REMEMBERING A BEGINNING
at first we need the push
and when we fall we curse and blame and even take time for revenge
this happens many many times
and then we run out of feelings, we want to rest, and take some deep breaths

there is a broken window of the house which admits light
there is a leak somewhere
and our curiosities have become geometric in shapes and movements
we are no longer pushed yet we volunteer to fall only to learn
the magic of flying
there is a link then between force and a kick and a fall and a necessity
to save oneself from dying
it is a realization of wings and wind and how the two
must go together to find the right direction
we remember the push and the pain and then we somehow
like all of them now
the first time, we undertake thanksgiving.
The beginning of grace, the first taste of freedom.

THE NON-BELIEVER
between a party and a
book, i choose to write.
between two words, i
bridge our meanings.

upon a heap of rotten leaves,
i ask a prayer of worms
what to say at the end
i never say amen.

SOMETHING BETWEEN THE READER AND THE WRITER
far from my expectations
never did it come to my mind that you like to read poems,
and that, who would believe, that i, too, come down the plains
to scribble on the sands

which of course, either the wind, or the rain, or the grass
either erase or cover,
it is in my life map, all roads and paths lead to something metaphorical,
which i know, being an avid reader, and which i hope,
you understand, but, still, has not earned that courage to utter,
or perhaps to tell yourself, that we are in this boat together.
the words are all there in your heart,
your mind is as hardheaded as that wall, and it refuses even to link with a stair.

one stops digging for roots
so much soil will be shoveled
you gonna sweat it out
dirty yourself sometimes
only to find out that when you
trace a branching root and
know some names, birth and
death dates, and even some
details, and then you tell a
tip that you come from the
line of Juan who was born in 1896,
they may nod without argument
but then they'll find no use of
you and so they continue going
deeper
and for years they had been
doing the same things over and
over again
without you.

they have their own darkness
to keep
and there is no use for whatever
light you are bringing.

THE HOOKER'S SONG

dahling
(talking to herself)
even if i have to feign
affection
to a very loud moaning
i will do it for you

make love to me
i am a lonely woman
fill my emptiness
with your hard head
( internalizing love
and imagining what
money buys)

i like this bed
it is so soft and
and the linens
are scented
with the
freshness of pines
and roses

and then the bed
cannot hold her anymore
the springs and
edges begin to
creak and squeak
and break

while the old
stupid man
begins to burst

like a canon
at the old Spanish
garrison....

mama has always compared us
even when we were kids

she once said we are the opposites
i like to read a book
you like to ride the horse in the farm

mama pities me for being sickly
he says you really have to take care of me

i may have the brains but i do not have the muscle
as i am prometheus you are hercules

we are brothers separated by fate
you have five kids without a mother

i have none. But i am feeling what you do not feel.
I decide for myself that i have to be complete

whatever it may cost me. And so i live.

at this time
she is reading my poems
and slowly she is also reading some chapters of my life
and from time to time she asks questions
about a long lost brother, the numbness of my sisters,
my being a jerk, or someone who is being hated
or someone who keeps on writing
like a fool,
she is a fan, and fans have use too,
to cool me down, to assure me that in this small world of mine
as i emote, someone watches me and in the silence of
sorrow, also claps her hands
even though no one is really watching.

what makes me laugh alone is this: she thinks that everyone
is truthful to their words

well, this is where i must begin again.
the first step is always fiction
and so does the second and the third
until the last stair

where one meets a door
with another big sign in bold letters: BEWARE.

nobody likes a war
but peace can be
an anxious companion
and so we begin
to make war and then
another war
until we miss peace again
but war has become too
exciting and so we create
wars, outside us and
when we begin to love
all these kinds of wars
we forget what peace is
all about, and when
peace comes once
in a while, we become
restless

to a certain extent
we make all the wars
inside us
and we love all these
for by then
we are assured that
we are still alive

those who are dead
they rest in peace.

normal is he who knows too well
the miseries of others,

for instance someone hides from his predators
the other misspells the cause of his brother's death as a carjack arrest

out there one old maid is in a critical condition with a blood pressure of 70/40
the maids of the big house start setting aside the chairs and cleaning the floors

a philandering neighbor is taking chances with another young woman as he
abandons his wife and two beautiful daughters

another layman is suspended by the parish priest for drinking the bottle of
holy wine drunk during the mass at dawn

this one is lucky to have won 70 million and yet a day after he
suffered a stoke and still did not recover in the hospital

this one is worst, he died just today. No one seems to mourn for his untimely
departure.

but sometimes, i find life so interesting despite the news
of mostly unfortunate stories of people's lives

less the good news of another childbirth or winning in a dance
contest or having sold copra at a higher price

or another wedding of the century attended by big time politicians
or a poem published in a national magazine

i look at life then as a collage. I rise above them. I pretend
i am bird in a migration to another land where i can be another storyteller

i am not interesting. But with a little understanding
i wish i could be ...at least to you, ladybug.

for you to see my wind
i will let some birds of mine fly
from my hair

i too shall learn from you
and learn with pain from the bones of your fish
that you have left to my throat

i shall learn what love is
by the bleeding of its blood
but it does not matter
i know what wounds are
and how i have healed them
for all those years

i tried to hold on to anchors
of my boats
and stay to the ports of my
solitude

but for how long, my feet are
asking?

that god on the wall that mouth that thirsts for rain

that lean body stands beside
a wall
his hands raised surrendering
to the sky on the ceiling
the worshiper of love
bows down to the floor
of the earth
kneels and closes all eyes
in prayer
that soon the rain may come
and fill
the gaping mouth of the earth
that for many years
has been thirsting

let me be
a tree in your forest

corn in your fields
birds in your sky

let me be a driftwood
in your river

the wind in your hair
the word of your mouth

the song in your throat
the navel in your belly

let me be the musk
scent of your breasts

let me that love near you
the one that finally proclaims

a need for the lips a longing
for the body

let me be the rain, or the sunshine
all over your body

oh, let me be,let me be,
the presence in your absence.

a wall made of limestone
from years
is giving me the movies
in my mind

what has become a problematic
insomniac night
i have mastered in the art of growing
the flowers that i need on those
night gardens

when you have arrived as a
stranger without a given name
i have dealt it so well
when i promised to find you
what they call a home

you may think that there is only
one path, one room, one last option,
you are wrong, for the moment we step
outside, sooner than soon,
pathways subdivide, like the veins in
your hands, like the varicose in your
legs, like the tentacles of doubts
that crawl in the thinking of our times.

ATENEO UNDER THE SKIES.

i like this idea. We have been attuned to be in the right place.
The wrong place is always wrong and when you stay there it is not a good sight
to look at.
There are wrongs and there are rights. The wrong people. The right ones.
The wrong dress. The right attire.
The right time. The misfortune of being in the wrong timing.
Bad luck. Good fortune. The right attitude. The wrong choice.
The wrong side of the bed which cannot put you to sleep.
The perfect choice. The ill wind. The right season. The bad fall.

Someone points to us a place beyond all these. I do not know where.
Or what. But it is one which is beyond right or wrong.

Perhaps you remember how we all friends meet on the grounds of the manicured grassy part of the university after all the footballers are gone.
After class.
When we simply lie on the ground without anything definite to say.
When we are free even to just be silent and gaze to the sky.
Until the moon and the stars come. When we have no more words to
describe how beautiful they are.
The night is cold and yet so peaceful.

When we have become too powerless in our struggle
for clarity.
To be articulate.
To be logical.
To be critical.

When we are simply ourselves.
Talking nonsense.
Opting now for
that sense of holiness in the silence of our wander.

THE HOOKER'S SONG

dahling
(talking to herself)
even if i have to feign
affection
to a very loud moaning
i will do it for you

make love to me
i am a lonely woman
fill my emptiness
with your hard head
( internalizing love
and imagining what
money buys)

i like this bed
it is so soft and
and the linens
are scented
with the
freshness of pines
and roses

and then the bed
cannot hold her anymore
the springs and
edges begin to
creak and squeak
and break

while the old
stupid man
begins to burst

like a canon
at the old Spanish
garrison....

LAST NIGHT'S CHRISTMAS PARTY

and he said i like sins
for they are so delicious and
i cannot live my life without them

a young woman with round and firm breasts
comes to him and confesses her love
she promises him a lifetime
and fills the emptiness of his lonely life

the woman is married and he is too
his wife left him for good a year ago
her two daughters detest him

the priest says he is in a state of sin
and cannot be given communion

no regret he says
his had been living a life of sin and lies and deception
and there is no backing out
perhaps fate
perhaps a courageous decision
a challenge to
vatican

he says he is ready to serve his future sentence in hell.

we all look at him and then ignore what he says

i divert the topic and tells him that buko juice without sugar
is what i prefer
no milk
no fruit cocktails

bread without cheese
a hot noodle soup without hot spices

and later a little silence with my black coffee
in the veranda
facing a tree with sour lemons
hanging heavily
on its weak branches

i will pick and bring some of them
in the house

and then all his friends left him
with his young girl in the dining room
where she sits on his lap
teasingly like a spoiled baby to his papa

one by one those who choose to
stay a while
finishing their desserts of honey coated jco doughnuts
finally stand and
courteously tender their warm
good nights

after a few minutes
i will do the same

i have been talking to
myself
as always
arguing unnecessarily

i am the last to leave
and i say
ciao!

sin loves foremost
its much wanted privacy.

HOW THE EVIL STORY BEGINS

denied of humanity
he steps out of the door
and asks that be allowed
to enter the narrow door
of divinity

he knocks, and the
door opens
a question is asked
what is his name
and from where?

he answers i am
a man without name
and i come from
the humble house of
my earth

and then the door is
shut
and he walks away

and the evil door opens
for him
and without questions
takes him in

and that is where
the story of his
life begins....

they all meet under the moon
under the palm trees of their desert
beside the flowing river of an oasis
where the camels sleep

they form a circle and look upon
the sorrows of their hearts
and then one begins to sing
as the other joins with a hum

after that song which serves as
an opening
the leader of the pack formally
declares:

let the poetry begin
let the rains fall heavily on the desert
let there be a flood of tears
let their be an emptying of the hearts
let all the hands of the soul open
let us all be, as we all wished,
be fully alive

and then one of those who weeps so hard
begins to disrobe and dance.

WANTING TO GO IN, BUT NOT REALLY STAYING FOR LONG

there is a way towards a closed door
without using the key
and without knocking or
breaking it down

there is no use for diplomacy sometimes
worse is violence and worst is deceit

there is a way to it and it is the most trivial
and most effective: entice the door with a senseless talk

it cannot ignore it, and then tell it about a window
how sad that it had remained closed for years
sunless in the Bahamas and
dampened in New York

sometimes something trivial works, something like a
feigned sophistication distracts it
from what it is locking out

one day i tell a joke about a ladder where some steps
are missing
like some decayed tooth which fly away from the gums
and the door laughed
since it has no teeth too

and so it let me in but to appease it i said
i won't be long. I still want to stay outside and play with my life
under the trees.

THE HARMONY MAN TO NATURE

she says
the trees and stones and the beautiful landscape of sands and moon
have no words
to say

no lips, no mouth, not even the capacity for thinking
inanimate rocks, indifferent sea, mountains unthinking

something deep inside us speaks for all of them
and we hear it loudly
in the silence of our souls

now you must hear the songs of the mountains
the hushing of the sands, the serene musings of the moon,
the deepest sighs of the seas,
the hardest principles of rocks

we are their friends and allies and we are in harmony with all of them
and they, in their patience, have given us the right to speak

and now, give them all your attention,
they are listening

and if we do not speak for them
they will speak for us

in thunder.

TOWARDS A RESPONSIBLE LIVING

he is young
and has four daughters
the wife is working in Dubai
and his father-in-law stays with him.

the old man belts his daughters
and he cannot stand it
so they are into fistfights most often
in one house
where his parents also stay with him

a crowded house of confused people
separated by different times of their lives
alienated by different griefs

he wants to kill himself and asks for advice.
i told him: just do what you think is best for you.

and so now, the begins to think
and that is the beginning of his own wisdom.

He says God is not talking to him.
No one says otherwise.

For J.

forgive me for my questions
i have become an intruder

but if you answer me somehow
let me keep the honest answers

in that lonely room where i read
and then begin to write
they all become my hints to
finally put in place the jigsaw
puzzle of so many lives
in the lifetime of a second....

IN MY HUMBLE OPINION

"have a merry chiristmas"
repeated a hundred times in a day

in any place you go and with any people you
meet and even from those whom you do not know

well, it could just sound like any "hi" or "hello"
and reduced to the meaninglessness

in the category of a cliche

THE SPEAKER of TRUTH

he's got fire
in his eyes and they all become
candles
melting in the coldness of their nights
until what is left
are the weaknesses of their wicks
coiled on the pavements
of their naked
selves

not one somehow
calls for help
not one
shows remorse
not even
guilt

between the two of us
taboo is no longer taboo

speak and i will listen
you may even scream
so i may know where
is the point of that top
most layer of your sorrow
so i can go over there and
look if there is still something
to be done.

do not blame the universe
it has nothing to do with you.

speak and i will be a very silent
room, carpeted, and draped
all over from wall to wall from
one window to another

that you can even hear the
footsteps of the ants and the
songs of the termites

after all look around you
the house has long been
weakened and soon shall fall.

some friends
break our hearts
and we behave like
glassware

shattered pieces
waiting for a recollection

we transcend brokenness
like lizards we heal our tails

we grow them all over again
and soon we are mended as

though nothing happened.
we start all over again

no longer our glass selves
but steel. What is sad

is that we learn to strike
and hit and break too

we become like them
to become even

sad state, of steel to steel
with rattling voices during
those nights howling dogs
rusty feelings, silent cruelties.

it must be both ways
one goes out, one comes in
one waits, the other meets,
one listens, the other talks,
sometimes it is best
when we both listen
and then when it becomes
too intimate and intense
we know, we understand,
from beginning to end
wordlessly.

two black birds fly
above that lake in your eyes
two moons
one river
and then you speak my name
i listen
there is an angel singing
my heart is winged
flapping
lives

two islands
separated by a river
the light of the moon
on such
a romantic evening
shines
on both finally
reuniting them

you must know
we are not
the moon or the river

two lonely islands
bathing in the light of
the moon
so infused.

ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW

IF this time she
finally closes the curtain of her room
and rests
she must be the luckiest woman
for this last month of
the year

she had been depressed all these years
and had attempted to end her life
silently
in small doses of her loneliness
now she cannot talk about it
her brother caresses her hair
and touches her thighs
blue and hurting

so if she dies on the last month of this year
she must be happy
she will start another year there
away from those
who say who love her real and yet
in any small action visible
even with a lift of a finger
never really did.

i have decided to go alone
in a dark place
far away from here

there is no moon and
i will be scared
from the monsters of my mind

i will try to be brave and
hopefully still be comforted with
this thought: you will follow me there.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF SHATTERING MISERY

once you were a rock
what living thing has grown on you?

just moss after the rain
and nothing

get cracked, even be some tiny dusts
get pulverized

now a rock no more
wait for some other wonderful plants to grow

if not the roses, there will be carnations,
if a seed comes by accident from the beak of a bird

you are lucky
soon there will be another bush if not a tree.

the beginning is always mine
always always mine
and it gets too tiring at times
since the hard part,if you only know,
is the beginning

when i lift my hands and carry
my body to yours,
the fear that something's wrong
will always be there

you are there like the bed lazy
with its sheets
and indifferent with my longings
i am in a quandary as to what to say
about what i feel

i like that somehow beginnings must
be borne by you
but beginnings have always been mine
always mine

tonight it will be different
i will stay late in my longings and
be numb with my feelings
and then i will practice how is it to say

goodbye.

or if i cannot master this art of grace
and gentleness
i still have one option left, i will take

silence.

SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT BEING A SLICE OF HAM

ask the lettuce and the tomatoes
and the mayonnaise
how is it to be a ham and then be
put in the middle of a
sandwich?

it is not easy to be pressed
and be bitten, and be chewed and
swallowed

and then they tell you
that is what you are being made for

what meaning do you expect? would you rather
be the tea bag inside a cup filled with hot water?

so just be an ordinary ham and be happy
that you have still a family to be with

red shiny tomato slices, leafy green lettuce
and that oily and sour mayonnaise

and lastly, just feel the enjoyment of being pressed
it's Christmas somehow....

you arrive at a place
where you become old
you see new houses in the corner
you pass by a group of kids
who do not know you anymore
you once lived here
you were born here
you can still even hear the laughter
of some friends
who are either dead or had moved to other places
you stop for a while at the spot where the old house of your papa
once stood
but it is not the same house anymore
the gate is locked and there a black dog that barks at you
you go the cemetery and offer flowers and light candles for relatives
and your mama
you say your prayers and then leave
slowly the memory fades
the sounds of the past sink into nowhere
somehow you are still grateful
that you have lived those years
and here comes the moment
when you no longer ask

what for? why? where to?
perhaps only the how remains

and that is how to have a graceful exit
where you will be remembered for your courage
where your honor is never tainted

but what for again? and where to?

i guess i must not ask anymore
all people in due time become an irrelevant answer.

even an outmoded epitaph
back to the anonymous.

you arrive at a place
where you become old
you see new houses in the corner
you pass by a group of kids
who do not know you anymore
you once lived here
you were born here
you can still even hear the laughter
of some friends
who are either dead or had moved to other places
you stop for a while at the spot where the old house of your papa
once stood
but it is not the same house anymore
the gate is locked and there a black dog that barks at you
you go the cemetery and offer flowers and light candles for relatives
and your mama
you say your prayers and then leave
slowly the memory fades
the sounds of the past sink into nowhere
somehow you are still grateful
that you have lived those years
and here comes the moment
when you no longer ask

what for? why? where to?
perhaps only the how remains

and that is how to have a graceful exit
where you will be remembered for your courage
where your honor is never tainted

but what for again? and where to?

i guess i must not ask anymore
all people in due time become an irrelevant answer.

even an outmoded epitaph
back to the anonymous.

there is a bold line between us
at a distance we appear like small letters

too tiny to be noticed
except the bold line which looks like a great wall of china

from the moon of our eyes

will our being tiny in the far distance make us love us more?
what difference does it make?

who drew the bold line?

not you. I have become one calligrapher
hiding some meanings from you

did i hide to grow some wings in some syllables?
am i planning my silent escape?

i have some questions to myself
and i have no answers yet.

help me. They call me doubt.
And i without hesitation, add, i, therefore, love.

when you think and you decide to write what you think
just like following a river and marking each flow with a sigh or a stone
just like the way i am trying it now
you (pause), think some more, disregarding the window pane fronting you,
its light green shade, you miss the sound of typewriter on the other side of the room,
the sound of rain (it just rained) and the whispers of the wind,
you chat with a friend who is pouring out his disappointments, you continue
typing your words, as though your fingers have a mind of their own,
include in that forgetting yourself, the one thinking and typing and hearing sounds
a woman just called, his daughter dress is too short for her party,
she eats words, and you continue thinking (pause) you hear the sounds of hammer
someone is nailing wood, then you stop.

you raise your fingers as though the teacher has told you to stop writing
as though you are taking a test.

then you tell yourself. I am pleasing life, I am deceiving it into believing that there is so much to do.

That there is nothing to worry.
That there is nothing to think about seriously.

Life flows. And actually, there is no need to mark.
You cannot see marks on rivers. It is just water
trapped between its own banks.

You watch yourself watching yourself.
That is what actually is life. And they want to call it living.

love as though you have not loved
work as though you are not working
think and think and never worry why you cannot stop thinking
live as though there is no life
and soon to die as though there is no death

i am this new existentialist.
i want you to know that i have never lived at all.

i have thoughts and you want them to be understood
ah, they are all irrational

i see beauty in wantonness
in disorder in everything that is in disarray

reality is disorder. The sooner that you notice this
and accept it as it is,
the sooner you shall learn to really live

random molecules appearing as a glass of water
crazy movements inside a hot cup of coffee
fumes like souls reaching the ceiling
and then, just like everything else,

disappearing. You see? You have not seen it at all.

after all those years
we meet again, feeling and remembering
we have changed but we still want to know why

we face each other over two cups of coffee
beside us is this glass wall
where we can see people passing by
no one knows us now
no one bothers to take a second look

there are no tears in your eyes
i only have this last smile for you
i offer no explanation since there is none
all i ask of you is that you be happy in the arms of another
same as myself

fate has other plans
destiny is fork tongued
we are but stories to tell
without a happy ending

he is not a sad man
he knows how to make happiness
in his life he is the bartender
and he quite well knows how to mix
the drinks of his life

he juggles bottles
not one falls
not one is ever broken
no noise is created on the floor
nothing scandalous
no mishaps

neither is he a happy man
he knows his duty to live
this gift of life not his for the taking and the giving up
days are obligations
and too are the years

he has the oath
to live life the way it should be lived
to the brim to the fullest
when the time comes
he puts all the fruits in the basket
glazed and ripe
and offers them all
to the owner of the sky.

A FRIEND'S POEM THAT I FOUND IN ONE OF MY OLD NOTEBOOKS DURING MY ATENEO YEARS

"beside me is my wife
at the party
courteous in her ways
graceful in her manners

she puts her hand over mine
and touches my leg with hers
she stares at me
as though i am her god

i married a woman who
loves me more than i could love her
and that is just good enough for me

in my lonely nights
underneath the stars
sometimes i ask
without her, where could i have
been in years
wasting my talents away?"

i could have written
more than this
but i am still waiting
for the years.........

write freely
like no one wants to read you

this is a conversation of the soul
to your body
this is intimacy beyond intimacy
one cannot be far from the other
there is no fine line of detachment

talk, talk as though words are
molecules of air
that which your lungs need
for healthy breathing

take some cues from the silence
of the night
when lights are turning off like fireflies
flying away from you
be gentle to yourself
you have no other

write freely and be true
when finally you wake up from this storm
read what you have written again
and tell yourself how you scored so well
in the hard tests of your lifetime.

spontaneity is never instructive
instinct comes
like the favorite dog in your house

do you still think how is it to drink
water from a glass?
do you still compute how many steps
to take
to reach the park?
do you still recall how to eat rice and
crack the egg with your bare hands?
how to separate the albumin from its
yolk?
do you still open a manual how to close
your eyes
how to open your fingers
how to whistle in the woods?

life is like that
and writing is.

i, for one, do not think anymore
how to live.

i just live. How to love?
i just do it.

the only fear you have
is numbness

when you live life
without feeling: joy or sorrow

no waste no gain
no love no pain,

you do not feel the bed
lifting your body
you are dead
tired and your only wish
is to sleep

there is this numbness that
you wish for
upon a scale
equipoise, love and hate
lust and
feeling so full
that you
for now do not need
anything

now the only fear that
you have
is fear itself

and you suspect
that perhaps
your life inside the
womb
must have been
traumatic

irrationality is
beautiful

too beautiful
that others speak about it

as usual
what they do not understand
they love

it does not hurt them
it makes their mind move
into places where they have never
been too

and that is pretty interesting
words that do not connect
like a bridge to another island

phrases that do not make sense
but create that feeling that something
mysterious is going on

images of rain from the sky
to the roof
stones on the pavements
erased footprints

in that room where lights are
turned off
two people make love
exploring what their bodies can
give to the
stolen moments

hearts crushed like ice
fires of jealousy consuming a forest of dreams
memories that break
like glass houses hit by a flood of stones
sins like chocolate cakes
pleasing our sweet teeth

houses that burn
all day
and as usual there are no firemen coming
this i remember from her
who had long traveled to another country
and had never returned

scattered dreams all over the world
changing landscapes
funerals and births
secret admirers and loves that open and close
like fingers of a child

the moon watches intently
and still has no word for all these.

the guy is sick
the snow is making it worse
the coldness
is prolonging his agony

treatment is expensive
and he has no money
enough for his food and rent
relying on charity

everyday his hands tremble
to every poem that he writes
i tell him, my friend i am reading each poem
and i am trying to understand
how is it to be sick in winter and with no one
how is it to talk to yourself and still be courageous
to be sane for another night
for another day

he walks to the woods
and feeds the birds with the morsels of bread
he takes the path that we have never reached
he talks nonsense, one commented
i put my feet inside his shoes
and i am ten thousand miles away
enjoying summer
and living life and loving love
and i ponder: he is strong
to suffer that long....

poetry
is other people.

you are
the mouthpiece

internalize
incarnate

live the life
of others and

use the words
to paint the landscape

a lonely island
of dead trees

the sunless sea
from oceans to cliffs

from bird to
worm

from your mind
to space

catch some stars
and put the twinkle

inside your jar
invent those fireflies

find out if they
still live

even without you
this air.

his eyes speak
of mistrust

even to God
and he speaks:

"i take care of
myself

I do not trust
God

if i do not watch
carefully

upon crossing a
street

after visiting and
praying in the church

i can be hit by
a crazy car and
be crushed"

how i wish
i can put
blasphemy in
art form
and still be
appreciated for
it,

but blasphemy is
blasphemy

and God is God
and nothing else

and it is in Him,
through Him and
with Him

i shiver to his
thoughts
i drink four bottles
of beer
and being tipsy
i tell him
i wanna go
home
i just wanna
go home....

to kneel and
pray

poetry is
too
asking forgiveness
for the
arrogance of
another.

dear God....

EXCITEMENT IN ANTICIPATION

LET us go you and i
far from the crowd
let us get drunk and
let us open our hearts
again

I promise nothing.

he knows what is there
hidden inside the pocket
of that restrained smile

he does not need fire
neither does he want to get
watered

so there is only one option left
he rightly packs and leaves.

between the two of us
taboo is no longer taboo

speak and i will listen
you may even scream
so i may know where
is the point of that top
most layer of your sorrow
so i can go over there and
look if there is still something
to be done.

do not blame the universe
it has nothing to do with you.

speak and i will be a very silent
room, carpeted, and draped
all over from wall to wall from
one window to another

that you can even hear the
footsteps of the ants and the
songs of the termites

after all look around you
the house has long been
weakened and soon shall fall.

some friends
break our hearts
and we behave like
glassware

shattered pieces
waiting for a recollection

we transcend brokenness
like lizards we heal our tails

we grow them all over again
and soon we are mended as

though nothing happened.
we start all over again

no longer our glass selves
but steel. What is sad

is that we learn to strike
and hit and break too

we become like them
to become even

sad state, of steel to steel
with rattling voices during
those nights howling dogs
rusty feelings, silent cruelties.

someone out there
is awake, even in the middle of the night
inside a room
all alone

i know it. i do not see it. i can feel it.
you are with me
one in this, one in this silence, one in this

pressing of keys, without looking at the letters
riding on the memory of our fingertips

someone out there wants to be free, from the walls of his
self-imposed unhappiness

someone out there is asleep, beside someone who is awake
staring at the ceiling, not wanting any light from any bulb

someone out there travels, beyond,
beyond the limitations of dreams, beyond dreams

in chant, repeating, and repeating, hoping to just forget
what is pain in everything.

ONCE i told her
that woman with crazy hair
that woman who told me that she lost her comb
that she lost
her much needed composure

"you should be fed-up with depression
it is too much for you
you do not deserve it
you are beautiful and kind and
intelligent"

she is silent
she practically does not know what to do
where to start
where to end
what to say and what not to say

undecided woman

somehow i could have told her
learn to forget yourself

here is my comb
comb your hair

just have the courage
for God's sake be sane.

THE BEAUTY OUTSIDE THE DOOR

flowers bloom
the air is fresh
the coconut trees
are dancing
to the beat of
the December
drums

hear them singing
ah, it's Christmas time
so much fun is
waiting
out there

yet how you
still feel so alone
this time?

the chimes of the
window
fling with the winds
in a lovely
incantation

listen.

what you desire
enslaves you and
so to regain your
freedom
desire it not.

those who tempt
you again to
fulfill desire
carry a chain behind
their backs

do not even look
at them, do not give
them time

if there is a fence
jump over it then
find a green field
stay there

because the grass
and the clouds
meet you in between
those gaps of silence.

there is no such thing
as a toxic friend since

you always welcome
everyone and give them

the proper attention that
they deserve, as each one

is as important as the other,
and come to think of it,

how may christs have
visited your home and you

have given a drink, a talk,
a feel of another home.

there is always a need to speak.

have you heard the old man at dawn
speaking to his horse?
because his only son was killed in
the conflict, his body thrown to the river
and nowhere to the found,

the father sought the body all the years
even speaking to the fish
befriending the stones, and even
asking if the moss too have names
for its progenitor

if in these river banks a mother
once cried asking for
a reason why her son was killed

there is a need to speak as houses
must have doors.

it is not easy, mind you.

THE SECRETS

there are secrets in a garden of flowers
in the clouds lie the secrets of accumulated dusts

preoccupied with flowers you have never seen
the worms
never knew what is kept in the humus
the coldness underneath never felt

what you felt in the vapors
what you imagine in the shapes of the clouds
as transformations of the artistic works of God
what relieves you for the meantime

when everything falls
you can no longer decipher it in the rain

THE SECRETS

there are secrets in a garden of flowers
in the clouds lie the secrets of accumulated dusts

preoccupied with flowers you have never seen
the worms
never knew what is kept in the humus
the coldness underneath never felt

what you felt in the vapors
what you imagine in the shapes of the clouds
as transformations of the artistic works of God
what relieves you for the meantime

when everything falls
you can no longer decipher it in the rain

a child is always the light
in the room when it gets dark
everyone likes this
a moonlit night and an abandoned house
a mother and child
soon rest there, and people who hear about this
talks about a manger

it will be Christmas soon

there are houses without kids
somehow to survive they make lights of their own
paint a moonlit night against a wall as canvass
and loneliness comes
and then the bed becomes its sole partner

soon they will know how to manage
living in the dark without light
imagining light in their foreheads
and never learning to put them off
till the next morning

some things are beyond repair
leave it there,
what can you do about it? nothing.

some bridges are already burned
on one side you stand and feel the
waste
walk back
what can you do about it? nothing.

some boats already sunk deep
in the deepest oceans,
what can you do about it? nothing.

consistently, to all these things
irreparable, in-connectible, there is
nothing we can do, but leave them
there in the state where
they are destined to be

by then, i think, when you walk away
then you can be finally happy.

IN THE LAND OF THE OROCANS

in the point of no return
i simply stretch my hand & say

i wish you well
(but i do not really mean it
as i still thirst and hunger for you know what
since you are an expert on this kind
of diplomatic exchanges

you are the politician, right?)

and you say
same to you & God bless you
(when what you actually mean
is shame on me
and that to you
God does not even
exist anymore)

you do not know the worst
that is happening
in me, how

my eyes ache how my heart
bleeds

that is what you are always telling
the universe,

i, for one, do not seem to know you
anymore

you, who is, as hazy as the white
inside the shell of an egg,

there is this fear, of being who we
really are,

and beware, words can be like
chameleons,
magicians, making the most of the
deception

as you close your eyes,
i know, what you can really see,
what you have not read
makes for most of what is
really there

you, and then myself, and then
you wake up

saying, all these things are happening,
and no one is to be
blamed

it is love, and nothing more,
it is happiness, and nothing less.

writing kuno is
a struggle against silence

kay ngano
oppressive ba ang silence
unjust ba ang silence
maong mag struggle ta
unya kay lisod lagi
pildihon ang
silence
kay dako man ang iyang
agtang
unya lapad man ang iyang
abaga
unya kusgan man kaayo
ang iyang mga kamot
nga mituok sa
atong liog
unya di ta katingog
unya galisod na ta ug ginhawa
busa
ato na lang gisulat

mao na.

you like my brain
let us have a deal

you can have my
head
you'll get what
you want

lots of ideas you mean
and how to put these
ideas across the
pages of the miles
of life
but please not death
yet

let me have what
i lack
this time
let us have this
deal

let me have your body
let me put my soul.

outside
is when you open a window
to see another world
you walk down the stairs
open a door and
step upon
the pebbles
mud and the grass

slowly you will change
beliefs
make another conclusion
and question
how can narrowness
of the alleys
and the foul smell of
of an abused water of the river
can be too destructive to
the world
you love?

outside is the crowd
of the action
the multiplicity of choices
the variations of time
the multitude
that make you question
what is this all
about somehow

there is public park
an empty bench under a
mahogany tree
and you situate yourself
for a more
pondering

now you begin to live again
setting aside
that wish for death

we have chosen a
quiet life

there is an age
where glamor is not glamor
anymore
where the clamor for
fame
the struggle for glory
the making of more money
cease

where you feel that the end
is near
and what you think
is all about there

there
where money is no longer
a legal tender
where names do not matter

where we do not even matter
anymore

words less the
pictures
speech without
a face

that is it

how to make you
understand
less the judgment
of clear appearances

there is a shadow
dancing in the mind

just my shadow
just my dream

watch your own
shadow too

feel the grating
and the gyrating

the figures there
always the versions

of our own
species of happiness.

a nude mind
hairless in Paris

full of meat
around the bones

your skin in
the Caribbean

it is you that inserts
money between the slits

the best mind ever
trims you liver.

BALAK ALANG SA USA KA PAGPAABOT

atubang sa
computer

tutok sa
screen

lingo-lingo
yango-yango

nanambid
ang mga hanap
nga pulong
atubangan sa
nanambid usab
nga nagpaabot
kon unsaon kini
pagyubit

silang tanan
nagpaabot
kon kinsa ang
mouna ug
labay sa usa
ka suntok

aron sugdan
na ang dumog
sa usa ka
balak

A POEM FOR THAT PATIENT WAITING

on a Sunday morning
you sit there like a queen
Elizabeth

one leg above the other
behaving like a French
Parliamentarian
a tobacco pipe between his lips
smoke coming out of that aquiline nose
more like a chimney
this time of a holy day

he stares at the screen of
his computer
the fingers are waiting
for the words to write

the words appear hazy in
the morning
still wet with dew
eyes foggy, and body is
wrapped with mists

for all you know everyone is
patiently waiting
words too have feet curling
like numbers in an accounting sheet
hands akimbo in fury

someone is waiting as to who should
make the first punch
you make it
to start this fireworks of words

impregnated with the ripeness of time
all eyes look at the birth of the first line
of your unexpected poem

TO FERDIE WHO SAYS THAT HE CANNOT WRITE

do not live behind
a writer's block

if it exists seek the
aid of a pole or a wing

of a kite, or even the
easy flight of leaves

or summon the help
of your legs

jump over it and
learn the tricks of birds

fly away
that is what i do

most of the times.

TO A FRIEND WITH LGTB DREAMS OF HIS OWN

too dreams of the beauty of
nudities

bareness, smoothness
of lines and
curves that take you
to the places of your
heart

you are the man
chosen to a dreamland
of the body of
the woman

you feast upon
normal delicacies
and you invite
that friend for a drink
and a show

he is suffering
his mind flies like a lonely hawk
in the desert

most of the times
he feels the horror of
the vultures

preying upon the rotten
flesh of dead lovers
the stink of his
unrequited experiences

love is bitter
happiness so slippery
he can only hold the
tails of the fish
the tips of bird's beak

he buys a painting
that touches his heart
and makes him
a bleeding pigeon
throughout the night

if you know him
too well
you should have
cried with him

from far this friend
writes
a very sad letter

it is all about longing
it all about being unloved
condemned just like
the hands of Midas

AT THE BEACH

In the sea we talked
five of us friends till sunset
we forgot to swim

In the house we talked
me and my wife
we have forgotten how to make
the best between us.

THE HAMMOCK

there is enough joy in the hammock

a body is taking the shape of the curve
like a quarter moon sailing in the dark sky

you rock yourself with the wind and then
you fall asleep on your dreams.

A REUNION WITH HIGH SCHOOL BUDDIES

since there is no electricity
we build fire
from dry leaves, and coconut husks
and palms
and driftwood

we go back to recalling the past again
the boyhood days

just a few of us who think that life
to be lived must be
in every moment

colorful lives, aged, mellowed,
and still not careful with words

one still talks a lot about his women
others merely have a good time laughing.

TO A PAINTER IN THE VILLAGE

noise has become
the subject of his painting
lots of colors in chaos
furiously the red blots
invade the canvass with
the black streaks as
ally
drops of dark blue and
a little softness with mint greens
strokes of ash gray
and the violence of strong oranges
which ignited fire
to the minds of the viewer

it is a picture of pressure
that in a little while you
can even hear the explosion
or the passage of
a cyclone

he looks at it
calmly like an early morning
sea

as he remembers the seagulls
and the anchored boats at the pier.

HE

is still excited by the scent
of an orange peel
diffusing inside a candle-lit
room

SHE

has unbuttoned her
blouse
unzipped her shorts
and sets aside the orange
rolling on the
floor

They

like it here
all alone in their secret
whispers

a tryst of youth and
escapism

The

moon is the uninvited peeping
tom by that window which is half
open.

MANY

shall still write about the poetry of the rain
in different points
of view

rain as mantra, as soft hands, as the gentle locks of hair
as beautiful sadness
tolerable ally of grief

rain can be so many stories of tears
of vent and release
of heaviness that finally finds joy in its falling
of water walls,
of a woman whose love is unrequited and now
wets the earth with all her misgivings
as origin of the flood that seeks revenge
to the culprits of negligence and
abuse

it is raining today and i like to see the truth of this
well written subject

plain drops
of water from the sky
saying nothing
singing no songs

straight from my lips
i tasted
my tongue can attest
to its
inanimate indifference

neither can it love
nor can it hate.

THE POINT

Toreno
we tried. That is the main point.
We tried the best we can
To save ourselves

IF we failed do not dismay
Time heals a failure
Leaves nothing later but
Only a scar
& scars do not really last
Or if they last
They become our landmarks
So we will never be lost
Again.

Toreno the hills will always
be there
The mountain peaks are always
Pointing to the Skies
The plains are always filled
With rivers and trees and
Ricegrains

Things are not always dead
Some though lifeless if we try again
Shall live again

Now Toreno i shall forgive you
For choosing the lifelessness of the stone
But for you
Each of us can be moss too
To be friends with you.

THE USER

will have no quarrel with you
as to which came first, the egg or the chicken

what matters most is what can be used for the
meantime.

paul

when Paul Walker died
at 40,many shall mourn

Jesus died at 33 and so did
Rizal, much younger

they did not die riding a
Porsche
and only a few mourned
and even in hiding
for fear of
retaliation.....

what a beautiful
and just world indeed