now the questions are asking you
what now? quo vadis?
where to? what for?
why?

yes, why above all.
the questions are asking you
and you must answer with the very same questions to the questions

you beg, and they beg too
the answer to the questions

but you have no answers really
you have learned the art of wisdom
its own ways
its own manners of not answering with answers

who knows? no one knows?
oh, ahh, i must start from where wisdow
was born

here i am and i know nothing....

nothing is planned
words to say just come with ease
there is no purpose
everything becomes light
and even if something true
and hurting is spoken
no bad feelings come
since trust prevails
that trust that the friend
intends nothing but the good
the better things ahead
for both of them

thank you
for being here with me

another 15 years
of our being together

in this home
this house i built for us

thank you for loving
me thank you for bearing

with me,my lapses and
cares, my laughter and

tears, thank you, thank you
for loving me

at noon, at dawn
in the middle of my dark times

of my happy times
and sad times

thank you for opening the door
and keeping my bed warm

thank you for loving me
for being with me all the times

of my life, when all of them
have finally given up on me

you were always there
to welcome and embrace me

thank you for loving me.
thank you.

pain is not your true friend
it does not stay long
it looks for another
faithful company

that is hope

and so is happiness
that knocks once and like pain
enters your door
sits on your chair
and dines and drinks with you
but only for a while

you want it to stay some more
you pamper it with scrubs
and foot massage
a very soft bed and
a bear hug and a french kiss

it goes out without notice
flies from your window
leaving you
a certain emptiness

that is the truth.

i have worms inside my mouth

at first i wanted to spit them all
wanting to relieve myself
with all the hassle
in keeping worms
that my friends detest

they tell me
that i must spit them all
for reasons of
sanitation

or perhaps
for my own sanity

i think about it
and the possibilities
of finally throwing up

after all i get
nauseous

this feeling of trying to hide
some things
inside the mouth

( do you know
about it?)

i could not do the throwing up
and so
the worms are still there
it is something
about giving them
temporary shelter
a home

i did not listen to myself
i did not listen to their advices

i decided to keep the worms for good
swallowing each worm
sliding in my esophagus
and finally settling inside the
rooms of my heart

i dream about each worm
wriggling inside my brain
but i keep them still
despite the mixed feelings of
pleasure and pain

one day
the worms become butterflies
and i feel ready for
this beautiful eventuality

i look up
to the heavens
on a very bright day

i spit them
all free

to the skies to the clouds
and to the trees
where they all
rightfully belong

i make a game
touch and go
writing a poem
and not getting back at it
for a possibility of
an editing
i like the way my fingers
press the keys
with or without
any direction
something naturally
senseless

when i come back
to see it again
a day after
i notice there are many
errors

the grammar sometimes
and even the idea
some are simply
impertinent
illogical
irrelevant and
immaterial
like a lawyer lost in the
woods of reason
objected to by
the other pock-marked counsel

it does not really matter
life like life
goes into gross errors
and sometimes it is too late
to correct them

we suffer the consequences
in this
touch and go game

well, sometimes
i like to embrace errors
specially those
which should not be corrected
because
they picture what we really are
imperfect
and with the way we want to
cover those
erroneous tracks
we become more about what we
are

incurable hypocrites...

Bong

now in the field of law
surprise, surprise
i have seen his latest pic
on the train
as he was waiting for
someone
he does not recognize me
and i pretend
not knowing him

i remember those days
of police line-ups
less the smiles now
we still wear the same
anxious faces

the train arrives
he is in the embrace
of a woman
i guess, let me guess
ten years younger
that his age

the way they kiss
she is not his daughter.

at FACEBOOK

GOOGle, google
see the faces of those that you remember
then
this is what you can at least do
shed some tears
a pool of tears
and let all the characters of your life
swim there
for long
let them tell the story of salt
and the previous dryness
that killed a rose
which made the bee mourn
that made
another butterfly flutter
in another garden
owned by
that self-made oligarch
applauded
by the wasps
and smacked by the
worms.

the food on the table

sour,
a little sweet
nothing bitter
like you.

SANDWICH

as you take that sandwich
i remember 1971

the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious

that is not how i saw it in the 70's
you were too young then
to know the connotation of the word

or the metaphor of being sandwiched
between two warring forces
who wanted to win by killing each other

they were all civilians mind you
sandwiched between the armed and dangerous government
and the armed and more dangerous rebels

the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious

in the 70's they were not delicious at all
they were maimed, and bloody, killed on the streets
and public plazas bombed and brains scattered
on the hot cemented pavements
people kept in hog wires and secret
detention places

brothers all but so insensitive to the
the roots of humanity
Cains and Abels


the ham, and mayonnaise
the purple sliced onions
and cucumber
that you slip between
a big sandwich which you
say is too delicious

when all i need is simply a bitter tasting coffee
without the sugar and cream

SENSELESS

senselessly
make sense by being senseless at times
we all need that
to realize we are not what we are after all
we too are what we are for what we are not
senseless and
numb

senselessly why worry about sense at all?
bipolarity

flesh and spirit
mind and matter
brain and brass

don't you worry
take some beer and smoke
watch what happens to the world
in conflagration
of senseless thoughts

loafing is the work of another genius
when the mind simply drifts like a butterfly
on a windless day
shopping for petals in the garden
of no-man's land

THE FEAR COMPONENT

part of the program component
is the fear that they install
on incoming viruses

what do you do? take the fear
and savor the virus and sit on the
easy chair, wiggle, wobble, like
another unknown planet

stare at the monitor as though
it is a bird that cannot take flight
with your mind

it will stare back
but you are no longer moved with pity

fear is an important part of this program
fly with it
have a tour on its contours
and when you come back
tell me the story of fear in wonderland
show me that Cheshire grin
be the mad hatter
with the etiquette of the
Red Queen

this is senseless
yet why did you finish it?

sorry girl

but it is not my habit to
find out how you are doing when you are no longer there to greet me
when i arrive from a very long trip with someone else that you do not know
that you are not interested with
since it simply inflicts that pain
that you are getting used to

hello is strange word now.
it is not my friend, neither is the word goodbye

do not tell me that once i have said the word
i get tired of its face
the 'why' embedded in it
is perplexing
if at all i give it a thought
or a piece of my
mind

i like birds with strong wings
those that travel far away and do not come back

it they come back
they only bring memories
and sad stories

do i have to make a pool of tears again
where some 'unfit' organisms for a time swim and then die?

i like birds with claws those that know what wars to fight out there
sharp claws
that promise them to live some more years

do not underestimate my capacity for sorrow
my love for death

besides the birds i also have worms,
lots of worms as friends
they are too sympathetic to our causes
accommodating to our weariness

they know when to eat and rest
and sing the funeral hymns.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATTY

Patty it is your birthday
and i am suppose to greet you

happy birthday, but i didn't
i change my mind
after all what can i give you
what can i say to you?

your son stepped into the abyss
between darkness and another darkness
he is maimed and cannot say a word to you

your husband's left eye got blinded
with a smirk of boiling oil
and there is no sense arguing what recklessness caused it
who pays for the damage done
where to go and be justified
the scales do not function well these darkest day of the year

your daughter plunged herself into the calendar days of the law
and she has no time with you
(did she greet you a happy birthday?)
how many husbands have she wasted?
she did not like kids i know and you love kids so much

time snobs you and you ask what have you done to its wings
to deserve its sharp claws?
i have no answers Patty, i am too preoccupied with so many theories
about the roots of sorrow
the branches of fear
the poisonous barks of injustice

good luck Patty have another year
make is saucy, try some beer, have a little smoke
they may cure your cancer.

Life is a sad novel Patty
and it will take some more years before it is finished.

BUSY

the whole day you read
till nighttime
she leaves you finally
and you do not ask
you do not beg

whether she comes back
it simply an irrelevant fact

nothing fills your head
like a sponge it sucks every water every moisture
around the corner

fungus infested air and opaque dew
your mind takes them all without question
no choice even
things come and things go
birds fly away and worms burrow some more
nothing is pertinent now
love is dead.

After Love
by Sara Teasdale
There is no magic any more, We meet as other people do, You work no miracle for me Nor I for you. You were the wind and I the sea— There is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool Beside the shore. But though the pool is safe from storm And from the tide has found surcease, It grows more bitter than the sea, For all its peace.

Cristina Davis says:

She said, I love you.

He said, Nothing.


(As if there were just one
of each word and the one
who used it, used it up).


In the history of language
the first obscenity was silence.

This nobody says:

what was obscene really
what was said first
before the silence.

in my town

the faces of people
are still faces,
nothing there are
transformed
into animals,

that boy may look
like an urchin to
you
with spikes throughout
his hair or

that old woman
a camel with an abnormal
hunch
back

the gasoline boy
becomes
an alligator
its tongue preying
on the
cars and impatient
queues
of turtles

i still have respect
to this town
the men are men
and women
are mothers and sisters
of mine

before any coffee
i swear to myself
that i am the man with
a new story to tell

to throw away
all these cliches
and be what
i really am

there is no word yet
nothing is popping up
.................


so back to usual
i write something that
repeats itself
like an echo of
another boredom
form that same
mountainside

to wait for long
is crazy
i know

........

i will have my coffee now
and sip what i must accept

oh, there is nothing new
regret what you have just read.

i think you must go now
and this i must tell you:

write your own regret
do not read me again.

it's nice to know that you will be there
on the 11th till the 13th
though i have other plans for my life,
cheat as i am,
i will be too stupid to follow the dictates
of my heart,
i will join you and give you
not the anatomy of the cat or the frog
i bring my own set of sturdy flesh
and hard bones
and wracking nerves
did i not tell you about the ecstasy
of risks?

that love when riskier is better.
the love that kills is true love.
the one who is killed is pure martyr.

so we will be there to share our limited resources.
is sharing a from of cheating then?

oh, common, mutual cheaters are equals.
no one hurts, no one gets hurt.

it is easy always to forget, then we move on
with lesser pains.

i am good at words.
familiar with metaphors, and you stumble
upon an
oxymoron that i offer you and which you by
confusion, have so lightly taken,
i do have to say, how much is your smile,
what is the price of your kiss,
i will be too abrupt, and blunt and you may
not like them,
though that is what it
really is: love cost this amount
per unit of convergence
divisible moments, maximizing income.

beautiful killer, you are,
tremendously slow, in conclusions,
i buy you some confounding,
this is or this is not, to be or not to be,
you this, and you do not know about that,
how time consuming
to woe and yet not to let you know
that we are not really talking and i am not
taking you for

love: a commodity, a trade in for dignity,
an excuse to gallivant like
an etherized valentino,
stuffed juliet, and frozen romeo, undressed
they all appear like
dressed chickens in a row, for sale,
three for two,
a little tete a tete , something for a bric and brac,
guess some more,

"i love you"
i really love you, and i said oh i love you too

webcams off. what kind of face did you wear then?
was it the mask? is it the face with a crown of thorns

Jesssez! for God's sake! stop talking about love,
i am freezing in coldness. Love is strange now
as we age, we do not believe about its value anymore,
wrinkled skins, and hollow bones,
empty promises of the salvific nature of
divine love,

what for? this i can say. I do not think anymore like
a philosopher, i live like an ant now,
following pheromones, doing and doing, and hauling and hauling,
just a creature on this anthill
nothing more.

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

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

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

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

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

i still have fears of the fleas

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

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

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

a leaf am i
consume me, you worm!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at least he did not spit on her

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

don't laugh, i am a serious writer.

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

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

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

He forgets home

where his face is stuffed
Like a bear.

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

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

not off tangent
do not be strict on
perpendiculars

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

the pain
negligible

love maximized on trapezoidal
compromises

the dream

i like this to be simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

why should a man raise his hands
even when asleep?

and why should he wound himself
unnecessarily?

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

that may even
cause his death?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i slept
till ten.

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

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

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

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

she puffs her smoke
to the moon.

everyone understands
what silence is all about

there are no more stories
from exhausted bodies

the souls are rested
on top of wilted grass

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

i am new here and i
am beginning to understand

what is this big mountain
all about?

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

some flowers bloom late, some buds
just wilt

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

of johnny-come-latelies
and pretentious marriages.

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

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

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

ask me, and i will answer:

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

what did i really want?

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

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


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

who am i really? why am i here?

a strange dog

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

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

of the river pass through

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

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

what is the meaning of a closed door?

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

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

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

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

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

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

ever.

the art of leaving

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

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

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

you are here, but in quintessence
you are never here

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

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

i am leaving.

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

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

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

move on, let not that failure
make you fail.

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

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

this cannot be fake.

you bury your face on a
sand of work

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

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

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

the need for drama

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

Bathsheba who is now in Chicago

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

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

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

a blind spot

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

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

sick minds get well without
medication

sometimes,

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

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

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

its color particularly
mistaking red for blue
white for beige

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a piece for you

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

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

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

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

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

know what? Be happy too.


I have someone else.

acceptance poetry

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

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

symptoms of a loser

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

cracking bones
shouting for repair,

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

a mouth that is shut
munching words
and swallowing pride,

a heart that no longer
weeps,

hands that reside
inside the pocket,

feet that refuse to
take another mile
of tolerance,

poems growing
like molds on
left -bread

a cockroach proclaiming
victory over
unwashed coffee mugs.

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

discover that poems
are mere feelings,

others
who succeed at this
craft

have nothing
to tell really,

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

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

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

know that poetry is
a crutch,

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

you write more with
a numb left arm now,

the fear spreading
on the chest,in your bones,

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

there is a rush here
to take the bus

you're late for almost
every appointment,

it is raining and you
have no umbrella,

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

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

and then, you keep on
writing about it,

as though, words can
help.

tolerating the loquacious

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

the tv is on for the
usual morning news

,

the cup of coffee is on
the breakfast table,

the usual rice

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

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

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

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

you are her slave and
you listen,

though you are not
interested,

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

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

her nose looks like
a wrench,

she looks older
than you think,

cranky like an old
rice mill,

you like to get rid
of her,

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

you create a certain distance
like Mars and Pluto,

farther away, you settle on
the orbit of earth,

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

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

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

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

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

On A sunday with Tony

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

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

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

he is a good mountain
walker.

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

The path is narrow, and
the grasses are taller.

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

we do not speak that much
we agreed to simply listen

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

the mud on our feet
the sweat on our brows

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

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

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

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

Tony will like it.

happiness

they say happiness comes
in moments unexpected
comes one early morning
knocking to your door and you least expect
such a face
bringing you all that happiness promises

years of pain have alienated you from her
disgusting you say
and you do not feel anything anymore about her
she comes and you look at her
happiness

you tell her she is not welcome anymore
happiness
does not work at all
she has no fidelity
she cannot stay that long enough
to appease

she is not that true
to rebuild what once was broken into shatters

the journey after

someone gets used to failures and he
is not affected about all these things anymore.

he keeps himself enclosed in a circle.
he has his own galaxy moving into space expanding

he has his own orbit, a number of planets and
meteors

there is this uniform sound of dolphins
traveling inside a world of oceans

it is not a call for help or the jubilation for joy
not even a sound of grief

it is what one does not utter
in a journey like this

it is a direction
going there and there and there and there is no stopping anymore

art and the ordinary eyes

exercises of the mind,
this morning chill and the waiting hours,
i open the window
to see what the call is another
ordinary day,

a vine hangs in the garden wire
freely it gives three flowers
which the wind takes away,

i take time
this is the moment of conversion
when the ordinary day becomes
special when the three flowers
symbolize the trinity
of faith, hope and love,
the ordinary human eye
seeing the whole world
in such a short time
such beauty,

art plus
sensitivity.

the gambler finally finds
a conspiracy with the liar
and the thief,

father is correct, this
is the family of vice,
the eldest is the gambler,
and the younger one is the liar,
the thief is in the middle.

a friend, a woman , a widow, the old one

where have we gone
on those years that dance in the music
of hushes and whispers?

those merry widows
painted their faces
as they grow into
the folds of their old age

she is one of those
who dreamed
from nipa huts to the
ice castles of her
fantasies

she thought she can
stay forever
like that... forever

but no woman stays a woman
throughout her journey
she assumes some shapes
to survive
some have turned into camels
in the arid desert
some polar bears bear the earmark
of womanhood in their cold
noses

her body knows when
the right time is right there in her mind
but there is one thing that makes the sound
of her permanence...

that she must always be free to be
...forever

that something which went wrong

there is a ripe papaya
too ripe for my hold and i climb it
too weak for my body
the tree swings to the other side
and then the papaya fruit falls to the
ground
crushed

something goes wrong somewhere
something that you are about to hold
and yet crushes to the ground
looks like a vomit &
you don't want to eat it
back

that most candid criticism of the self

things are running wild and not in what you wish them
all to be
there is this rage
of self against self

some 'selves' are running against you
and some are exploding before your very face
indistinguishable
untouchable
yet there is this sense of
i am i
that one is me too
that i am some pieces scattered
and that there is also another self
that keeps gathering
and assembling parts into a whole

ugly and not worth the watch
these are
your hands spread your fingers
just for a show
like a peacock at the peak of its heat

you feel that there are storms coming inside your chest
you wait for tornadoes and boats and calls for help
then the calm
that is the idea of your thesis

and
antithesis
a woman a man
a peace of quiet and some chunks
of motors chomping
on a stretch of day

what for? you are that one too
that seeks self-destruction
you wait
for another explosion to include your whole being
you lift the weight of the sighs of righteousness

lost and never found, here is this man,
and yet
you reap anger for those who wait and see

you are smiling still and then moving away

forget me, now

i have taken the plunge
deep in the bosom of the blue sea
into the depths of the ocean
to be with the fish and the
corals of this sandy floor

there is no coming back
there are no reasons on the surface
there is this final plunge
searching for eternity

forget me then, creature of light

cursory reading of life

at the end
only the headlines matter
all the details are forgotten
the pimple on the left side of the cheek
the mole on the that furrow where tears pass
the skin tag on the pelvis which you keep touching
after a night of sex with another
person other than the usual pulsating creatures
around you,
at the end, it does not matter anymore
whether you were the bee
or the flower or that firefly who always wished
for the night sky and the full moon,
what matters most
are those bold titles archived at the end of your journey
you are in a rush for another destination
there is even no time for another cursory reading
of your life,
the past lives you like to forget
you want to get out finally from the circle of the cycle
only until
if you deserve it when you know what not to take with you.

on my sister's 59th birthday

she was the first to gift
me a brown sweat shirt when
i had my 6th birthday
and i could not really forget that

now on her 59th birthday
she took charge of everything
down to the last detail of the flower
that gives accent to the
center table to the cake's flavor
and the ginger slices that
go with her fish fillet

she is the bread winner of the family
her husband is weak and
good for nothing

what can we do? we must love what
she loves
because we love her too.

time is like a slimy fish
it swims inside our hearts
eluding the hands that
want to catch it

we were talking about
another sister who is sick
with no one
in the hospital

there were other talks
whatever
i did not pay attention anymore
i have my own
version of insecurities
and i do not wish to tack
it on their piles.

we said goodbye
the night was deep and the
longing continues
deeper than before

life is shorter than we think

an inch away
always an inch away from
sudden deaths

that is how we measure
time
luck makes it a little wider
a second
becomes meaningful

a friend dies alone
in his Makati apartment
but he was able
to say
good luck to all his friends
away from him
before that crucial moment

he made peace with God
i imagine
who's next
to succumb to a very silent
room
i imagine
what peace is there.

i think again
bubbles in my mind
life is too short
for all these quibbles.

i go out
take a walk
talk to no one
and bathe
in sunshine

getting naked

what makes it interesting?
it is the seldom way of showing
what is there
it does not happen everyday
and that is it, but
i imagine if we were born less
the shame and the malice
there is actually nothing there
but humanity and the coldness
of society
there is no lust in there
but just our own shape and skin
and bones wrapped so tenderly
with care

love and understanding is there
only when
we shed off the crude manners
of our built-in civilization who for long
in the pretense of religion
and governance
have taken us away from our very own nature

the death of candidness
the scourge of expensive dresses

once i go naked inside my room
and look closely at my body in the human-sized mirror
this is reality i proclaim to my senses
there is nothing lewd in my belly
there is love in my navel
there is this kingdom of love
hidden inside my guts

tomorrow i will be honest
i will wear no masks
no clothes

i will shed off the name that they gave me.

the orange cat

when you arrive tomorrow
i will not be there
the key of the door is found
just beneath the earthen jar
at the porch

there is an orange cat

with
one eye
it is not ours but
we have become friends
after i feed it
with a fish that we have not
eaten for 3 days
we have not seen each other
since then
after we made love in
the kitchen

i will not be home for a week
you know the reason
if you have some questions
talk to the orange cat

it will tell you some important matters
that i haven't told you

listen to every meow that he says
it is rich with metaphors
about lust and longing.

literalism

i must mean what i want to say to you.
the letters are clear my speech is candid
like the way i face you on that day of mourning
nothing to hide the tears fall as they fall
nothing to wipe and pretend that this is not the
correct hour for the confrontation of what had long
been conceived by the fallopian tubes of time.

words create the inconvenience of having to
understand what they really want to convey,
those that we sometimes reject from the sentence
of the hour. The last second arrives
and one word keeps staying. You reject it.
What keeps in place is the truth.
This time the lies looking like white flowers
under the noonday sun wilt.
No water from your mouth can make it alive.

At last, you are free from the hands of the world.
A white bird against the white light
Ascending to the stairs of the unknown.
Do not believe. How could you?

Literally, the world of non-words dissolves.