the urequitted

 you do not deserve 

this love of mine,

i know for sure, 

i advise myself to stop

loving you,

i summon all the logic

i have in mind,

i take the mantra 

repeating all over again

that i must not love you

that i should have loved

another who loves me

more than i have loved

you....

poor heart, living in its

own world,

without ears and eyes,

without brains at all

always insistent, and still

loving you

in utter loneliness

in such a misery that

the world could not

contain.

call me the Schizo

 at twelve midnight

i always wake up

and i do nothing and

i hear Him talking to me

as I ask for more guidance

on what to do

with my life and my time

for it is so hard thinking

when you can do nothing.

it comes to me this time

i do nothing but listen and

here i am achieving almost

everything.

at 3 a.m. the words come

like a river, like some kind

of muted waterfalls, and

i see paradise, vines on

the sides of trees

and flowers and orchids

clinging, in all colors

in my mind and i am so happy

about these events in my

life and i am not telling 

anyone except you

at 10 o 'clock in the morning

when people rush and when people

are so busy doing their jobs

i take time simply sitting on 

my chair beside my table closing

my eyes and listening to the

music playing within myself

which of course, nobody can

hear.

....and they all talk behind my

back, all saying

Mr. Schizo is here.

the happy giver and the Powerful Owner....

 i am lazy but i am

prayerful

i do not have much

but i am so giving

even to those i have

never met

but i know who owns

all these treasures

these money and 

the moment i give

to the needy and the

impoverished i talk

to Him and tell Him 

that now he owes me

much and that He shall

pay

and I ask him all these

money and treasures

and He has paid me

well.

i am lazy and trustful

i have faith as small as

a mustard seed and

it has grown like a

gymnasium and He had

given me much

more than i need so that

i could also give some

more.

the early poems.....

 i could have taken a walk

as early as 4 o'clock in the morning

before the sun rises from the 

nearby hills and mountains but

you all came uninvited and so here

i am back to my table facing this

monitor and writing all about you

you all look so good and beautiful

and i have regrets keeping you here

for a while, uninvited, because to

be honest, i have served you well,

with food and drinks, and you all

make my life so miserable.

the way to gather meaning and then burning all of them

 this summer time the leaves

fall off from the trees

and we rake these dead leaves

and make heaps out of them

and then we burn them and we

sit on the patio seeing the smoke

rising to the sky.

and each of us keep on thinking

it is good.

silence triumphant

 regardless

i shall have one thing

only to offer

my silence

the silence of

a rose

the silence of

the sand

the silence of

dry leaves

of cliffs and rocks

the silence of 

your hair.

the big black mole on my left cheek

 there is this big mole

on my left cheek

my wife sees it and

i could only feel it

it is the mirror that makes

me see this big mole on

my left cheek

me and my wife never

talk about this big black

mole on my left cheek

my neighbors and friends

talk about it at my back

my enemies laugh about it

sometimes they think that

i may soon die about this

big black mole on my left cheek

i do not like it

i do not talk about it

i may die with it without

ever talking about it

same as my wife who loves me

and will never bring this 

big black mole as an issue

before we sleep.....

i never cry about this

hence no tear falls no tear

has ever by chance

passed by this big black

mole on my left cheek

i live with it

and then forget about it

before i sleep

THE SILENCE WITHIN

 the silence within me

is like your balloon which

you inflate and let go in the

air and in the middle somewhere

it bursts and no one really cares

what happens next

it gives nothing of much importance

to you but though i may never see

it again i felt this relief this release

this bursting independence.

ars poetica

 I CAN never get rid of you

i have no one to talk to

no one to confide and to confound

as i continue in this journey alone

with my mouth and tongue

and with my eyes closed as i move

along the path of the blind and the

mute but here i can hear more 

i can see more but i am never saying

anything.

TWO POSTS

 two posts can stay together

to make a house in a vast emptiness 

between as the roof continues its

protection though the floors may

have given themselves away for

the earth where the feet of the 

dwellers can feel more what is left.

in this kind of state of love....

 there is always a way to love you

in the world of sixty pillars of silences

along the faded colors of red earth

sprayed by the hands of my own fate.

i know for certain my love will always 

find a way towards the rocky floors of your heart.

without the harness of words, you soften a bit.

let me kiss you and you take a look at me

sidewise we meet, fronting you bow down to me.

i will never say i love you and you understand how

is it to be this way: always in secretive moments of love.

shy, restrained, without eyes, but sees much about

those which we never for once utter.

bleed

 you see the thorn

you prick your finger with it

and you bleed

blame no one

it is always the nature of thorns

and fingers

you suffer

blame no one

it is your nature to suffer

and bleed

reflect on the pain

find joy in it.

in the life of pretenses

 YOU do not like plums

but since i like it you pretend

to like it

i know you do not like plums

but i pretend too that you really

like it

and we live this way

to keep plums at home for

those who really like them

so they can eat 

without reservations: for i

pretend too that

i do not know that you

do not like them.

something graceful and light and soft

 i did not like it

it was too forceful

i want a little grace

the touch satisfies it

i wish for a butterfly

a flutter is enough

hover on my hair

as i bite my lips.

the juices

 i may fall upon

your dimples

and your eyes and

your lips

i may dream of them

all night

and feel how warm your

lips against mine

your tongue inside mine

but it will only be for

a while

i can be a fool but only

for a while

i may claim that here i

am 

loving you 

some parts of  you

lips, dimples, eyes,

tongue

but for how long?

i know how often i change

the way the seasons

follow the cycle of spring and 

autumn

the way snakes molt their

skins

and lizards and 

the way dogs operate on

heats

i know myself

how i change every moment

if i tell the truth

i may scare you so here i am

lurking, and curling, pressing myself

against a soft pillow

like the way i press

my orange against a metal

to drink the sweet juices

of my own labor.

i never live for you.....

 i never live for you

and i will never will

i make no promises

and never will

i got my one life to live

and i live it well

for myself alone and

never for the other

you change a lot like

i do and so there is no

common place

for us to go.

the border

 the best test of charity

is to ask if one could share the warmth of the body

less love, less affection, just the warmth therein

for the cold night

you give and you share  less the love less the affection

when someone is called to do it

test someone and find out where compassion &

generosity border.

when poetry is born

 that moment when

you talk to yourself

uninhibited and 

feeling like uninhabited

when you are alone but

never sensed the 

loneliness within

that moment when

a conversation starts rolling

and that moment when 

what you gather is dust

and when you disappear

from yourself to be reunited

with your deepest longing

since the birth of time

unspoken....

the flame

 the need is felt

one must talk to 

oneself as though

you are severed

like a soul from your

body....

the body confronts

the soul why it is

deprived of its life

why the pain instead

of the pleasure

the soul pretends to listen

feigns understanding 

and when left alone by

itself, it is serious in

its silence, that the

body must learn

that what it is seeking

destroys it in time

the body melts like a

candle to its own sought

flame....

NOW I SING.

 THERE will always be a vent,

a way, a place where i can be myself.

The park is filled with people

masking themselves.

The  market is filled with those

who had nothing in mind but

profits.

The church is filled with self-righteous

happy Catholics who rejects

sinners.

The library is filled with nerds and

soul searching introverts.

Your nook is filled with rambling poets.

I am tired of places where i do not belong.

Where i am dictated what to wear, what to

do, what to say, 

I build my own niche. I have my own vocabulary.

I speak my language and carefully i must listen

to it.

Here i am free, free from you, free from everybody.

Now i sing.