some notes to bebie

we made an agreement
it was carved in stone to your mind
i agree there must be no changes
without prior notice
but you change it a bit
and so i am canceling the whole of it
that is what it is
carved in stone, put a change
the slightest one
can break the whole of that stone
a little change in temperature
or pressure as the case maybe
can make this world crack
without prior notice
now don't cry foul
for both of us prior to that
have assumed the shadows
of the wolves.

this morning baby i take my walk
it rained last night
and the other nights before
and so today baby
the grass is greener
the road is not dusty
not also muddy
just perfect for this
"brand new" day in my life
i made some promises
to myself
not to think about your face
and your body
i haven't kissed you
i haven't made love to you
just in my dream
all but just in my dream
and this morning i take this walk
for you
wanting to forget
wanting to walk straight in the other
mornings of my life
i will make a promise again
that so surely
will be broken again baby
you're such a dust that i can't
take off my feet
very weary, weary feet
taking these walks
senselessly
hopelessly always always
crazy about you.

it is too early
i guess the nights are longer now
it is 4:56 a.m. it is cold
the air is cold
and the windows are still closed
the rooster at the yard
keeps on crowing
while other roosters of the neighborhood
(i live in a rural town
with dusty roads still at the other
nearby kiosk)
keep on crowing too for an answer,
how i wish to make you
a lovely,
happy,
gentle,
peaceful poem
no one screaming on the road
not a motorcab screeching
neither a bus overspeeding
and spreading dust
how i wish to write you a poem
about love
or about that only peaceful star
hanging on the
early morning sky
just a wish
but really
there isn't any
it cannot be
what with a heart that is grieving
a soul that is lost
a body that trembles
a mind with thoughts live leaves
heap upon heap
without a match
to burn them all
this hot days of summer.

a moment
when a white
flower receives
the first drop
of gentle rain
feeling heaven.

one morning
when i discover
that i have turned
into a cockroach
you may write
what i will
do
you may theorize
that since i will be
to shy to go out
of my room just like
what your character did
then i may lock my
room, not eat,
and only talk to
my sister
that i may soon hate
my father
and will soon forget
my mother
i can relate to all
these based on my
readings
but i can see
what i can do
when i stink and
soon fear light
when even the air
which is suppose to
hush a lullaby
now hurts too
just like the rest
of those who
are close to me
and turn themselves
into disgusting monsters
more disgusting
than my being a
human-cockroach

you know very well
that i am brave enough
to force the door
to the other room
the one that none of
you has ever entered
i can use a knife
an ax or a hand grenade
i can even use a bomb
to break this
back door open
i am brave and
will always be restless
on a broken wing
of a bird i can
always still manage
to fly
away.

winds of change

i throw my sigh
and then it came back as
part of the
the winds of change

with some brown leaves
and wings of birds
and butterflies
the winds of change
has come

with the rays of the sun
with the songs of the day
with the hair of my woman
the winds of change
has come

with the yellow sunflower
with the humming bees
and soft rains
and rainbow
the winds of change has
finally come

take me to the magic
of this moment
my winds of change

we are but
dusts in the wind
blown in an
instant
far and gone

we are but
the pebbles the sands
on the shore

we are but waves
coming and going
always
recurring

just think of you
and me
you become
too close
to me
for here in my
darkness
i also think of you
as my
only moon
by my window

the war is not
over
the sky is falling
the earth shakes
to the
every day
harshness
of men
to men
the war continues
with the
clouds and the rain
still searching
for the
light of the sun

the journey home

back to a memory
of home
shattered glass
and smoke
of the room
open windows
and broken doors
back to the sands
of time
pouring on
childhood
how thoughts can
stab
innocence
how words become
tall
for the reach of my
hands
how cruel is the
air
how love can be
as slim
as nil as a girl
without becoming
a true woman
how love survives
on a river
of tears

harem

welcome
to desire
welcome
to my harem
welcome
love
do not be
shy
welcome
to the colors
of life
dance
dance
welcome
to lust

mystical
profound experience
about his
papa

one who cannot
hear her anymore
the skies
without its million
eyes

love
i was always in
love
with you
love
soft as
green as
the grass
i lay upon
love
you excite
me
from a
distance
love
why are you
far
as the planet
pluto
from my
earth?
love
ageless
as ever
far
as the most
distant
star
ever
unreachable

you sleep in bed till 10
o'clock in the morning
the room is closed
the only hum you hear
is the electricity
of the aircon,
light from the keyhole
strikes at your leg
it hurts
your eyes half open
you want to set it aside
you move a leg
and the light is still there
sticking to the wall
you close your eyes again
there is nothing to do
yesterday you get fired
and there is no
rumor about another job
this is it
let somebody worry about you
there is nothing
you can do about them
tonight mouths will scream
at you
the light in the keyhole
is gone.

you come surprisingly
and i am amazed about what you are
you are risky
and gives me the shivers
of the dangers that you are giving me
you are quick
to appear and too quickly you
disappear
you tell me that i must be prepared
to record you in memory
that i must have a paper and pen on hand
ready for the keeping

you are the idea
so much has been wasted
because i am raged with age
too lax
and lazy and
to time has become
a slave
bound for oblivion.

rising from oneself
to the highest
sky
alone flying and
diving
and those who
watch
thought that this
is plain nonsense
for that seagull
may finally shatter
its bird's head
to a rock
it is not as simple
as that
the seagull has
learned the trick
of smashing itself
on the water
like a rocket
with a fuel at
its back

to speed to art
to life!

erotica

i was prude enough
to deserve their hate
when i avoided you
erotica
my hands are bound
to the old religion
contrasting commands
between the voice of
my thighs
the contractions of my
scrotum
and the call of love
the freedom of
erotica
in the forest where the
trees tower
reaching for the skirts
of the clouds
erotica
you are so beautiful
red grapes are your
lips with dew
on a very cold morning
i shed off my skin
thrown my clothes
i feel the air all over
my body
erotica
you come to me
for i am bound by the
chains of wrong beliefs
about my fire
i am burning now
erotica
be my fire
burn me more
like molten magma
i am an eruption
right in the your beautiful
face
erotica.
i am man.

my home

your lips
my door to our
tryst
your breasts
my my
hands to your
warm, sweet home
where my bone
shall be.

using the word droll

a droll little man
with a quiet
tongue-in-cheek kind
of humor

On a Sunday
at nine
he sits by the window
watching
people passing by
bringing their burdens
he is not part
of this
sacrifice
he is the spectator
watching the day pass by

till the next level of
his lazy enlightenment
the sun fades away
and now the moon
he sits by the window
imagining
the night away

it will be the same on
another day of his life
this spectator

i have found them, the things that cannot be lost
education, and patience,
my steady face...inside my room,
the mirror that looks at me
always, these eyes

i shall always keep what treasures i found
you, and myself, that time so luckily gives
our lips, our bodies, our mouths
we never exchange them for anything

we found what we deserve: the poetic existence
of these beings.
that stare and droll, these eyes, these hands.

he knows now why he
goes beyond the decency
of love, those clean hands
touching, acceptable by
those who want to be
with all of the kind people here,
he looks back in time
when the moss was not in the
stones yet on the river
love was not there
there were no traces of its
steps
there were no words
nothing speaks about affection
and acceptance
he once kissed love
and love said it is over
there is no design
no architecture for a dwelling
he gets away from this dream
goes inside a room
on the street that is dark and narrow
there are people without names
there naked and ready
to embrace what he brings
now he is at home
and there is no more regret
no comparison for what ought to
be that merely gives
him pain
beyond love of course
is lust that give him temporary
relief of faces
and bodies that he never once
did touch
ever.

a reminder

you claim ownership
based on hardship, this land, this house
this car
you touch the skin of your forehead
reminding those who see you
emaciated
of the sweat and
the hairs lost

there is that time
when the car breaks down, the house
foreclosed (as it is on mortgage)
when the land does not bear
any fruit
someone takes it
you begin to read the trend
you ask how is this happening

you can't take this
you cannot breathe and sleep

someone tells you, this is life, welcome
stewards all are we, we pass, we were just visitors here
all these never for all the times
belong to us
we only discover and then
they find their own ways back
to the real owner.

the past eats like
a voracious monster
the future warns like
a sentry of the gate
the present melts
like ice
there is no mark
of life
for someone who
has been pretending
to be dead
facing no
responsibility.

a neighbor

there is always
hammering
windows are changing
every day
a restless neighbor's house
wanting to change
luck
what ever needs to be
changed
must be done right
away
superstition sometimes
is summing
up the life of
this neighborhood
the feng sui
the arrangement of
the flow of
yin and yang
the color of the walls
the scent of the day
what number
what more.

i think you got all
the ingredients
you work so hard
like a dog
no Fridays, you have
talent for the genuine
you got taste
you know what to reject
and take
but my dear there is
this luck
which you still lack
pray again
till Lady Luck lifts the
veil of her face
to kiss you again.

got migraine
and tired of my doctor's prescriptions
which after all
lead to more complications
i decided to see my
quack doctor in the mountains
nearby
got inside his cave and
he chanted to the gods
of the trees
and the grasses
to the nymphs and elves
and dwarfs
to the gods of the underworld
and he came out with
an answer

"dear sir, you got air!"

i like to read your poem
and i like to say it is a poem
there is a difference
of course
between the two statements
i like to read
it is your poem but i may
after reading
that
saying that i am honest though
and can distinguish a poem
from one that is not a poem
that your poem is one that i only
like to read
and may
say that it is not your poem
but it is yours you are sure of that
but what i am saying is that
i am reading your poem
but i feel that it is not
a poem after all
i can say one when i read one
so i just say i like reading your poem
which could not really be a poem
not even prose
i just like it
but it is not anything about what
i feel i like it to be
a poem or prose
i am reading it, it isn't
like this one for instance
you know that
now.

he is a young man. Tall and smooth
and admired by Time and
favored by tolerance. He walks briskly along
the city street, and goes inside a place
where the flowers of his youth
are being admired.

young women recite him as a
love verse, his eyes become their visions
his muscled sensuality, his tight body
stir the imagination of those who
want to be beautiful too
till the end of this busy day.

i have accepted some facts of
my life, some things that cannot
be changed, there were human interventions
to no avail

now, the sounds of nature do not amaze me
a baby's cry at night
a couple's fight, a dog 's howl,
a woman singing by the river
a man whistling along the road at night
a love call, laughter of children
in the park, mother's call to go home,
fathers smoking cigar while waiting
with their cars,

i do not mind all these
they are all the cause of my little sorrows

a child's birthday party i simply abhor
a baptism, the more,

funerals are welcome, prayers for those
who die in the wars of the streets
candles for those who disappeared
prayers for those murdered in the far mountains
domestic violence
and so on and so forth
all these causes, i am in.

that is life, that is life, without envy
only pity, a little sympathy and a literature
for empathy
for all the saints, and angels, amen.

afternoon

a woman with a long black hair
sweeps the road
using a coconut broom

three children pass by
and suddenly throws a stone
to the mango tree

a motorcycle speeds its way
from the market
a dog crosses the street
the little girl runs after

we hear a screeching sound of the
brakes
and that is how the case starts

it is at the exact point
of your orgasm and my ecstasy
when the world in creation
is learned inside us
when we throw away all thoughts
in space
when we forget who we are
that reality unfolds
we have no eyes no mouths
we are nothing before
the magnificence of it all
pure light inside this darkness
a ball of fire
flaming and burning
us always unconsumed
in a world inexhaustible

old man Baring

woe
to you
old man baring
even if you run for
barangay captain
you cannot win
this new game
that you have just
created

woe to you
i had your lies
all your nice pretenses
now old man baring
your life is over

welcome now
to your gold plated room
in hell


you see i told you
i told you beforehand
my dear old man Baring
no one lasts forever

join us now
in the world of oblivion
if you must
with your permission
we give you
the number one slot
in this world
of the unknown

when the roads
get too busy
and traffic is hell
when the room is
full
and there is no
place for you
to stand

just wait, who knows
someone may fall
and die
who knows some of
them will faint
who knows a bomb
explodes
and gee
a blessing in disguise
God forbids
you are not there

slow but sure
but if i fall
i rise again
and begin
anew
slow but sure
like a snail
like a worm
inching my way
to my
destination
i am not in hurry
side by side
with another worm
another snail
oh we're just
having fun
together

and then there was Alma,
a name which means soul.
she tells the story about her
son, how she gave birth
at such an early age, meeting
this chinese man,
who offered her a nice world
who promised her heaven.

it turned sour. The chinese man
left her. But she managed to
eke out a living for her son.
She raised him.

She files an annulment
two years and still undecided.

When the annulment is granted
she promises to invite us to her party
The motif? Wear the color of freedom.

the couple sings

evidently, they are a nice pair
both of them
are songbirds in their own
right

they had a duet in the party
and we clapped our hands

they are old now and yet
still very much in love with
each other

as they were singing a love song
when we clapped
he made chances on her butt
while she touched his face

what a melodrama
and then at the end of the love song
they kissed each other

there is joy
we cheered them

Love so true which age
cannot murder. This is when
the couple sings
their own love song.

herminia

as usual she is silent
an absorber among the group
of the pioneering teachers
of the school

she dyes her hair
completely black to hide her age.
she married late
and got a drunkard and gambler
for a husband.

her silence is understandable.
what she hears she keeps to herself
but they won't stay long
she is full
of angst, stories about marital
abuse files her mind,
her children have grown up
and had lives of their own.

she is alone, like everybody else
in this party
what will she talk about? will she
make a complaint? will she pour
her regrets over a bottle of beer.

she is old enough. And time
is too short.
She listens. There is no other
thing worth doing
in this valley of tears.

when she discovered that
she had colon cancer
stage 2, she at first had
the usual denial,

"no this cannot be true
for i don't smoke
neither did i eat meat
i did not have
a stressful life" she says.

the discharges of blood
proves her otherwise
her loss of weight
and low red blood cell count
convince her
about this reality

" i accepted this
matter and i did not
want to do anything anymore" she resolves,

"anyway, i am already
68, and had my life
what is the use of
an extension" she continues

on her plate is the fried chicken
a slice of roasted pig,
for her desert a glass of ice cream
and leche flan
all that the doctor says
she must not eat
she eats them now

i guess, i know what she means.

this is a fan
in the manipulation of my hands
her hands hold another fan
making the signals of
our tryst
this is another fan of hers
for my manipulation
this will give the signals too
what time
where and when
and then we fan ourselves together
much to the dismay of
those who still think that this world
spins
because of love alone
no
there are other reasons which lust knows
apart from the reasons
of the propriety of an intimacy

there is this emptiness that must be filled
at least temporarily with the desires of the body
the curiosity of he mind
the button-less reality
of holes and bones and quivers
of the flesh

i am into this and you call me
quits.

today the sun is furious
it brought some needles
pricking my skin
somehow it is telling
me something
this global warming thing
is true
something worst will
come when the
sun shall bring
the bomb.

PRAYING FOR THE RETURN OF PLEASURE

when love is gone
to another island
crossing the sea
i pray for pleasure
i light a candle
and offer the flowers
for the grand icon

the winds are strong
there is storm coming
and love may not return

the icon smiles
for the truth is
when love is gone
it is gone
and there is no promise
that it will return

in the eye of the storm
love sinks and cannot come back
anymore

there are no reasons
for separations
when love is broken and
beyond repair.

a gaze upon myself

the possibilities of a body
are all here: luscious lips, contours
of my arms
the promises of my butt
and the courage of
my chest,
so much is here
all these resources
laying bare wanting to be used
even abused
come ... let us meet secretly
the wonders of our youth
tonight
when i am alone again
inside my room, when the hotels
are closed,
when the cafes are cruel,
when the roads are emptied
of children
when the skies have no stars
come to me then, youth to my youth
inside my room
where my heart is numb
when the only possibility is the pleasure
that our bodies can offer
when intimacy is not the question anymore
when commitment is out of the issue
we are here
at this point we shall only discuss
how our skins
can accommodate all the pleasures
therein.
come to me when i am alone again
let us make pleasures
under the moon.

COME BACK TO ME

Do not be slighted,
Lust, return to me
when i am strong again
when my skin feels
the tickle and the rub

Do not be shy
Come to my bed again
For my sheets are warm
My pillow dreamy.

Come back to me
AT night when i am alone again
Caressing my body
In sin

Sensual pleasures
Come and feel the dryness of my
Thighs
The blessings of my arms
The tenderness of my heart

For now I welcome all these
I am alive
I am hungry and thirsty
For Love.

soul

Soul, you must understand
how this body sleeps with you.

Soul, you must remember
it has separate manners with you.

Soul, learn the sensual pleasures
of this body, its twists and turns,

its crooked ways, its perverted ways,
its insatiability, even its evil ways,

Soul, you have all the patience,
when the body is rested before its

time is over, Soul, awaken it,
shake it, let it shed off its dusts

of errors, its stains of lusts,
wash it with fasting, and repentance

Soul, be wise, and kind enough to
save this Body, until it rusts and

to dust it shall return, and Soul
when you go up there, Forget.

when you are gone

there is no pretense
i will be in love again

i will dream of another
and ask for her hand

we will take a walk
and kiss in the dark

i will forget you
that is what i will do.

so please do not go
i can be foolish without you

dedication

an early morning with you
a walk
breakfast for two
gentle conversations
a review of what last night
was all about

tonight
a dinner with you
under the moon
in my garden
fireflies on the trees
water music from
the fountain

what can life be
without you?

They make us feel
that we owe them our existence
that what we are today
is us, because they made
us
bird that know how to fly
men who know how to fish
ordinary men rising to power
now in the pedestals
of importance....

i see it differently
we owe them nothing
we are here
because we made them
exist too...

we work hard to be what we are.
no one owes anybody.

seeing it differently now
because i am free.

ENVY not
those who are busy,
and acclaimed
by the hands of the masses,

they have their own
problems with
fame

they too have the problems
of their money

a gap
of self from self
a hollow space
in between

behind the masks
are the limping insecurities
success is always short
and failure is not
far behind

it is a matter of time
soon
a mouth that opens
with fangs and
deadly venom

a cobra always waiting for the
right bite
at the right time
even if you were
the wrong person

so please envy not
the proud and the
laughing
gas.

FLY WITH the wind
Walk and run on the
water

free the mind
from the very shackles of
your freedom

know not your limits
high fly
hover on a cliff
jump

then die.

there is no need for you to ask
because there is nothing to be understood
there is no answer
and there will be no answer that will satisfy
the thirst of your mouth
and your mind
stay there and listen
see the unfolding of that which closes and
opens before you
this is rather exciting
a mushroom standing on its own roof
an anemone opening and closing its fingers
in the slightest notice of your presence
the rocks and the sands are terrible
they stand there
witnesses of so many crimes against the sea
yet their silence is sealed with the permanence
of the hiding, a concealment of
things which must not be revealed.
there is nothing here worthy reading
there is nothing waiting for an understanding
there is only a state upon itself
without a clap, a buzz, a slip of the tongue.
why must one insist that there is a code
a hidden secret embedded in one of the words
a phrase to guide to the exact location of
the treasure of Monte Cristo.
Let us be silent. Nothing is meant.
Nothing is called. Nothing is trapped.
There is only a caravan of words like camels
in the desert. They do not know a thing
about this journey.
It is only me. The Bedouin with an oasis
mapped in the lines of my palm.
A star overhead. The North of my existence.

around his eyes
shades of black
when it looks at
you it is looking at
nothing
there is no sign of
life in the iris
there is only the stillness
of solitude
there is no whirlpool
of happiness
nothing is taken
nothing is given
there is doubt around each eye
there is that state of
unsatisfied hunger
despite the mountains of food
and lakes of drinks
there is this hunger for hunger itself
a longing eternal
there is this lightness that floats
like a cloud
this unbreakability of a
situation
there is this murmur of the femur
the chant of the brunt
nothing is full
yet nothing is empty still

against oneself

running and running
in an endless road
everyday is running
to a year a century
running, running, running
against oneself
if you only look back
no one is chasing
if you only know what is
at the end of this
journey
there should have been
no reason for a hurry
running, running, running away
i don't know till now
what is the reason
why.

dawn brings in
whatever was left
of the night
making love
to its own shadows
in the dark

so cool is the silk air
so beautiful are the laces
of light
drawn from the empty
spaces of
the leaves
the dews like pearls
still clinging
to the arms of desire

the mountain and the snake

a long black yellow snake with stripes
arrives hissing
looking for a prey
a rat perhaps
but there is none
not even an ant for a snack
and so the long black yellow snake with stripes of green
slides its way to a dark, moist cave
tight on its door
pushing its long slimy body
to the tip of the
cave's orifice to the end of its
intestine

it was a good tickle
and the whole body of the mountain
gives a tremble
a moan and from the slits of its sides
to the tip of its feet
and toes and trees
the whole body of the mountain
moans
happy with the long slimy body of the
snake's skin and bone.

i am eating my words
i languish in the jail of my ideas
no woman comes here
for a visit
i am murmuring my sighs
to the bars
in between the hours
i whisper my whimper
to the grasshoppers
on the grass
i look to their feet that jump
for skies
i am at a loss of syllables
my mouth is dry
my hands are trembling
a snake is here.

with grief are black veils of women
trying to filter the gleaming of tears
with grief are the hands trying to
sift and shift the sounds of the cries
with grief are women
mourning for the deaths of men
for the loss of children
for the rape of the earth
the thin crust of morals
dirt of the feet
dusts.

david and goliath

between David
and Goliath
between the slingshot
the stone
and the eyes

let me be
just a page of a book
telling the story
about
the distance between
defeat and triumph

let me just be the air
between the stone
and the slingshot

i have too much
already of this
indulgence
let me be
just a sigh before
Goliath's fall

let me just be the shout
after David's
unexpected victory

let me finally be the dust
blown by the wind
after the engagement
the duel

a pause

i close my eyes
hurt by the light
i nod my head
and ask for
more ideas
from God
i beg for more
silence
from the storms
of my troubled
heart
i dream of a calm sea
a raft
a fisherman
a catch
a rope a rudder
a blue sail
a seagul an island
a tower of light
a blade of grass
a ring
a truckload of rocks
a navel a while skin
an arm a butt

i want an imagination
of wingless birds
stranded in an island
a shadow
a dream of liberation
of bodies
trapping souls

on the other hand he calls it the thousand monkeys

on the thousandth
monkey
you shout
o my god
i made it!

the monkey
hangs and shifts
place from
vine to vine

jumps on the river
and swims
finds a fish
and eats it
rises from the river
and dances on
a rock
under the morning
sun

quite exciting
the other monkeys
did the same

except for one
he sits by the window
watches the running of
time
dust after dust
dusk after dusk
waiting for
the big break of
his own life.

she was alone
in that nipa shack
for her children
were gone
seeking their own
destinies
in the city

this was her farm
this muddy place


we met this morning
as i was taking my walk
passing by her
lonely place

she was there
and we talked
she was talking about
how her medicine
made her dizzy
and was asking for
herbs as
substitute

she died
an hour ago
before i came back
to bring
the banaba leaves

the black bird

it sits
on a branch of
a tree
empty of leaves
and other
birds
this lonely bird
a silhouette
of strong beak
and sharp claws

against the full
bright light
of the moon.

to the other window

if you are closed today
and i cannot open you
because you are definite
on a holiday
or plain protestation

i open another one
i have this key and
i can open this anytime
and then like a bird
i fly down there
to the tunnel of the cave
where no light
at the end
is visible

inward i can find
some more of what
outside has to offer

confessional poetry

there is no
big box where i
can hide my
face

there is no parish
priest who listens
there is hallway
of the old
spanish church

there are no sparrows
no owls
and no fanfare
no dogmas and
circulars

just me
my finger and my
keys

i am both listener
and spiritual adviser
i am both my
silence and chatter
i am the owl in this
night
the robin in the pews
of my mind
i am my own dogma
but still
no fanfare
nothing to circulate
for there is
no bragging about
the sins
of conceit
the omissions of
the good
the true and the
beautiful

there is duet
between a robin
and the
gentle tipping
tapping
of the rain

the white poodle
curls under
the black leather
sofa

my chin on my elbow
my elbow
on the window sill
my feet on the floor
my eyes hang on
the gray sky

now a step ahead
of you
in this foot walk
i will stop
a while
under the shade
of
a mahogany tree
and
take my rest.

i don't need help
i only have to sleep
i am thirsty
but i do not ask
for your water
i am hungry
but i cannot eat
your food.
i am tired
but your pillow
is too hard for
my head.
i am depressed
but i do not need
any sympathy.

Do not look at me
This pride kills.

if you think that i am having long hours
because of poetry
you are not completely correct
part of me is also darkness
the rest is light
there is this part of me that tells
you half of humanity
the rest is what i do not wish to talk about.
if you think that what i have in mind is pure poetry
you are mistaken.
i am waiting for something not poetic
it is on the process of an upload and since i am a free user
it will take a long time.
a very long time, and i in my poverty of spirit
assumes the courage of having to wait
for a long time
for a very long long time
and then when the upload is completer
i click it to play
and then i watch the show
it is all about myself
my secret dreams my hidden wishes
a part of my real self
but if you think, having discovered this
that i am all that
you are also mistaken
for part of me is also the sunrise
the rainbow and the the white dove
that sometimes brings the message of peace.
if you think however that i am harmony
there you are again
you are mistaken.
shall i repeat my old lines for you again?
now you have it, you are right, in this aspect.

i am here
at par with you
my peer
we shall appear
on same designer clothes
now
i can afford it
i am glad finally
that i have made it
on the
21st century

touch my elbow
we go elbow to elbow now
for you have been my giant
and i was your dwarf
because you have looked at me
with disdain
but now, i am happy to have made
it on your century

my God if you only knew it
got demoted really
from my own time
on the 30th
light years ago

touching myself
trying to be human again.

tomorrow

shall be yellow,
the sun, the mango, the ribbon
in your hair,
the lace around your skirt
the golden ring
tomorrow let our country
be yellow
for it will be a time for
change,
a reign of truth, and justice
and peace
tomorrow early morning
my smile shall be yellow
my teeth so yellow
your umbrella, your blouse
my shirt, my shoes
my eyes shall all be yellow
all my hopes
my dreams in the shades
of his yellow.

ying on a hammock
under a blue umbrella sky
between two coconut trees
sea breeze fanning
my body
each sweet grape luscious to
my lips
thinking of you

if you cannot resist it
then embrace it as well

if you cannot eliminate it
there is only one meaning
it is you, it is yours, it will
always be there

love what stays with you.
pain for instance.

boomerang a,
a boomerang.

what you throw
as tamed always
comes back to you

what you give
finds a home finally
to the hands that
give it

who you get is
what you deserve.

she lets pain enter her system
like a guest in her room
asking what it wants
how long will it stay and for
what reason does it exist

it will stay forever and she who
can do nothing
gets the love-your-kidnapper syndrome
she writes a poem
how one day she gets ripped by pain
how she welcomes it finally
like a multiple orgasm

at first to be frank with you
i am choosy: friends and circles
i go for only two to three
not four
for they will be too many
and expensive to maintain
at a certain level
of intimacy and familiarity

i change like the ordinary rest
one gets lonely
sometimes and needs a broader
circle of friends
somewhere where you float
and not settle
where you hop from one island
to another and feel
the excitement of
not being true at all
playing a lot of game
learning new ones
embracing everything
a friend to all
but not to anyone anymore
one learns again
to be alone in the mob
of faces
a sea of people
you begin to sail
as a boat
for all
a seagull ...among
all.

a beautiful horse
in the same manner that there is
also a beautiful cat
a beautiful rat and a beautiful
fish, a beautiful woman
like another beautiful man,
a beautiful mountain
a beautiful river
so many things and people
beautiful today
like the leaves of the
fan
cooling and refreshing
my taste and
quest for beauty.

why do we have to argue on this again
about me loving you more
with a the consequence that i must love
myself less
a la
flowers for you
worms for me
blues skies for you
murky rivers for me
to the eyes of the children
who know how to love themselves more than
their mothers
sucking milk and sleeping on mother's arms
this would be grossly unfair

for i am still a child
this father of man.

i was born in a cradle
made of gold
my father was the king of Tut
he married the princess of Tat
and the bore eleven children
all named Tat 1, Tat 2, Tat 3,
Tat 4 for the girls
and Tut 5, Tut 6, and so on
and so forth for the boys,
I was named Tut 8
King Tut thinks that I am a lucky child
being the 8th
everything in me goes up
but Queen Tat believes otherwise
like Tat 2 my name as Tat 8
sounds like a
bad toothache.
This is the story of
my birth.

(Proceed to the next Chapter
for the Story of my Childhood)

how can i forget
things that embrace me
not for the last time
i am hooked to you
like a fish, i swallowed all
line and sinker
you caught me last night
i was lovely
and i did not give
any struggle
at all.

never shall it be a part of me
it is not inside a box
in fact it is visible to me
so open so beautiful
but never shall it ever be
a part of me
concealed inside my heart
this secret intimate love
that i only know
not even the gods who
sowed the seeds of
true love
in the furrowed field of
humanity's indifference

imitating Jack Prelutsky's Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

last night i dreamed of caterpillars
there were caterpillars everywhere
they were crawling in my stomach
they were eating leave in my hair
they were munching at my pilloe
they were circling on my head
they were cleaning up their mouths
as they spin silk in my bed

they were on the chairs and table
they were climbing the chandeliers
they were making cocoons in the corners
they were linking in my ears
there were caterpillars, caterpillar, caterpillars
for as far as i could see...
when i woke up today, i noticed,
there were butterflies on top of me

a sincere request

i got a rat in my stomach
will you please find me a cat to eat?

GOT ONE
consistent principle in my love life
i only love
those who love me in return
for love must
be a mutuality
this way
pain is seldom
and i am
happier than sad
lurking
waiting for an unrequited love
bitter herb
that does not heal
but keeps you in pain
forever.

at the office (4:45 p.m.)

i call it another form of
familiarity between a superior
and a subordinate

trivial matters like how can
a married woman betray
a husband?

the clerk knows how to
make the story more interesting
on such a small place as this
where each knows every lock
of hair before it falls

the husband knows what is
the real score
but keeps a blind eye
he does not love the wife anyway
and he does not value honor
loves to curl and just be
henpecked and economically
dependent

talks move on to politics
who the probable senators are
and what this new crop of
party list can possibly do to
change the state of this nation

until then,
the clock strikes for the closing of the office
i think i was babbling
and they were not really listening
just that

black umbrella

in our custom
a man must take an umbrella
and must raise it
like a gentleman

it must remain raised
even when the rain stops
until the woman signals
otherwise

this time it is the Chief Justice
doing it for the First Lady of
the President

there is more to this tradition
than meets the eye
it is my perfect picture of
subservience and
corruption....

ignore and pretend

our eyes meet
our bodies remember
i know the bliss
of three nights but
i do not know about
what you say
to the guy near you

he introduces you
to me: your name
i also give mine
you ignore me and
i pretend not having
known you
your kiss and your
soft body murmur
the truth about those
three lovely nights

your lips do not know
how to hide
it is getting wet.

our ways meet
and then we fuse as
on highway of
engagement letting in
those which are huge
and heavy
until we realize that
all these are too much
like rain overflowing
a waterway,
we do not like the sound
of horns
and blasts of boats
passing
we soon narrow down
until we part
at the junction of our
separate beliefs
we end in a horizon
blind to the mists.

beside the house
he sits on an inclined rattan chair
his feet rest on a graveled ground
his head focuses on
a rooster beside
a chicken leading its chicks
to feed on rice hulls
spread under the
mahogany tree

how many months pass
when the two were
put here?

oh the rooster has
fathered a dozen chicks
and proud perhaps
he crows loudly
announcing his
paternal joy!

it was only last night
that i noticed that there were
only two fireflies
lighting the mahogany tree

the other day
they cut the chico
for they need firewood
the little boy once told his mother
that a white fairy lives there

what is the point?
the white fairy owns the tree
and it is only the little boy who believes about this

the chico tree is where the fireflies
sleep in the morning

two fireflies have not accepted
that their dwelling is gone
now they entertain the illusion
that the mahogany
could still be the chico tree
in their own minds.

that is what the legend is.
and you may not believe it.

now that boy does not believe
in white fairies anymore.

far woman shroud in loneliness
weeping
a hundred days of grief
bleeding blades of brass
bells tolling for another funeral
of the heart

far woman silent as a continent
calling my name
for a thousand years and i, who is here
rooted to the present joys
slowly dying
to the chants of my guilty conscience
beside the
cruel furies
in bed my hands rest at the tomb
of my chest.

what is the meaning of the black bird?
it is the friend of the night
not darkness
neither evil nor curse for it is a singing blackbird
the jolly one that comes
in the month of June
when the rest of the place is preoccupied with
grief,

it is the self that has combined all the colors
red for madness, white for purity, green for envy,
yellow for ripeness, brushing and mixing all these
in unity

the black bird is what i am when you
sit by the window looking for answers to the sea
the moon at night silently
passing by

a black bird flies on top of the house
and perches upon a tree
fronting it

i stand by the window
looking at the scenery of sea and sand
and alternating rustic fronds
pine trees and grass

the black bird begins to sing
asking for attention
then we see each other eye to eye

it is i who blink first.

the distance between us
is a beautiful landmark of
mutual respect

when i sit alone savoring
the essence of my silence
you be the moon

when you speak your sorrow
to the sea
i shall be the beautiful corals
underneath

there is beauty in the wilderness
of our existence
i am the desert and you shall be
the wind
in the extreme heat of my sands
you shall be the
purple flower at dawn

beauty and the wind instrument

she strums the string
of my awareness
and i soon bloom like
a white lotus
in the pond

beauty breathes
and then sings

it is

it is
your slightest touch
that can kill me
with my
volition

it is not the scare of
your love
in words.

May Flowers

the children are picking
the flowers of May
as offering for the
Immaculate Mother

the flowers only bloom
once a year
to meet such an instant
fate
of bloom not reaching
the 30th day

tradition does not think
that much.

last night
the rain
was gentle enough
to create a certain
rhythm of poetry
on the roof
down to the
canal
till it reaches the
river
the sea that finally
tells the story
to the moon.

hot noodle soup that's newly cooked outside the night is cold as stars begin to twinkle, the moon to hover on top of the banana palms the sound of bamboo leaves shall serve as music to a choir of cicadas singing can you share your time for a cup of noodle with me?

my bed is cold, my pillows too my blanket not taking the heat of my body the window of my room is open to the brightness of the moon tonight i wish to hear the sound of familiar steps on the bamboo leaves

on the last day of June all the petals have fallen on the ground
but there is a hill in the place of sanctity where flowers begin to bloom
i am walking up there to see this diversity
when the petals go and leave no trace
when in another place flowers bloom without our notice

a reflection

those who start to speak are those who realized they do not know and those who begin to be silent seems to have understood that they know why must i speak to you? why must i write you a poem?