friend of a friend tagging along another friend.

there is chicken roast, ripe bananas and mangoes, steamed rice, lechon, grilled fish, Tanduay, coke. The Canadian is happy. He drinks a lot of san miguel beer in cans.

two middle aged Pinoys, one is blind with a guitar, pass by and curious about the gathering at the beach, go near and start to play his guitar a birthday song.

I told the blind man that someone is celebrating his birthday and he is a Canadian.

The Canadian does not like it. Drives them all away like dogs. I think he must have been drunk already with our very own San Miguel.

"Go away! Go away! Intruders! Gate crashers!"

The two men left. They are so embarrassed.

Humiliated in their own country.

i know later that my Pinay friend did not push through with the marriage proposal.

I guess she is right.

it is a fact

to soften the shell of an egg
rinse it with vinegar in a bowl
overnight

it will work too with the
shell of a crab

it won't work however
with a coconut
this one is hardest

in life it will

rinse your mind with the sourness
of a conversation
overnight

it will soften what
desire
or love
or
whatever
in you and you will remember
home

someone who still loves you
waits

in your lovemaking
you will think of doors.....

tear glands

10:30 in the evening
october 29,
she went out the room
down to the ground floor
to the kitchen to have her
choco,

she could not sleep
something bothered her

between the kitchen and the
garage was a glass window
and in the left corner was
a string hammock,
it was cold

but there was no restlessness outside as
the leaves of the nearby tree
were still as a post

the hammock rocked itself
the hammock rocked itself so hard like a storm to her head

and then she remembered her father.

when her father died ten years ago,
her tear glands dried.

i did not say ilove you

there is something wrong with my
beliefs
perhaps my codes are rambled
again
my cards are in disarray and my
locks of hair are rising to the air
i look like an electrified hippie

i want to say i care for you and
even i love you but i just can't

there is a lump in my throat and
with my own hands using the mirror
of my car, i look at it, there is blood,
and there is a porcupine inside it,
wanting to come out, but it can't
entangled like a hook in the gills of
a fluffy fish, poisoned and dead.

before and after the explosion

there is a big difference before and after
the explosion

i am not referring to the what destroys buildings
and kills a hundred people
this has nothing to do with bloody bodies
and noisy emergencies and headline reports
and with due respect to all that terrorizes us
and how at the end, we will be met with the
same unsolved mysteries, where the trains
run as usual to their respective normal
destinations, where passengers still line up
for more trips, where drinks are served where
stories of horror are for the meantime set aside
and forgotten

i am referring to our private agonies where our
bodies are being pressed by so many warm arms
and flaming lips, and secret trysts,

before the explosion the ravings are there
and reason even if dying is left unattended asking
for a glass of water

all those inside want to hear that explosion
and see what happens
in those deep-seated  longings
like almond eyes without sleep for
many arguing nights

and the explosion happens

the palace where you live becomes a place of ruins
the princess turns into a grasshoper
and you look for wipers of your car windows
and then people think that you are sick
very very sick, because your are listless
and in every corner of the room you puke.

what they are trying to say when
they defined us
is that
we are the only mammals
capable of thought

we know numbers, and we devise
formulas
we know how to find our own
made unknowns

as i write this my black dog waits
for me
for an afternoon walk in the fields

impatient but not complaining
i think he thinks that i must not have been thinking about
what i promised to him.

he must have been proud of his loyalty
which i utterly lack.

SOMETHING FREUDIAN

understandably it is a beautiful site

a tall coconut tree bends and carries a crown of leaves

at the tip

a hammock is swaying,

It is this length that bothers me

and what i see with the ropes of the hammock

are two feminine hands

clinging.

Disregard the clouds and the sea

and the sun

They are not really there.

when we had no boat
our childhood was a drawing of colored boats tied to a wooden port
watched by an angry man
who even if we ride in a dream
he would beat us with
his paddle

dreams sometimes come true
our minds work hard for it and so we have boats now

we travel for days just
to be with the river
where our boats are tied to a tree and being
taken cared of
by our trusted men

when we arrive there we admire only the color
of the boats, the beauty of the clouds that reflect themselves on the
clearest lake ever

we have no time to ride on them and sail
for now we worship the slipping hours
we do not even care what the fish feels there.

The Only Poem

by Leonard Cohen

This is the only poem
I can read
I am the only one who
can write it
I didn't kill myself
when things went wrong
I didn't turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
but when I couldn't sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
on nights like this
by one like me

i am just like
any other sunflower

i wither and seeds
fall on my feet and
recreate so many
of my kind again

i am not just ordinary
i am not rare

until a van gogh painted
me and cut his ear

i am not smart
i do not even know why

u & i (for a justification)

we're a team
to a game

in a conspiracy
to a crime

setting the
fish free

from an
aquarium.

IVATAN SILENCE

the pond is so peaceful
the waters so still
the flowers float
the sun kisses them
without any sound

the place is so peaceful
the birds too that drink there
are made of stones.

THE BOMBING AT SM CDO

it was scary
a few died on the spot

wine glasses of the party
splintered and had blood

the news came out at night
like the bomb itself

i am far away and lucky
and by my window this morning

is this green and luscious peace
of ripe guavas exploding grace

THE VIRTUE OF TRANSPARENCY

A beautiful resort of
greenish blue waters

on the sea the boats
float like leaves

the houses where we
live are on stilts

coconut groves rise
to the blue skies

a good government
can be as beautiful as this

and we're all cheerful
tourists paying our dues.

well, we always arrive somewhere

and when we get there

we feel that we have become everywhere

 

x x  x

 

bisag nangiskwela na mi sa syudad

pauli jud sabado ug domingo

para trabaho

akong ganahan sakay sakay sa kabayo

ug kabaw

pamulak ug mangga

pamingwit ug haloan ug puyo

 

 

 

i think every word about ourselves

is a poem in itself

we simply have to re arrange

and re-invent

and there we are

always a foundling

never named now matter how specific

how disctinctly said

FADING IS BEAUTIFUL

soon you will realize
what beauty lies in fading

the comfort of turning off
TV

the relief of that silence you get
when a window and a door are closed

the satisfaction that we sometimes get
when we we are abandoned

the honor we feel when we zip
our mouth

the final triumph we finally feel
when the surrender becomes unconditional

the belief we entertain when we are told
that we are pretty when we know we aren't

the conviction we all talk about
when we all put our tongues in cheek

our honesty rewarded when we sleep soundly
on the floor because there is nothing more to
feel on the bed

there is more that meets the eye
when we discard the common sight

soon you will realize
that there is nothing to everything that we want

we unload
what for years we have stored as
exclusively ours.

Exhaustion at Sunset
by Mark Strand

The empty heart comes home from a busy day at the office.
And what is the empty heart to do but empty itself of emptiness.
Sweeping out the unsweepable takes an effort of mind,
the fruitless exertion of faculties already burdened.

Poor empty heart, old before its time,
how it struggles to do what the mind tells it to do.
But the struggle comes to nothing.
The empty heart cannot do what the mind commands.
It sits in the dark, daydreams,
and the emptiness grows.

The Story
by Mark Strand

It is the old story: complaints about the moon
sinking into the sea, about stars in the first light fading,
about the lawn wet with dew, the lawn silver, the lawn cold.

It goes on and on: a man stares at his shadow
and says it's the ash of himself falling away, says his days
are the real black holes in space. But none of it's true.

You know the one I mean: it's the one about the minutes dying,
and the hours, and the years; it's the story I tell
about myself, about you, about everyone.

THOSE WHO WRITE ONLY IN THE BISAYAN LANGUAGE

will surely have a lot to miss

for instance, that french kiss
the trois

that deep english penetration of
poesy

that brutish British twang and
and American
fang

that long lasting oral intercourse which still
sounds

Greek to you and me

and oh yeah, the multiple orgasm
that

women still dream in
multilingualism

or even those who still dare
anal

in history's annals

THEIR PRECIOUS INDIFFERENCE

because you have written so many
they will hear nothing but traffic

have nothing but impatience
earn nothing but that familiarity of boredom

they will read nothing but many
pedestrians crossing the road and
will not recall any shoe or tie

because they are too many
they will see no pearl but only pebbles

that they all throw away in the mud
until nothing is left

but their own precious indifference
which they will treasure as gold.

A TEMPTATION OF ARROGANCE

i am tempted
to feel like a shoestring

shutting a foot inside
the shoe

i am ten feet above you
ashed ass

hole in the black
universe

you will be in
my own outlook of stars

i am tempted to be
your god

and you are
a foot stool

but i am humbled because
of the
unsinkable titanic
easily torn by the side-tip of
an iceberg

that night when God
was sleeping

when
with what was said

woke him up
into anger

so divine that it wiped
out

a thousand lives
in that cold and dark night
in the ocean
of Atlantic.

IN THE NAME OF ART AND LOVE

in the name of art
i command the rules to go away

pigs! snakes!
icons! boxes!
door jams!
toilet bowls!
holy shits!
leeches! and
stinging bees!
and whistling kettles
pressure upon pressure
fissure upon fissure
veiled women demons
wingless angels
questions marks
and interjections
and premature
ejaculations!

get lost!

in the name of love
i call upon all the hues of
the prism
i summon all colors
and scents
sweet sour or
foul

come, come,
under the feathers of
the mother hen
of freedom

bow to a vow

we'll make more rainbows
across the mountains

even before it rains.

FADING BEAUTY

soon you will realize
what beauty lies in fading

the comfort of turning off
TV

the relief of that silence you get
when a window and a door are closed

the satisfaction that we sometimes get
when we we are abandoned

the honor we feel when we zip
our mouth

the final triumph we finally feel
when the surrender becomes unconditional

the belief we entertain when we are told
that we are pretty when we know we aren't

the conviction we all talk about
when we all put our tongues in cheek

our honesty rewarded when we sleep soundly
on the floor because there is nothing more to
feel on the bed

there is more that meets the eye
when we discard the common sight

soon you will realize
that there is nothing to everything that we want

we unload
what for years we have stored as
exclusively ours.

junk

because you have written so many
they will hear nothing but traffic

have nothing but impatience
earn nothing but that familiarity of boredom

they will read nothing but many
pedestrians crossing the road and
will not recall any shoe or tie

because they are too many
they will see no pearl but only pebbles

that they all throw away in the mud
until nothing is left

but their own precious indifference
which they will treasure as gold.

THOSE WHO WRITE ONLY IN THE BISAYAN LANGUAGE

will surely have a lot to miss

for instance, that french kiss
the trois

that deep english penetration of
poesy

that brutish British twang and
and American
fang

that long lasting oral intercourse which still
sounds

Greek to you and me

and oh yeah, the multiple orgasm
that

women still dream in
multilingualism

or even those who still dare
anal

in history's annals

 

 

TO A POET WHO WRITES MORE POEMS WHEN HIS POEM IS PUBLISHED

when a poem is published more poems will be born
that is the trick of an inspiration
at first

this is the philosophy of confirmation by publicity
for a beginning

later, you will grow
and this is more beautiful

it is not anymore a published poem that inspires you to write more
but your own spontaneous reaction to
that feeling that despite everything
you are still alone

you gaze around you
you look up to the heavens asking if the gods are there

you are dying
to live

there is a star and you become alive again

now you rely upon a distant star to write another poem of your life
there is a better time
that suits us
and

that is when you write even if all the stars in the heavens are dead

when we ourselves
are darkness fused in the darkness of space and the universe

when our silence and the silence of everything dead
become inextinguishable

when a poem is published more poems will be born
that is the trick of an inspiration
at first

this is the philosophy of confirmation by publicity
for a beginning

later, you will grow
and this is more beautiful

it is not anymore a published poem that inspires you to write more
but your own spontaneous reaction to
that feeling that despite everything
you are still alone

you gaze around you
you look up to the heavens asking if the gods are there

you are dying
to live

there is a star and you become alive again

now you rely upon a distant star to write another poem of your life
there is a better time
that suits us
and

that is when you write even if all the stars in the heavens are dead

when we ourselves
are darkness fused in the darkness of space and the universe

when our silence and the silence of everything dead
become inextinguishable

once in a blue moon

once
one must see only shadows
of dragonflies
going crazy above
the lilies

once
one must reflect on the
the beauty of the black
night above the foul smell
of the brackish water

once
one must stop and listen
and be shaken
by the sound of the quakes
of the beating
of the heart

once
one must be dead only to
realize
that once there was life
and it was precious
and it will not come again
to remedy the loss
to compensate
for what is irretrievable

you'll never know what
freedom is
deep deep in your heart
until
you're behind bars

and then you will remember
my words

the study of the law is important
deep deep in your heart
in prison with you
it must with meaning sink
softly
as you shall now learn your lesson
the hardest way

SOMETHING IS SPONTANEOUS WITHIN

what i know
and really know is that there is something inside us that
asks to be written
it would have been better
spoken
to someone intimate
or even to someone that we chance to
meet in the park
in the mall
or even in the hospital where we are
waiting for the results of our
blood chemistry results
or even in the pre-departure area of the
plane where we are waiting
for the flight to take us away somewhere
because either we want to forget
or to create a certain distance to distract us
from the narrowness of
our paths which seems to choke us
and even kill us,

there are tiny blue birds inside our throats
and they are singing
there are heavy clouds in our hearts
and they will explode soon
as typhoon
if you do not know how to rain
gently

this is the right place
just be yourself and travel farther
to know it more
to grasp
and be open and no longer be
damned
in the damaging
cancer of
self-doubt, self-pity
and the underestimation of
who we really
are

in places near death
i know it, i can be everything
i can be everybody

and who really is this one?
he is the one that does not mind
the world anymore.

the leaves
are always friends
with the wind

when it is time
to go
the winds become
cushions

slowly the leaves
arrive on
the soft grounds
without a single
midrib
broken

another season
passes away

you know it
well when you are now
writing
from your heart

the mind can distinguish
because it is
different

and when this happens
you feel a cave door open

light comes rushing in
filling cracks
and some shadows begin
to disappear

the heart explains
an error but the mind
begins to laugh

the heart chooses a
nook
and makes a room
for four

others come
hoping to sleep there
but there is only
one door open

and until you have
decided to write a syllable
there will be no one
there

no one.

someone lives alone
even with a wife and child around him

he can always feel the dusk
even at noontime

someone feels the wind
fresh, even inside a vacuum
of a bottle of wine tightly covered
by its cork

someone remembers
water
in the years of dried river
beds

she can feel
still the hands
that pressed her breasts
even if what she has for presence
are just ashes
under her barren feet

someone still knows the
happy meaning
of flowers
beside those silent tombs

someone lives the hours in silence
even in the middle of protests

someone still loves and continues loving
even if he is abandoned

someone still knows the story by heart
because the books are burned

these are the poetic moments
and we have,
we still have all these

we never learn, we do not ask
we do not even search all these
in far away places

or in the foxholes or
under the bed

they are within the reach of the hands
of our hearts

so near, that sometimes we conclude
these moments are nothing

but us, or if you are that sharp enough
like a polished nail

in those lonely days of your past lives,
and still getting stronger and stronger
soon you shall declare

it is, I.
just I.

Dipolog Boulevard

he walks there when
the sun is about to set

when the setting happens
he sits on one of the benches

he spends hours there watching
something that fades

to surrender itself in the
most beautiful silence of

a feeling. When it is dark
and one star begins to appear

in the sky, he begins to talk
to himself. Now the lonely

chain is broken.There are
two of them now

in a conversation because
those stars in the heavens

are too distant, mute, and
even if beautiful

have remained to be
so indifferent

until it begins to rain
and that is the only touch

he has felt. It is cold.
Now he trembles, but

not running away to
take the shelter where

everyone is hiding in the
comfort of the arms of

the mob.

i just junked her

she is here
i know it
i can't see her
she does not want to
i really want
to touch her
she evades my longing
i have respect
for indifference
i leave her
for another.

what is this all about?

i pass by
the big acacia tree
beside the
town plaza

a military truck
is parked on the road
emptied of
its load of bullets and
armalites

the commander
is busy with his cellphone
while a dog
sits beside him on
the first stair of the
kiosk

five of his men
are emitting smoke
to a fresh atmosphere

i am on my early
morning walk
and i keep asking myself
what is this
militarization all about?

which is coming?
war or peace?

EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE

I am late for mass
today
since the priest
started too early

beside me is a
fat man
so i am thin

i am far from the
altar
so i am small

the church is so silent
and so
my own silence sounds
like noise
than it seems to be.

ferris wheel talks

to make him interesting
tell him that you are with your other
famous friends in the bar
drinking the best beer in town
and you are enjoying the talks
about the recent
rumors
voicing out opinions

to include him, (and he would be too
curious what about him that you are all
talking about)
and you make stories, here and there
and everywhere
precisely to make him alive again

when in fact, you and your famous
friends
had been talking about religion,
philosophy, politics, and
girls, and
about this incessant Ferris wheels
of war and peace.

twisting

true,
true happiness is just
between us

usual,
the usual stroll in the park
holding hands
sharing cotton candy
and
relaxing later on a bench
under the poplar
tree

later, when you go away
for your
privacy  and i am left alone
too in my room

from 10:30 pm till
3:00 a.m.
i say another thing
to myself:

at least, i can also be happy
when i am alone
with myself

thinking, thinking, about
not thinking at all.

an elocution on a rainy day while sipping coffee beside the glass window of starbucks cafe

leaves falling blown by the monsoon winds
rains and more rains
the whole day outside the flowers are so wet and heavy
empty streets and
two women with black umbrella
and a man
looking at me angry perhaps why i have looked at him
long enough
beyond curiosity as i begin to write another poem
concerning falling and
humanity,

you get bored sometimes looking for something new
when actually
for the meantime there is none except the fact that
to feel new
you simply have to reinvent
yourself and
recreated another world from
the wasted  hours of your
monotony.

the unconvincing lady

the lady
writes a poem about death
unconvincingly

it is theoritical and
her words are filled
with
smileys

she rushes
some words which could have been
said
truthfully only after
an eulogy has been heard
about
her second husband

what you dream, earnestly, by shutting a friend, will not come true

someone shuts you
out temporarily from his
world because he is
writing a poem which
he dreams, must win
him an award that he
really needs to fulfill
his self-esteem as a
writer,

he misses the point of
inspiration, as, and this
i must stress, the source
of poetic inspiration
is always the other,
not the lonely swim
within,

nevertheless, i look
up to the sky, and pray
to all the gods,
i take a walk under
the trees,
to pray to all the
fairies, that he wins
the prize,

but deep within, i am
pretty sure,
he will not make it.

i still have no words for it.

must i stop writing about love
& lust?

do you know what happens to
me afterwards?


you ask me to stop
you claim that it is disturbing you

must i, as you, suggest, write about the pains of
others,
those whose mouths do not know what words are
proper for their
sorrows

those whose lips
are cracking estranged as they are
from the fluency of our learned
articulation

i am guilty of this kind of misery
i too have
what misery is there but perhaps because i am still
attracted
enticed to lust and power and love

i must have a good reason to laugh and stroll and dance and sing
perhaps, this i say, perhaps, my misery is lesser
in height and weight
it yet cannot see how big is the misery of others

i cannot yet speak for them
i still have no words for it.

on you tube, listening to a blind girl singing

she is singing
don't walk away from me

this little brown girl
is blind

she touches
she reads through her fingertips
she sings

i am touched
i too sing with her
don't walk away from me

your God

there is a big difference of course
between a marble eye and a real eye

one does not cry

and there is too a big difference between
your heart and mine

you out-beat me in this run for life
i have weakened and i have long rehearsed the truth of my lines:( that i do not love you anymore)

but you keep on coming back to resuscitate my mouth
kissing me, kissing me again,

and then thinking that i have already died
you screamed to the heavens and even cursed
God

i feel so guilty. I resurrected. I take back my cross again.
Telling you, that God is kind and he did not mean to
kill me.

my heart

without the usual sex
you will shut me out of your life

i can give you back that illusion
willingly and slowly

first my eyes, then my hands, then
my precious
tongue

second, my thighs, then my toes
my nipples

third, i can compromise
with what is inside my brain
i can change my
point of view

that i can be sometimes
a dog, or even a fly
but never a creature with wings
since you hate
flight

you can have everything in me
even my shadow

but there is something that i can
not give you
my heart

i've been looking for it too for years now
it's gone.

arrogance

he says he is not scared of hell
that burning flame, that fire and embers
eternal

he need not even wear a cloth of fire
since birth
till death he has always been
burning with fire
it is him, it is his nature, he is
himself flame and fire

while waiting In the bus

inside the bus
we are all strangers

bound for the same
direction but will be spit
out in different
stations

sometimes we share
stories but
most of them here
have their mouths
shut

there is an old woman
carrying a pack of clothes
unable to hold her sorrow
she speaks about
the house that she just left

i see eyes looking
outside the window of the bus
by all means
everyone is disinterested

finally the bus is full
and ready to go
the engine begins to start

on open windows the air
keeps cooling the cheeks of
those who have impatiently
waited

the bus starts to run away
from this chaotic city
and these hearts all weary
are feeling such indescribable
relief.

the early birds
are not perching on
the trees
or flying in the
skies

oh, they're all here
chirping
on internet lines.

first there was trouble
bloody knife and a bloody victim
they arrested the suspect
booked, and charged
and brought before the law
and then the law reads a book
of elements and penalties
"we hear his first" says the judge
and he too has reason
and days went on and on
and without bail he is in prison
and the lawyers talk and talk
and years went by
and he is forgotten
and then the prison ministry says
he is just like us
there must be a little love for those who
go astray and now found and now
must be released back to society
for another beginning

and back to freedom again
and then back to the first line
trouble and more trouble
doubling trouble
and it is hard to point where
who to blame
what to cure
what medicine

and so on and so forth
you ask why?
this is what we are and this
is how we live and this is how
we survive.

in the vice of
a cycle.

what do i expect of myself? I,
who is, only a repetition, a body
who goes on everyday, same direction,
same going and coming, house, office,
Sundays on same beach, same
paths i walk everyday,
where adventure is shut up
like a door of a hotel that you
do not like to visit again,
what can i expect of a bullfrog
in a world of a small pond, saying
the same sound both for the rain
and sunshine, content with what is
here and not looking over there,
i, am, a fool resigned, away from
the academe and church and
halls, now, hiding in that garden
of silence, still looking for seeds.

hot and silent oil.

to be a poet of reality
one must collect real stones from the past

the past can be misty and everything
because of time can become yellow

with age like a letter written long ago
and inserted in one of the pages of

a book. Even the present can be
uncertain. The future fickle. But to

be a true poet, one must always go
back and take what was necessary and

left out in those secret attics. Those that
they all want to be forgotten because they

think that they will just harm us in our
contented places. Our comforts need not

be sacrificed by memories.We are growing
now into the light, the window, and what

use is that to dwell on cliffs where the only
possibility is our falling? Death is the constant

fear of pain.I, too, am a poet of reality, I know
what hurts me, but I am embracing it again.

I want to be stronger. Near perfection.
I want to be that child beside Papa

watching him remove the scales of the fish,
slice the flesh, and remove the gills, and

frying them all, in that hot and silent oil.

I was then a child.

it was raining and i did not
hear papa opening the door

rain was noise and night was
dark and the door had no lock

we're not afraid of thieves
nothing of value can be a target

for crime in the house. Papa
was drunk, and his feet were

muddy and he went to bed to
sleep and there was blood in

his hands. He slept soundly.
He must be tired.

The following morning Papa
had coffee listening over the

radio for the morning news.
A man named Gregor just

stabbed a man in Olingan.
That is the name of Papa

He laughed, the family had
influence. He sipped coffee

and put all his feet on the bench
for more convenience.

He told me in a loud voice:
do you remember Lucio ?

He stole my gun. And so
i stabbed him. Father had no

regret. He simply defined to me
How to shape a souvenir of justice

Using his knife and bare hands and
Guts. He is our man.

I was then a child, and my eyes
were larger than my guts.

it is the moss
silently growing on the side of the stone
that makes the stone
alive

in the same manner that waters that
keep on running on the dry bed makes
a river resurrected after a long
death in drought

the clouds make the sky breathe
and sail to another ocean

we make the house live some more
for when we are there
the infesters of the wood and
the thatch shy away and surrender

it is our laughter,  the cries of children
the woes of old men, the moans of the
newly weds, and
the marches of men and women
along the streets that we abandon

that make this world take another chance
of spinning
alive, moving, shaking.

loving our careers

sometimes i wish
God will give me old age
where i can
be another grandfather beside
a grandmother
and around us our
grandchildren

all noisy and naughty and
filling the old house with joy

there will be no blackout
and food will be served upon a call
of a small child
even with a small cry
the maid will be ready


it is only a wish
and will never be possible

we don't even have a child yet.
and we are already old and weary of waiting
what God once
promised which we perhaps did not hear
clearly
because we were then busy
loving our careers.

wait

i worry sometimes
what language to use in what
i want to write
to expose an injustice or to
state the true color of man

some people will be hurt
and there will be a chase of one violence
to another
even to some extent a virulence
that can go viral
like a spiral staircase
going to a dark chamber of
the hearts of
men

to kill and be killed because of words

to avoid this
i am tempted to exercise extreme caution
invoking
rhetoric, or even scattered metaphors
which can only be understood by the
few
who too are writers
grouped into a certain category of our own level

not the target

i want something plain now, words that can easily
trigger an understanding of what i really mean

something that calls a spade a spade
and many will be hurt but now
being ready for the kill and the whatever

i am now ready to write it.
wait.

CAMP FIRE

a few of us
soon shall meet
on a side of a hill
where we will
build a fire
where we send
smoke to heaven
where we stare
at the flame and
reminisce
what love we
once had
what violence too
was there
how time was
both saved and
wasted

at dawn when
the wood is finally
consumed by
fire when the flame
is gone
when what we have
are mere ashes
and cold winds
we then begin
the ritual

we sort out what
we soon will write.

the end
tempts us: there's got to be
a carrot

the owner of the carrots
has one thing for us to do:
unmask a body
undress a face
walk barefoot on the shore
or if you have the same lasting faith
walk on the surface of the river


more carrots will be given
if you fly endlessly in air
or go beyond the frames of space

the list of what to do and how to do it
is not impossible
i am consoled
i have no more time for all these

in that corner i bring my chisel
and begin to carve it in one of those stones

i am not a rabbit. sorry.

For God

everyday
you will be opening a window
and a door

you let light to come
and like a visitor you make it
at home with you
seated and with a cup
of tea

the wind comes too
with a lot of companions
with same invisibility
you only feel
its presence

if you are honest and
sensitive enough
you could have felt God
and seen Him with the light
and wind
even before you have opened
that window and
door

everyday

to get to the bottom
and savor the floor
of our beings and then
to rise again and be
new, despite the
feeling that there
we have drowned.

if you need a pond
to relax
where you can feel
the coolness of
its waters
you must first
catch me a frog
or to be true to the
requirement of the
myth
you must catch me
an ugly toad

when i kiss it
i do not change into
 a princess

but the toad does
for it becomes
a horse
and then runs away
with you.

long distance
creates a lie, a mirage.

do not trust it.
what you hear is faint
like a bee
sting. what you see
is a road in eternity
it does
not exist.

when i try to grasp you
and you wish you had meaning with
my grasping
i become a loser at the end
i do not have
anything for you: it is just a game

and i once told you i like being
a child again
i have no scheme for you
whatever you become it is
your responsibility

when i hold your hand
i mean nothing, not love, not lust,
it is just a way of letting time fall
between my fingers

i try to think that i am waiting for
someone
to make an event with me
like having a kiss
but it is not just that: always i end up
with nothing

i sit, and then i stand and then i
leave without
leaving any word. It is senseless
but that is what it is.

Frank and always ready to go.
You know how is it to feel
lonely and in this state you always
want to go somewhere else.

and this is where we differ.
You live in a map, and there are
landscapes
that you imagine.
I don't have any. I only have
my eyes with wings.
My fingers always rivers.

unlike you
i write for the heck
of an excitement

there is no plan
no structure
i don't see a path
even
no maps
no preconceptions

i catch a word
and then put it in
my hand
it wriggles of course
because
i have no way of telling
what to do with it

like you it fears
when it finally lands in the
hands of
a child

there is purpose
but the catching and in due
time
the releasing

this angers the word
telling me
how ungrateful i was
when it tries to lend
what meaning
it posesses

or wants to have
for its future use.

at night the dog
woes the moon

the moon sways
and wades on the
water in love with
a fish

the dog keeps on
woeing
when you hear it
it is actually crying

a dog is a dog is a dog.
losing patience it swims
in the water and eats
both the fish and the moon.

now it rests in the dark
loving more the
satisfaction that silence
usually gives
to persistent and
violent lovers.

what the world needs
is the obvious, those that
needs no scrutiny,
like duck to a river.

it floats merrily
and what you see is
what you get, you do
not even have to look
into the water to see
if it has feet or fins.

what this world needs
are not words, they can
only be perplexing.

they only ask but do
not like the answers for
they, who live and jibe
well with this world,
has only themselves
to be heard.

tell them then what
they want to hear.
and there will be peace.

why the pain?

i said i know what love is
that we can share the same
that i know where to begin
and when to end,

love states at me, straight
in my face
shaking its head,

"Geee!, that is not the way
how love works" love tells me.

No one knows how to love.
No one knows where to begin it.
No one knows how to end it either.
Exactly, no one knows, what exactly
what love is.

coz, if you really know, then why
is there pain?

his paintings

i looked at the paintings
not just once, but over and over again

oh, the colors were so bright
the yellows were glaring suns
and the reds were like strawberries
and the blues are what you see in
long summers

i admit i admired the choices
the mood, the glare which, as he
terms it are radical, sort of giving
it the masculine touch of
the rebellious hero, who at the
end, of course, wins his cause,
with his woman beside him and
the orange sun, behind.

i thought he is a friend so i give
my unsolicited opinion, that the
exhibits are more of, gay.

And, without due notice, he
shut me out of his blonde world.
I regret losing such a friend.
I could have been nicer, but
putting a blind eye, and a deaf
ear, in my face. Hmm, my big
honest mouth sometimes.

MEA CULPA

I just said that he is too
girly for the blonde hair
i guess it angered him
and so he blocked me.

To my honest opinion,
he must be still that girl
within the man.

Hope the sun rises again
in the East. That little boy
still angers the emperor
with his invisible clothes.

the dream at dawn

it was dark
and he rushed to the room
where Fr. S. was waiting
for his confession,
it took an hour
for the recollection about

the bad things he did,
and it was completely
recited, after-which
the sentences of hail mary's,
our father's, and glory be's
were recited,

when he came out
the church door was already closed
and it was eerie
walking through that narrow path
that spits a sinner
out of its holy door

outside it is raining
and there are no more people
in the park
with few lights gleaming
giving a scenery of
impenetrable haze
of shadows and
guesses,

he felt light. His feet
began to float in the air
and he rose above
the acacia trees
where in the amazement
of a miracle
he spent more hours
in the air and rain
and darkness
contemplating still

i am

the black snake
that slides through the waters
of the creek and the
grasses of the land
seeking for the tree whose
buds, leaves, or bark or root
or whatever
for it to bite and chew
to cure
the wound that keeps
on bleeding
on that spot where the
heart
is dying.

THE SKIES OF MY YOUTH

blue birds sing
blues
in the blue
skies of
my youth

THE THIEF

IT IS
still far better nice
to hear the sound of the
black bird with red eyes
eating
one of the ripe bananas
that hangs
upon its trunk
in my orchard.

THE VOICE WITHIN

alright
there is a voice that
speaks
to me at dawn
which does not
use words

and so
i too hear it
without the use
of my ears

for even my hands
for years
have not knowN yet
how to
receive it.

talked to the wall

i talked to the wall
on those terrifying years

it was just me talking
just to make a sound
to lessen the fear

now i talk to the wall again
so that i can remember
how strong i was on those
past terrifying years

so that i can be whole again
so that i can be reminded again
on those terrifying years
when walls are better confidantes
than all friends combined.

not a poet

armored
you go out through life
like an armadillo

you do not want to be
touched
like some kind of cotton

when asked
you say, " i am not a poet"

armored
you go out through life
like an armadillo

you do not want to be
touched
like some kind of cotton

when asked
you say, " i am not a poet"

i make a mirror
of you
and you see me
naked

i am beautiful
in the dusk
as beautiful as
you in the
dark

sooner we become
dogs
in love with our
tails

we spin around
the corners of our
dreams

i follow you and then
i hold you
my tongue is yours
my hands too

later we shall feel
how dams break out
how waters escape
how pools of water
become rivers
how swamps become
flooded waters

this is the journey of
two wooden boats
without rudders
without sails.

on a sunday
i create a new world

my earth is the hammock
it is the breeze of the sea
that breathes in me
my lungs are the orchards
its branches my veins

slowly and gently
i sleep with the hands
of time.

THOSE HAPPY FLOWERS

there are flowers
along the road that i did not pick

when i finally left
farther than i think

the flowers bloom from dusk till noon
and then they wilt happily

falling to the ground
on that hazy afternoon.

METAPHORICALLY

I am standing by the window
looking down the street
this early morning when the
street is still empty and there
i see two dogs fucking
like no one is watching.

A CALAMITY

I sometimes think that in times of
calamities the wolves are still there
wearing the best sheep's clothes
and in packs they go to the places
where people are asking help and
with their instincts they do what
they always do: taking bites and
finally taking all of them for their
sumptuous dinner.

Not to be outdone are the vultures
who are waiting for their own time.
The dead are useful too for their
breakfast.

There are only few good Samaritans.
And they work without any nameplates
at all.

DON'T TRY

just wait
learn from juan
just keep on waiting
the ripe guava is just there
in the offing
don't sweat
it is there already
keep your mouth open
your heart too
it falls right at you
because it's for you
just wait
and then after that long wait
taste it
it is very very sweet.

i set aside a love poem

i set aside a love poem for
a moment
let us all pause in silence
in prayer
for the lamentations of
Bohol.

i gaze in silence for the
the destruction of Baclayon,
the sinking of the bridge,
those tilted houses built
from the savings of the years,
the screams of those who
were shaken
for those who ran away for
safety and found none

i offer my silence for those
who died
and for those who are still
unidentified
i lay my silence to the cracks
of the earth

my silence for the children and mothers
whose screams
sank, faded, and

now cannot be
heard anymore.

eureka

the time has come when
you have so many things to tell
or experiences to share
the bitter and sweet ones
the exciting moments of those that
happened unexpectedly
like moon exploding or suns becoming
hell or heavens turning into paradise islands
or stones becoming hearts
or squashes becoming carriages
or Cinderellas turning into real flesh and bones

you are so amazed and you are caught into a stillness
where you cannot write even a word

flashes of light, too much light, too much light
all of us becoming blind by these
enlightenment

people with eyes closed and yet can see
everything, everything
complete with colors, scents and
excruciating details

if you know what i mean
by now you must have closed your eyes
and see the rest.

THE INGRATE

the mirror is not an ingrate.
It is just. It returns what you give.
It reflects you. When you smile
it smiles back.
It telsl the truth and patient
about what you do next.
Never does it decide how to please
and pacify you.It all depends on you.
You make yourself and the mirror
looks at you with
clear indifference.

you are not the mirror.
Ingrate. I give you a smile
you give me that frown.
you are the beast in front of me.
I have this spear, and knife.
And a gun too.

By now you already know
what i can really do.

NADA Y NADA

think about nothing
feel it
like a river without a song
or a cup without its hot tea
give away everything
like you're a paper now
filled with writings
crumpled and thrown away
into the water
wet by the rain and softened
to become part of the earth
again.

BACLAYON CHURCH

you once walked its brick path
amazed by its antiquity
never destroyed by any calamity
for the past three hundred years
you once prayed there
admired the oldest icons
and touched the woodiness of
the centuries
you once climbed the stairs
listened to the sounds of its bells
and on that stone window had the view
of the sea and the blue horizon

now, in thirty-two seconds
it is gone.

AFTERSHOCK

it is true
even if the bed is classy
soft as the best imported foam ever
feathery like a dream
inside a perfumed room
on the 8th floor
of your hotel
upon a sleepy light
on the ceiling
one still cannot sleep
when there are cracks
on the walls
like rice terraces
from a top
view perspective

BACK HOME FROM CEBU

forgive him
but fear had become
greater than
love

that was the time
when saving himself
had become
the truest instinct
unthinkably

she was left
eating at the cafeteria
at 8 o'clock in the morning
while he slipped fast the door
like a fish in the open sea

INGRATO

the mirror is much better
than you

when i smile it smiles back
it knows gratitude

you? you're nothing but
the darkness in my lonely
evenings

the pollutant of my clean
river

the snake in my garden
the dirt on my head.

carried away

try bathing in the river
swim, swim, swim some more

you feel light, you are like a fish now
carried by the magic of the coolness of the water

you long for depths and distance
you forget the banks and stones and land

you are carried away floating
trusting the instincts of water and sky

you do not even notice that it is already dark
and the moon begins to sail with you

towards a dreamy evening where you are
free and casual and light like a drifting leaf.

NUDITY

it rains
tonight and i am alone

i undress and go outside
the house

forgive my nudity
this is all i have for now.