for why should a poem be so caged in form
and a slave to clapping?
let the poem be
the ordinary man in the park
the woman buying merchandise in the market place
the child playing on the beach
under so much sun
let it not be a fence
a manicured lawn
a piece of architecture another form of white marble sculpture
let it wriggle like a worm on a Sunday rain
a butterfly hovering on that wild flower
a grasshopper on the grass
sands of the shore
sunlight and sunrise
a cup of coffee every morning
a sleeping pill on our anxious nights
an insomniac woman begging for sleep
a mad woman on the street
a soldier writing a letter for his wife at home
let it be nothing important at all
let it be something always new
no dictator here, no form of government,
let it be anarchy, and
let there be no diplomacy
let it it be fluid as a melting wax on water
let it be everything and nothing
too.

i do not know why a caged bird sings?
or shall it sing when caged?
or shall it cry instead?
i know cages, and i have met some birds,
i have seen birds on cages
and i have heard them sing on trees
i have listened them when caged
it is not a song, but a cry,
it is not a dance, but a struggle,
it is not a poem, but the saddest prose.

again this is just an outpouring
of rain
all my loneliness dropping like
rain
all my sadness dripping
like rain
again, this is nothing about
anthologies
or who gets the Poet of the Month
thing
in any community magazine

this is rain outpouring
this is a form of therapy
on everyday malady
nothing about art or musing

when tomorrow rains again
i will be here

when sunshine comes and
flowers bloom in the field
when my beloved sings and
sleeps with me in bed

why should i be here?

i am armored
on my hand is the sharpest sword
i am ready for battle
to kill the enemies

your enemies

when i am about to win
and stab the victim
you are there running
towards me
asking that i be forgiving

your enemies are spared
and they all laugh at me

my armor is rusty now
my sword not as sharp as i
once held it

now you have enemies again
asking that i go to battle

who are you? i am not stupid anymore.
Use other mercenaries

and if there is now
Go, fight yourself, and have yourself killed

so i can offer you flowers
for the dead
so i can for once rest and smile
and tell myself

i am free and i work for no one anymore.

Tuesday night
is not your Saturday night
it is all the same
Tuesday nights

words from my mouth
falling on the ears
of those who want
to sit on tomorrow's chair
of power

what do they have in mind
money, honor, glory
and Tuesday night is one
of those nights

where they work for what
i have all despised
and set aside

inconsistent here i am again on
Tuesday night
assisting, guiding, letting them see
the light of the
door that opens to
where i have once closed away

like you, i do not know what to do with
my hands anymore
it is holding the gun and not aiming
at anyone

they shall search for one
for only one
and take pride in it
as treasure of a
lifetime

i am not that one
for i belong to the many
those series of
words like trains like
ordinary public commutations
boring whirring sounds
others call it pollution of
traffic sounds in the city

i am not the one
i am the many and no one loves this kind
the faces of themselves that
they hate
in the quantity

the ordinary foulness
that's left in the canals where dead rats
lie
those that they avoid
reminding them of their own
lousy selves

the ordinary air that everyone breathes
and yet have
taken for granted
for air is quantity like the sea and the oceans
they are not the one
they are the many
the masses, the crowd, the ants and
beehives and

the pebbles of the rivers
whose faces are all the same
not one unique
for the altar of fame

we are all in these
the quantity....

imagine
how butterflies live the moment
in an hour
a day perhaps
they are all dead
wings clipped gladly
they give in
to the murderous joys
of the boy
or simply by the natural
caprices of the winds

imagine how happiness
is savored in
such short moments
everyday
life and death
interchanging
like two faces
day and night

imagine myself as a gathering
of butterflies
all over my body
my parts all with wings
in dusty transparencies
imagine how i disappear
from you
even if you have not
touched
any part in me

for i am but a moment
an appearance of
a series of disappearances
for i am but
a mirage always gone
when you
come and want to see me

our foundation is respect
in the house, it is the floor
we all sleep on it, out tables and chairs
are placed on it,
in fact, what we eat, to include the appetizers
and desserts is all based on
that menu of respect
it's when i told you that we may grow
together in this
but you can always take a different
direction perhaps another
point of view another perspective
to see the same object that i hold
and cherish
we go smoothly on this
we appreciated different flowers
on the same glass vase
assuming much that
the fragility may break
and we can still collect the pieces

in one wedding
the mother speaks about trust
as she gives away her
daughter for the man of the hour
and when it was my turn to speak
i speak the same about
respect and she added trust
which honestly i cannot even
mention
because all the while
a life lived in mistrust
from my point of view
always learns
how to survive
find a way when things go wrong
when betrayal as a
common instinct like a tiger
eats the pawn

i have told you
i always doubt and recalling Descartes
i think, therefore, i still exist

remembering cabantian

i wonder if poverty is still worth writing
that little child once in cabantian in 1979
eating breakfast: a glass of water,
chunk of brown sugar, a cup of rice
that was all that i saw
and i wrote once a poem about poverty
and poured my heart out,

i went back to the same place last year
the shanties are gone
perhaps the child has become another
work force in the banana plantation
or perhaps he had gone somewhere to the big city
serving as bell boy at the hotel
or waiter in a pizza house

or perhaps before that happened
he could be one of those salvaged victims
in the crusade against domestic rebellion
one of the unsolved disappearances in Davao

cabantian is silent, as it was silenced before.
no one knows. Perhaps he died at 15
...i do not really know and i do not want to recall.

for now i do not go to church
and hear Sunday mass,
i am coming back as always
early morning
and late at night and between
my busy hours
to savor this forbidden place
with no other objective and wish
that i be finally bored
in this kind of hell
choice and find this place later on
to be horrible
seriously, and sincerely
from the inner conviction of my mind
so i may never find myself
back to this place again
and then finally i tell myself
now i am convinced
now i win
now i must leave
and i will never come back again

but when will this really happen?
only when i am dead?
when it is too late?
when it is already irreversible?

the new spring

when water gushes forth from a rock
it simply does what it is supposed to do
gush,
there is no mouth to speak
nothing hilarious about advertisements
or strategies
or self-aggrandizement
it gushes forth
day and night
unstoppable, restless to its mission
to quench your
thirst

for Earl

now you know what a silent scream is all about,
it is when your letters lie there naked and yell without a sound
and people
close friends and those that know you before you begin saying
that scream
say, yes we knew it
and we are comfortable with it
with you
there is nothing to hide everything
is as obvious as a cloud
the usual sun at midday
the full moon
one evening when you are so silent
as the thousand stars scattering themselves
in that big, black, empty
umbrella space

you think people will believe you
someone laughed, this is not the truth, this is a joke
this is nothing but another gimmick from
Earl,
the ears are plugged, but the eyes still see
it is your touch somehow
that must reveal it in another personal thigh
the fingers that glide and hold
the inner secret
it is me, you say
but by then nobody is interested anymore
and so i say, give yourself a break
have a hell of a good time out there
no one minds
no one is interested about you
and your
fake silent scream
we met that once but we refuse to hear

a cat...

it comes back again
i have shooed it away yesterday
it walks on top of the roof
silently it sits there
at noon,

it stares at passersby
when i return from work
it is still there
waiting

i do not know where it comes from
and i do not like it
it is white and does not make any sound at all
i shooed it away still
and has no plan feeding it

there is something disturbing
not about this insistent cat
it's this struggle within, the storms that people do not see
perhaps, this cat
and i will still drive it away

unloading,
this is the plan
book-less is the bookworm
in school empty handed
she wants to be as light
as a spider's web
as slick and thin as
the tick's feet
sliding on one of the bristles
of the Persian carpet

unloading
she slips through the crowd
in anonymity
one grain of sand
in the shores
of the common man

by the river the spinster wades
like a black swan
all alone not waiting for anyone
the bamboo leaves not blown
by any ill wind
begin to fall
one by one until all that can
be seen
are needles of morning light
cutting through
the early cold by the banks
to the marshes

on the tree of life
there will be more leaves
and twigs and flowers
on spring
and more luscious fruits
for eating

there is somehow a
need for trimming
what excesses are there
twigs that go awry
leaves that lush for too much
shade
and so we do just that
cut some twigs
take a look and cut some
more
remove some leaves
for sacrifices
for us to some more
and some time
see heaven for once.

ok, no money,
ok, there is no fame,
there is nothing to expect
from those mothers of art,
their children unrecognized
no share, no will,
nothing to expect, from all these
children of art.

ok, you sit alone, by the window
you put your folded arms,
you look outside
the people pass you by
and they do not bother
looking at you for the second time

ok, nothing delicious for breakfast
this month's rental is not paid
electricity bill lies there calling your attention
this is a poor guy, inside a foul room,
shits are all around

favorite expression: f....
age forgotten
wrinkles multiply
sour face
forested hair
thin chin, deep sunken eyes
restless fingers

ok, no friend really wants to read a poem
or if they read, one visit, it is out of pity
not even respect

don't cry. there is nothing worth crying.
just sit there

tomorrow they will bring the news
a friend writes a letter that for once he will dabble in poetry
and he has written one
though too personalized and needs further editing

you look at the ceiling as you lie hopeless in your bed,
you see images of hope
nothing angelic, there are no wings, no halo
not white, blurred, brownish, chinks
pieces, naked words, unfinished dialogues,

the unknown people at the other room
can hear you laughing
you laugh so hard
alone

perhaps, this time, you shall win.

we shall say, we are honest,
there is no cloning, nothing imitated, we are
trying to be original,
we do not listen much, we talk much,
we write much, in fact,
it is an everyday undertaking like defecating
and brushing of teeth
and looking at the mirror
and washing the face
shaving and combing the hair
and talking to oneself

nothing makes us that happy
not money, not honor, no laurel leaves on the head
not a number of unfaithful lovers
or plastic friends,

this makes us happy,
another one 'bites the dust' another lousy thinker
writes,
another mouth opens, another ear breaks,
another one comes to you and says

is my poem good enough?
to you, another one belongs, this non-exclusive club
of breathers, of
'lunatics' of persistent lovers
junked most of the times
and yet lovelier still
the second, the third time,
the nth time
around.

nothing is that important
nothing significant in days
nothing as exciting as a feast
nothing hilarious
(he says not a fuck, there's no event
no friends inviting, no lovers for a tryst
there are no offers, not a bridge
for the island, not a boat
nothing settling
all floating)

yet you keep on building your bricks
touching your dick, wanting a break
you write the lines, you fill the gaps between
struggling with all these empty moments
these rigid hours, these rugged days
these steep years, on stiffer necks
chasing nicks, and spitting fires
and vomiting some green slimy portions
of those regrets

he says this is something unspecified
confusing, ambivalent, and to ambiguous,
what do you really mean?
hollow and light and floating,
you mean, existence?

i do not want clarity
this will breed too much familiarity
and soon this will amount
to nothing but
contempt and disrespect for privacy

he says, there you are again
speaking and yet too concealing
what the hell am i at? and what about you?

i have nothing to say and if i want to say something
i do not really mean anything at all.

ah, this is so much ado about nothing.
this is life, i am telling all of you,
there is only this lack of interest to be intimate
this laxity
this taking for granted what essence is there
scents and memories
past and future, the present about to be eaten
raw and consumed.

beneath my feet
i hide my shadows and
they escape like
fugitives
under the guises
of their
sad stories

beneath my hands
i clasp my emptiness
and shaped like a ball
you mistake it for
fullness

you are confused
and i look amazed
still unfazed by your
feigned confidences

beneath my hair
i hide my thoughts
beneath my skull
i hide my soul

beneath my beliefs
i hide a number of faces
beneath my heart
i tell love stories

beneath all these
are the shallowness of them all
something that nobody expects
for i am simple
as a yellow paper
where you list
your unpaid debts.

do not blame me for
simply telling you stories
i am nothing
but a storyteller
in my own time

do not blame me for not
having to hold your arms
i too, am air, like you,
too temporary
arriving now and soon leaving
in a span of seconds

do not blame me for forgetting you
as early as now
do not be angry
for i am like you,
the one that assumes a name
shakes your hand
and then goes away
shut out
from any enclosure of
a memory

i have not seen you
you are air
that passes me by
you are invisible and you
want to teach my heart
to love
so you ask the help of the
scented flower
and you made the petals dance
the buds open
and you have finally taught my
heart to sing
the songs of love
under the fullness of the moon

i feel you then...

can i change you into something that i can kiss
and touch and sleep with?
you are air still,
you are invisible,
i feel your essence but i cannot touch
your presence
my arms are empty
and longings still haunt me
you are still a certain space
that is never filled up
by any substance

you will pass me by
and i will feel the absence later
and this will amount to nothing but pain

more pain and so
i have decided for once
on a shorter notice
that as early as noontime
i shall forget you then
completely
when sunset comes.

to both of you
i shall not be at the middle
of this mess

the song that you shall hear
from the bottom of my heart
is for someone
who is not here with us.

there is only one flower that i have
i am hiding it behind my back
and it is not for you

it is for someone else..

i am hiding it behind my back
so you may not see what it is
so you may not quarrel about it

it is for someone else...

i have only one flower in my hand
behind my back
it does not have complete petals
it is wilted and does not have any scent
it is dead
it is a dead flower and it am hiding it behind my back

it is for someone else....

this is an old flower that i have taken
from my antique trunk
tonight i shall burn it
and it shall have the smoke
which shall tell my story
to the cold moon.

naked shall you see me
dressed in twilight

do you see the truth in me now?
you are wrong
for my thoughts are still covered thickly
and each letter
still tries to conceal what my words
shall try to speak

everyday i write the words
the poems that you read
do you claim to see the truths in me now?
you are wrong again
for what i am still belongs to those
unspoken

and in my silence i shower you
with its emptiness
do you see my truths now?
you are wrong again
my silence does not speak everything
there is still the hush of the wind
the chimes of wood and metal
this silence runs and does not stop
and you flag it
and talk to it

do you hear my truths? do you see them now?
you are wrong again
for i have buried all of them in their niches
when you open each
you will find no door
when you go over the windows
you will see what truths might still be there

those dried petals of a rose
those letters with words faded like sunsets
those broken pieces of porcelain and glass
those jigsaw puzzles still
unfilled
those chains with missing links
those buttons that do not fit

do you see my truths now?
i agree, on those dusts, they have now become yours
visible to the caution of
your heart.

when the well is full
the water gets free and can
soon make choices
away from that dark
hole of its
existence,

it can choose the canal
and be with the river's
conduit
or it can choose to seep back
and be with the
silence of the bottom
reunited

there is the kind
that confronts the heat
and evaporates
to join the gods in heaven
and be the
pure rain again

somehow it gets heavy
in there
and here it is
inside my palm
to fill the thirst
of my tongue

a house is built
made of bricks, red as blood
at the center of the island
black as a mole
at the middle of your right
cheek

it is fenced by the locks of
your hair
it is guarded by the cautious
tongue of your face

at the other side
bounded by a big brown river
is a cottage
no living room, no kitchen
not even a restroom
it is just a square cottage
with roof leaking
where i can see the stars

if you know me well enough
for years that i have been with you
and for days that i have left you
you shall know where i live
and if you love me well enough
you'll take nothing with you
to follow me

and i know you will never be lost
until you find
the place where my heart sings

there is this desert
which is full of love
there is nothing in there
except the ostracized
ostrich
you like it somehow
saying, ah, love is still
the answer

there is this paradise
full of greens and reds
fenced by the rules
loveless,
you do not like to live there
despite the
comfort of the
apple trees
and the scents of the pines
and the coolness of
the blueness of the
coves and
the clouds

now you must make the choice
which one? i have chosen mine.

i shall make choices
black or white
there are no shades
for qualifications
i choose this dog
two tails and three ears
long tongue and blind
and sense of smell
taken off
whatever it is
it is still a dog
the color does not matter
the hilarity of combined
silly imaginations
is the irrelevance of
my dictated freedom
good for you
you love dogs and know
the intricacies of
their seasons

we all have these foxes
we choose whom to feed
we decide which must live
inside our heart
the mind is a total stranger
there are no names
but all the masked feelings
dancing to the sound
of loneliness

back to the desert
finding out that the only dater palm is dead
the oasis is gone
the caravan of camels and Bedouins
fade in the distance
the woman in silky veil
rides in her black horse
in the opposite direction
the howling sound of the night
shakes the full moon

i know the spring.
i have traced the source of this water
that i drink everyday
that which gives me
inspiration because all my veins
let through the blood

and the water seeps through
the softness of my skin
the labyrinths of my intestines

i know spring
the source is here
not in the heart where drought
lies, not in the convolutions of my brains
where confusion reigns at times
overpowering the stillness of
my secret pond,

on the darkness of my night
i know the source
it is not evil, it does not have horns
but there is fire that burns me
like a bush and i am
unconsumed
it is eternal
not this damnation that kills the lives
of those who remain to be alone
in their messy rooms
on their windows that do not allow
the light of the moon
the advices of the breeze
the comforting messages of the
newly hatched eggs on the nests
of the trees

it is not in the heart
it is right here where my hands grope
for meaning
where my fingers glide
where my solitude rests
the hammock
of my humanity
as i run to and fro
because i do not want to be detached
to leave
it is here where i stay
and write some more
it is where where i do not want to be understood
by anybody
this secret pond
blind fish mute moss
bubble free
an insect with undeveloped wings
walk on the mirror
water.

i am wondering if we survive the heat,
if the cold having been neglected, and its fading
of grays, remaining unexplained by the
roughness of those stones,
i am wondering what is this wandering all about,
moving from one mountain to another,
crossing another streams of
thoughts, jumping from one border to another
and marking the seas we left with the
strokes of our fingers
i am wondering what will become of us
stuffed, wooded, anesthetized
skeletal, deprived of our dreams of
skin, and fresh flesh,
i am wondering what becomes of these arms,
unable to hold you once again
like once when the fish inhabit the pond,
when the lotuses bloom and give the colors of
its hollowed flowers to the
moon
i am wondering if wonder still saves us
from this desert of
affections,
i ask a diminishing, i forgive nothingness,
i am scheming a plan for escape
a dignified departure, and you smile, not knowing
what goes really inside this tunnel
pretending still to have light at the end
when there is none
when nothingness is still full of its
uncommitted contents.

i am about to sleep.
my eyes droop like an old man
defective spinal cord restless on the furrowed muscles
the arm lifeless, the head bowed,
the hips on painful joints,
i couldn't take the thoughts of
dry river beds and what the women
who want to wash their old clothes
could have done without the
usual running rivers,
and i ask myself what's next to the
pebbles, and the scorching sun at midday,
what's deep down under the
dead moss, the fish
without their usual flesh,
the bones all white and
sharp, what's next to the warmest
day, when all the laundry women
have gone away?
yes, what's next to us
dichotomous concepts
of tradition?
what is next to these flailing legs,
those rusty earrings not made of
gold?
what is next to the coldness of our
words? our selves on arms raised
wanting an eventual surrender
those kept and remaining
unsaid.

as you, foolish dog of my life,
my life in utter peace, a pond of less ripples,
as you, stupid dog of my life
barks at my feet, and tries to distract my own
solitude, that of the candle still in the middle
of my room, the blankets soft on my bed,
the pillows all too silent like flower petals
on a dew filled morning leaf,
as you, twitchy wicked witch
calls my name, i finally give up and
face myself, and leave you, all cracked up,
and i go inside my room and lock my door
and tell my windows, to shut you up,
do not ruin my life, do not ever attempt to do
that which creases my blankets and
stabs my pillows,
for i shall return to you and burn your
furrowed faces, dissolve you in the acids
of my test tubes,
erase you like some misspelled words,
i am a man of peace, and i am stone.

and why should the pen keep walking
and the paper keep expanding? why should they
all become human, soft and fragile,
and too accommodating for all these
restlessness of the spirit?
they are our friends, all these poems
they are our circle of acquaintances
passengers all, waiting on the train station
for another transport,
to where? that is the surprise
today.

and so to level up
at a certain compromisable comfort
i settled for less, do not be dismayed.
between the strictness of the mind
and the unreasonableness of the heart
halfway, there is this couch
made of softest bird
feathers, pastel blue, lighter green,
shallow orange, dimmer yellow,
between their hushes and my
whispers,
i hum.

the forbidden touch...

watching you somehow
makes me alive, just watching you,
what i do not wish is having to touch you,
for i know the rules of our place,
when i touch you, i am condemned.

this is the place,
you were born here
marked by the planting of the
banana shrub on the side of the hill,
things are not complicated here
things turn out as expected
events are predictable
there is nothing to worry
nothing changes here
the stones are stones
and rivers are rivers
the hills do not grow anymore
except some vines
that the old people readily cut
for they said the tendrils are touching
the heavens
offending the sensibilities of the the
gods and goddesses
here,
you left on the third full moon
and you left a note
written in red ink, you declare
hey guys, i am complicated
i don't belong here
and they all hated you and promise
to kill you when you come back
they wish you ill

inside myself, i could have done the same
for i am more complicated than you,
but i am beside her
and the pictures of my ancestors
smile at me
at the altar perfumed by daily
incenses

good luck, i am staying
i am more complicated than you
but i do not have the guts
i am frail as the afternoon,
i am soft as the earth where i still belong.

what did i say to love?
that i do not believe in you anymore.
what did i say at the end of love?
i shall find another.
i set aside my heart
and welcome the waking of the mind
for love does nothing but hurt and hide
what the mind does not,
logical, consequential, cautious,
and walks with the head as crown
the heart controlled
still on the ground floor
wondering what the mind
can do next time.

i too wish of the wine,
the drunkenness, and the togetherness
that night, when we have become
free-willy, no thoughts, just our bodies,
no restraints, nothing about tomorrow,
when we were lost, and yet so happy,
and when we wake up that morning,
we did not really know what we were doing,
we're all wet in dryness, lips cracked,
bruised bodies, strangled hairs,
satisfied navels,
and then, that which we hated,
yes, goodbyes.

i shall not restrain myself forever,
flowers open to the sun somehow,
buds turning into full orange petals
red centers, glossy views of the
coming days,
i am bound, i have long accepted that,
my hands have ropes as stems,
but my heart is too a sharp knife
that cuts across those hidden
boundaries of my own being
i am free, this morning, i tell myself
beside you, i am, unbound and you
look at the happy angle of my face,
half-moon, half-sun, half-beast
half-human,
at a certain hour of the day,
i wish i have achieved a certain
divinity of my thoughts,
but soon, these all crumple, i am not
that mostly, i am beast,
i am undefined, but most of all,
i content with the mystery
that you still love me.
my fingers run wild over the belly
of your body, the navel tells the story
of love and hate,
the mind closes some more
there is no distraction anymore about the
promises of certainties,
for these are all unnecessary.
meanwhile, the emptiness rests on the floor
like a dog,
the desire to be beast is on top of the bed
with you, another beast,
on mutual tolerances.

i should have stopped a long time ago.
move my way, like another planet to another orbit
unto another galaxy, for there are so many
options, anyway.
i should have closed the door and the windows,
light my own room, and play the flute and
listen to the songs of my own soul,
contented with the caresses of my own hands
the dances of my feet and the gentleness of
my breathing,
i am a certain rhythm away from all of you,
i have a hammock where my head rests
throughout the night, i have my own soft bed
of white fleece, the rain outside and the storms
can do me no harm,
i could have just listened and do nothing,
i didn't.

tell me now, have you heard the coldest
sound of my regrets? have you heard the flapping
of bird wings away from your heart?
have you seen the river moving away from
the banks where you are
constantly castigated by the
howling sounds of your foxes?
my nights are your nights now.
come, do not listen to me, come,
i shall listen to all of you.
we're all in this now.
to the journey of our deepest selves,
my way of understanding the changes of
our lives, the coming of the dawning of
light, shadows fading, rains stopping,
seeds beginning their sprouts
in the coming of our springtime.

it is easier to let things be,
leave others as they are, and just
be the best that i am, amidst,
the chaos, the fire that burns
the city, the children whose shouts
for help fades like a ship that sinks
swallowed in one instant by the
ocean house of tidal waves,
it is easier to see how suffering
munches the innocence of
the crowd, and tell yourself, who cares?
they deserve their fates, i have mine,
i am alone, and happier
but it cannot be, i am part of this suffering
these grunts and rants,
i am part of the picture
and when the whole picture is blotted
out by one stroke of
my indifference, i am, too
blotted just the same.
and so, i must, i can,
i do care.

we demand justice
says the widow to the people
who mourn for her
the flowers wilted and
the niche is buried deep
down six feet
under, like a movie of sorts,
the people left her, alone,
headless, veils black and
hairs spangled, like worms
like she is the rotten body
now bare bones
inside her room, sleepless
till dawn

there is no justice, time
is narrow like a door that admits
no one, like a window closed
against any air of
possibilities

love conquers all
man gives the rituals
like marriage
and fidelity, and love is conquered
by all,
loveless, the journey continues
guilty, the mind holds on
till nothing.

finally you find what
discarding means
they choose themselves
and talk the language they have
chosen
you do not walk your talk
you cling to the sound
of your heart
you follow the light within
you invent your own language now
like no parrot
happily you wade in your own
water
traverse your own territory
silently
you will find yourself
among the rocks
and pebbles
each unique
each undiagnosable
there is joy
in every color
hilarity in every
damnation

listening to the softness of the rain
at dawn
opening the mind
for the seeping of understanding

how the rain falls on the roof
like a caress
how is the water redirected on the
gutter
towards the canals
of our limitations

canalized we survive the rigors
of what the laws expect
no overflowing
not a shortness of breath

at the middle of the hour of sorrow
we shall hear the festive
songs of the frogs in the rice-fields
the sun is up
but the rains do not stop

there are always options
nobody tells us what are they
before we know it
we have become our own
myriad options

self-preservation
love of self and love of the other
obeying rules
not discarding them
making new rules
and understanding some new ones

do not listen
you have your light within
pray
for we are weak and
of limited understanding editions

move on, life always begins
on something exciting
who cares? this is my life
this is my own journey

climbing mountains
sitting on stone
watching another day
pass by
on a caravan of memories
on desert thoughts

my theory lives thru
as you have said it: these are all lies
lies and more lies
and you know them all to be lies,

but as you said it,
you begin to understand the truth
beneath these lies

a layer of grass
another layer of flowers
another layer of clouds

beneath is the niche
burying the nuggets of
my own wisdom, how i live my life

and justify it later
before God, shall all lies be
truths

the gift of the magi: wedding anniversary

the gift of the magi: wedding anniversary

she went to the market
then back to the kitchen
and cooked spaghetti

the table is set
green mantle, silver spoon and fork
silk hands

i went to the school and had
a legal lecture on
divorce and its consequences
in Philippine setting

the usual land
escape of pyramid roof
touching the sky
heave
in space and sip
in lights of stars
i am
happier and enjoying
things that
are far
away from me
you
wonder how this is possible
on empty arms
on hearts without
head
ing my way out the en
closures
of too much love that is kill
ing me

how dare one must tell the obvious
not loving
and saying
i don't love you anymore and i want
my way out
this labyrinth
of elocution
piecing together those
beads and broken
ness unsaid
now must one save all the
courage of
i am leaving you for good
i am still in love with my
self and
everything is hazy
like rain
clouds of
january 31st

that is the window
a woman is unhappy and she is always
closing and opening
that window and people keep on looking
figuring out why that window
is unhappy
and they are all happy about the
proclaimed unhappiness of the other
that woman that window
not this woman not this window
not my woman not my window
always looking out somewhere
except this writer
this piece
this one not this one
that one over there not me but her

tired of those damned
reunions always other people doing good
making more money buying respect
integrity no longer intact
like a sword to its scabbard
bards and boards and bored
and braggarts
silky collars and shiny shoes
and dance beats
no longer adapted to my age,
i am not
attending any anymore
damned.

danger zone

it is dark out there
and there is no sound
i regret having recalled
some portions of the past
and now
i am heeding towards the danger
zone
you will call in that darkness
i can hear the sounds of
wolves and
hissing of snakes
there's a little light left
and i will not kill it
i retreat
and turn my back
looking for
that pillow where i rested
my head
last night.

it does not have always to be
comet-like
someone must learn to walk
and learn back to
being a child again
things are meant to be
slow
sweetness of sugar savored
within the gum
speed is not always a good friend
the rushes kill the meaning
of what we must be
it could be simply a handful of sand
that we scrutinize
inside our palms
counting how many diamonds
are there
glittering

the children

shallow waters
where we sometimes
sink.

pull the boat
that will take us away
from this
mess island

i wait
on the sands of my
solitude

upon the calm shores
i shall figure out
what next to do

do not think
that leaving is always the
possible solution

on my doubt
i shall sustain what remains
to be done

i have slept the
numerous passages of days
when i wake up
the moon shall speak to me
about the fate of some
stars

in our black and
white world
play me a song
of the rainbow
strum me your
guitar
and let me live
on multicolored
notes
i too shall sing
the colors of
my own world
and you may listen
both of us
shall paint
this black and white world
with the shades
of our hopes
pastel blue
light green
bright red
shining gold.

upon a piece of old
rosewood
the hand keeps its
grasp

grappling for a hold
to prevent the
fatal fall

darkness surrounds
the grappling
continues
the man in me
must live

keep watching
over a tiny candle light
be careful with your breath
close the windows
lock the doors

on still air
and cold stare
the tiny candle
light shall
be alive and
warm

life 2

every sprouting seed
preaches hope
every new leaf says
i am an evidence
every fruit manifests
we are ready to serve
and when everything
is ripe and luscious and
ready
when no hand picks them
when there is no child
the inevitable happens
each fruit rots and falls
and gets foul and
conquered by molds
and moss and will finally
be gone
except the seed
who has the last say again
about hope and its
new beginning.

life 1

when life one dark night says
that it is tasteless and so bland like the air
the leaves of the mahogany trees hear it
and the following morning confide it with the
sea breeze
who tells it all to the sands who spread same story
to the waves of the shores
who deliver it to every desert in the sand
who keep all these in the heart of their
sacred solitude
and the wisdom stops in there
every dry sand of the desert
thrives upon this story
and sleeps so soundly.

"it is a fact and we are not surprised" the grain
of sand so proudly tell the others.

g8

there is a space between
the eyes
it sees better the eyes
also of the
observer

couple

she accepts each sacrifice
as a stair
leading her home

they're going together
hand in hand.

after that anonymous talk
(since you never revealed your name,
referring me to
Rumpelstiltskin, to my chagrin,
i realized,
how low is your opinion of myself,
how debased have i been
with your figures and
stories, that i myself, have not even
bothered for years,
simply because they are not true
and which you tried to impress
upon me as
God's truths,
and as you advised, i look at myself in the
mirror
and i look at it with all compassion
and i tell myself,
this is all i got, and this is all that
i can love
because you cannot
and never dared,
but just the same i say, thank you,
and at that time,
i tell the mirror, i wish that creature
a happy death someday,
one, where after smiling,
one can hear the chasm of the earth
divide, and there
the intrigue is swallowed
whole

i do not know you
so how can i say what you are too,
coward!

the lonely wife in the house
for years has been abandoned by the brown colored
husband,
and she in turn pleases herself with some
daily chores: replacing the vase with flowers
everyday
fine tuned with every occasion
of renewal and
revival
sometimes she wears a dress with flowers
of blue designs
she weaves stories for herself
and indulges in the fantasy
of her sorrows
away from grief and
numbed by the pains
this time as the rain pours heavily
and she cannot go into her garden
to pick a flower
she takes a picture of herself
half nude, her breasts
protruding to the light of the sun
whose fingers
caress her nipple and she closes her
eyes
not wanting death
but remembering the face of another
man
even an illusion of a nose
and a set of thick lips
shall make her
survive

whatever, is, the name of
lament.

outside it is wet.
inside is acrid.
at the inner side of things
deserts make more deserts
sands slip beneath our feet,
outside the rain sings
lots of denials,
hands imploring for more
acceptance
arms looking for an embrace
and the universe
spins some more
the threads of its messy
indifference.

the children at the park
form a circle and
closed their arms around them
and i remember
what once you imagine
as the circle of life
but at that time
the dancers are nude
and blind.

when i am left alone
in the room when it rains so hard outside
and you are not here with me
when you will not be coming
for two or more days
do not be slighted
but i am happier that way
shall i send you a message
that you better be away
for a week?

or perhaps a year,
so i can be myself again
for with you sometimes
in words
i am lost and i grapple
with who i am
and what will i become

perhaps, as they say it
i need more space by cutting
some bridges for a while

one thing with us
is that we are not like the air that fills the space
the void,
we have not adopted the properties
of fluidity
flexible enough to adjust
to emptiness
embracing it
like a long lost friend
and liking what
new setting is there

we should have taken the shape
of God's containers
and say that despite the hollowness
there is nothing wrong
but what is there
is the excitement
of being like Him
Everywhere.

behind this steel gate
are the carolers,
all kinds of kids
with repetitive faces
making business for Christmas
a treasure of coins
for the new year,
all out of tune,
off keys, and irritably
irrelevant,

thus says the
Scrooge.

death of a pig

does one cry when a pig dies?
my nephew who always has
sex in his mind,
though still having milk on his tongue
calls me that a pig has died
and he says, it is my pig,
the one that loves mud
and eats left-overs you know,
an hour ago
but still warm to be
butchered again,

i ask him, are you crying?
he says, why should he when it is
still warm and can be butchered again
for another pretended kill,
and i am not surprised
because next to sex, what he has in
mind is food,

not death, not the burial of a pig,
nothing about decency of a funeral,
health or plain
sanitation

about manny...

Manny does not remember as a
poet when he left this small town
24 years ago
because he felt so lost and he is looking
for what self
he thinks he had,

i was then a budding word,
my petals are ugly
and my stem is a worm
the roots crawl like an
invented monster

what he thinks i was
was that i was a monk without a beard
a non-believer of the bishop
and a critic of Lauritz

he never bothered to look at
my room
as i have kept it like a pigsty
it smells like hell
and all he thinks is that heaven
is here

which is not the case.

distance

this distance shall seal
the fate of those bridges
the empty space
are cut arms
the chasms between our
thoughts
are sliced feet
there are no more nails
to scratch what pleasures
are there
in this all broken
arrangement

the words fall from the trees
like poisoned leaves
as i walk away like a thief
you shall have the last
laugh

when you are dead and there
shall be peace
i shall come back
not to bury you with all
the requisites of
religious dignity
i am coming with my vultures
and they shall have a feast
on your rotten
belly.

powerless...

he has steel hands
arms are made of platinum poles
the brains from
specialized computer chips
he is as sharp as an unused
sword
but he is useless in this struggle
for power

last night the old witch
betrayed him
a single lock of his hair
is taken by that woman
of use,
now, lies another Samson
defeated

but not yet dead.

always give a space
for doubt,
spare some people
through a hole
where light still gets in
and illuminate

who knows?
it is someone else
and not you.

you are lovable as
a flower of the early morn
in full bloom
and laden with dew
by the window

no one, not even their doubts
can take it away from you.

i am tired.
you think that i do not know
how to draw your face
from only a few pieces
of evidence: an eyelash,
lips, a few locks of your
hair,
and a bowl of
water.

that is what you
do,
blackmail.

a shadow waits,
and it will stab you
too.

it is yours.

wonder, everything i have
is wonder, every time i have
is supposedly wonder,
each time as i watch
a star, so lonely in the sky
swimming in that vast
space of darkness,
in an unmediated life,
i stumble, and curse
what stone is there,
muddy, i shall rise again,
like that lone star, so
distant, and yet i know,
so faithful and real

of all the names,
yours stood among
the crowd in the malls
of my confusion,
it must be you,
i hear you laugh
once, and you sound
so well, like you, in
the hidden meaning
of your words,
of all my friends,
i know, it is you,
who knows how to
stab at my back,
hide behind the
curtain, slip in
the darkness and come
back with a smile
and say
ho ho ho,
santa.

always, shall i be
held at this hour,
always, finishing
what is composed
by the dawns of
my mind, always,
must i be a servant
of the greatness of
whispers, this and
that, an image after
another, hour after
hour, and when the
sun shines,
the fingers of light
caress my forehead,
i shall stand and
walk, under the trees,
contemplating and
so fulfilled.

there are those, as usual,
wolves, in sheep's clothing,
but we who live in the castle
must learn to distinguish
we know, but we shall not act,
we dislike, but we shall associate,
we are kings, and we pity those
who are slaves of their envy,
servants of their
disappointments, still hungry
of their illimitable greed
must we, still, be gentle,
and meek as doves,
as we hold the breathes of
fire, beneath the restraints
of our tongues.

because i care for you,
i must learn to love the intricacies of
paranoia,

time must cure
what friendships lack

Open Sesame!
let the caves open their doors
and now
display the jewelries, and
shining glories within.

the mind eats up
what we store
let all these be consumed
so we can be light as sparrows
and learn again
how to fly

his name my friend
is Rumpeltiltskin, it is not
Rumpelstilskin that lacks the
t,
it escaped your intentions,
now, must i expect that
you must suffer the consequences
of your bad actions?

the fault of our fathers
is not ours, we have been forced to spin
straw into gold,
which we can not really do,
and so we made promises
and Rumpelstiltskin now
matters.

next time, you must spell
it correctly.

the established one

a rare encounter
tempts, another seduction
(if you only learned
about this art earlier, no harm
could have fallen
in your heart now in pieces
all broken, now blood dripping,
vein exploding)

embrace familiarity
dance everyday let lust hug you
and master the giggles
on your toes,
have a dose of all its qualms
drink every dew that
morning leaves offer
to your lips,

by then, your arms are stronger
your tongue possessing
discriminating tastes,
now the silence gives you power
the stare stable,
you are not shaken by the hair
the touch does not
give you fear
you are what makes
the house a
palace.

the insertion...

the insertion was a little bit slimy,
the Senate says, "Foul!"
I am watching it for some meanings
perhaps it will be more significant
if done tightly, and
without any inhibition at all,
you think, it would have been real
with all the flesh, and not
with corrupted legal technicalities.

routine

it is the same over and over again,
no change, nothing unfamiliar,
the terrains we master,
the confrontations too boring,
all words, no images, nothing about
metaphors, trains and rails, sky and grass,
winds coming, and eddies leaving,
air filled with dust, leaves blown away,
women with straw hats,
hands of children, whistles of husbands,
what more can this world give us?

perhaps, a global erasure.
when we all perish, when no one blames
anybody anymore
when cockroaches begin their rule.

when confronted with the unknown

you dislike what i am,
but you cannot tell me, i know that,
one day, you take the courage,
with the power of your
hidden self, and i have engaged in
the word war, with the unknown,
very much like it, very much like you,
and i have no regrets, having known,
what worse reality you have seen
what you cannot have spoken
what is revealed, and how i deal with
what i do not know, and i, afterward,
learned, how to win,
even with an unknown, which seemingly,
seems to be the truth,
you are cruel, i tell myself,
but thanks, i have become wiser
by then, even an inch higher
than my toes can handle.

for those who wear masks

actually, those who love you
prefer that the masks be worn,
for they want that confidence in you
when you wear even one of them
in fact, you showed what love is
you conquered those who shame you
with what you are
when you are without it,
so by all means, our purpose is anyway
to survive this pass over
we shall cross the river shortly and
with the mask, this thing will be easier
smoother, and at the end what matters
most is your victory,
not what is behind that mask,
the horror within, the shock in every line
of your realities.

the bamboo tree poem

see the coming of the wind
from the prairies
see how it is playing with the
leaves of the bamboo tree

see how a bamboo leaf falls
to the ground
withered by the sun
and now flip-flopping
like an Olympic diver

see how it finally touches
the womb of the earth
silently it lies there
soundlessly it appears
like any other leaf
beside a woman now
sleeping

in this party of life
where party is party and party and party
you may borrow my shoes
and dance all your way
to a certain madness

that which assures you
that even without an afterlife
or when everything is over
life is still worth
whatever salt is left
to it,

it is sweet, and
so inconsequential,
it is not borrowed
but well spent.

the conversationalist...

he can strike a note on the side of the glass
with his fork and then begin to sing or hum

an old tune and retain the lyrics in his mind
and move on till the last line

he talks about it without any emotion involved
nothing personal anyway he keeps on murmuring

this is pure recollection, those tea and dates when
he had a good time in the desert with her when

what surrounds them are the uninterested sands
when the sun keeps the heat as they cool themselves

inside the car as their lips keep burning as
he keeps on licking what does not hurt

he is a good conversationalist who talks alone
responsive to the demands of his solitude.

keeping things...

something inside her is not telling anything
not even to her own mother

perhaps she could have told her husband
to give him a hint of what is really the matter

gorgeous, she wants the word to stay
lovely, lovely her hands sometimes claps

but her whole body says otherwise
it is confused whether to sleep or not

whether to take a walk in the park with a friend
and then tell all, like a child finally sobbing

it is when the rain pours heavily and
there is not any inkling to run for shelter anymore

the shallow thoughts

along the shores
where the salty vines have covered our tracks
the coconuts are growing tall
and being so nearly planted
their leaves reach for each other

in a little distance
the heaps of dry leaves and husks
make a mountain
and now covered by the vines
and so concealed

beyond this place is a grass-less space
it is where most of the strangers stay
the mass of people gather
and bask under the sun

the gates here are closed more often
there are no kids
neither are there old people who take
their leisure here

this is my own place
so private and so deserted
i would like to call it another solitude
but the coconut trees without nuts
on this rainy December
signify otherwise

it is lonely, the hut speaks.

thinking

i have always looked at you
from the tip of your hair to the tip of your toes
and you noticed me many times doing it
but you do not do much of the thinking to know
why could i still possibly do it to you?
what could have been the matter?
i give you no answers to my own questions
because i cannot, or even if i can, because you cannot accept
this line, this kind of thinking
which is the reverse of everything
a counter-flow of the river
like the sea receding upon its shore
like the hair diminishing on your forehead
(how ugly could you be if i think so much harder
and try enough to destroy what is innately beautiful
to you? i cannot possibly resist
what is it that bothers me for all these years
it is too near and it is something that i have no power to touch
it is too beautiful but it is what they think can kill
because perhaps it is too sweet to me
how can you ever understand this?
i am thinking.
i am powerful and yet when you look at me without any meaning at all
as though i am just like any grass journeying on the sand
slowly and tenderly
and yet i am nothing at all but a wall,
a tiny shower of rain among the mountainous trails
i could have told you but i know i can't.
this is it. i shall hide again in the silence of my wishes.
you are mine, but i can never be yours.
i always have you in the arms of my dreams
but you shall never have me even my own shadow
you think i am nothing but the wind
and it is just that
i feel alright.

i am thinking and i am not destroyed.

As a young man, the painter Henri Matisse used to pay a weekly visit to the great Renoir in his studio. When Renoir was afflicted by arthritis, Matisse began to visit him daily, taking him food, brushes, paints, but always trying to persuade the master that he was working too hard and needed to rest a little.

One day, noticing that each brushstroke made Renoir cry out with pain, Matisse could contain himself no longer:

‘Master, you have already created a vast and important body of work, why continue torturing yourself in this way?’

‘Very simple,’ Renoir replied. ‘Beauty remains, but pain passes.’

Once upon a time, there was a farmer in the central region of China. He didn't have a lot of money and, instead of a tractor, he used an old horse to plow his field.

One afternoon, while working in the field, the horse dropped dead. Everyone in the village said, "Oh, what a horrible thing to happen." The farmer said simply, "We'll see." He was so at peace and so calm, that everyone in the village got together and, admiring his attitude, gave him a new horse as a gift.

Everyone's reaction now was, "What a lucky man." And the farmer said, "We'll see."

A couple days later, the new horse jumped a fence and ran away. Everyone in the village shook their heads and said, "What a poor fellow!"

The farmer smiled and said, "We'll see."

Eventually, the horse found his way home, and everyone again said, "What a fortunate man."

The farmer said, "We'll see."

Later in the year, the farmer's young boy went out riding on the horse and fell and broke his leg. Everyone in the village said, "What a shame for the poor boy."

The farmer said, "We'll see."

Two days later, the army came into the village to draft new recruits. When they saw that the farmer's son had a broken leg, they decided not to recruit him.

Everyone said, "What a fortunate young man."

The farmer smiled again - and said "We'll see."

i see time
how convoluted it is
how deceiving like a magician
hiding it
inside the black box
and time
pretends to be a rabbit
or a bouquet of flowers
and excited as i am
to all these magic
i have forgotten
that i am a subject of
time and that
it knows
how to kill me slowly
without my knowing
and i look at time
closely
from my hair
to my belly
to the thickness of
my hands
and the losing of
my balance
what can i say then
about those
beers in my belly?
those furrows
on my forehead?
these silver hairs
these tight lipped
existence
words unsaid
a heart closing
as time shows itself
again
more real this time
like the black hooded
sickle-bearing
anonymity

it is evening and it is cold.
the table is alone with its four feet intact.
on top of the roof is the moon, and it is too
alone, just like my own thought of you,
alone,

i wait for you and then you come.
i am sitting and you stand there
and i am thinking
if you are thinking about me
or that you are here because i told you to be here
like i am one kind of
compulsion, like i am an order

i do not wish more about this matter
because all i need is
the voluntary hand, you gaze at me
and i let my eyes fall to the ground,
i am embarrassed,
and you suggest something that i must take off
i do not shed my skin
or my underwear and this is what you have misunderstood
from the beginning of our
meeting,

i do not want you to undress
me or me undressing you
this time, all i need is words, soothing ones, calm syllables,
love that once i lost
because i have given it to another
because for some time, long time ago,
i have been
too foolish.