it was only less than a year
his grandchild was charred by fire
that razed their house and car

they are still in mourning
the wife died two years ago
of an unknown infection
the doctor declares that there
was something incurable

his son had to stop the lawyering
on a broken tendon from a high fall
but he seems not to be shaken

a man needs to be shaken
like a tree that must shed its leaves
to grown new ones

last night he slept while driving
his Honda Civic
running over five pedestrians
scurrying for fish
one died on the spot
the rest of the four were badly injured
and had to be rushed to the hospital

his eyes are sharp
he is 78, retired and still teaches
Special Proceedings
he is thinner now
and still skips lunch
to stay fit he says

everything can be paid
there is always a price for every man
no one sticks to a certain integrity
unreasonably vis-a-vis
one man's need for money
in order to survive
the high cost of living
and dying

it boils down to money he continues
pouring his legal wisdom based on his
50 years or so of legal practice
money does not only talk
it covers crimes and washes away man's
sins in society
he says some more but my mind like a black bird
flies away from a steel cage
wanting the freedom of the mountains
the wider expanse of the horizons
and oceans

i like to leave but he grips my hand as though trying to say
he hates being alone now
in his distress
(the one that he cannot accept and
does not want to talk about it)

there is always a hypocrisy for past greatness
building its empires in the bones of those who are guilty
of reckless imprudence
of those who think that money is the living god
that man is nothing but a creature
of debits and credits

i bid him goodbye
and wish him luck and as usual the cliche of having to tell him
"God bless you"

again serves as
another empty rhetoric. Man says sometimes what he does not
really mean
and that makes no difference with man's
concubines too.

now what is happening?
we are not in the mood for a duet
we go solo, i sing the songs of the farmers
you sing the song of lovers petting by the
side of the hill

we are happy
parting away
we are two singing birds
drifting apart

soon, without the waste of words
we understand what sweet farewells are
all bitterness forgotten
sins forgiven

and when we meet again
we shall admit, perhaps we should have never shown
what we want them to believe
we should not have told them
what love tales are

on the other side is the coastal beauty
of sky blue clear seas and coconut palms
at the opposite of the other side one takes
the road leading to the green mountains
the forest trees are nest of birds and
the branches are playthings for monkeys
below the mountains are villages
sleepy and peaceful and cooler with
fresh air and flowery gardens
a vast expanse of rice and corn fields
rivers still teeming with fish
the people still opting for peace

this is our paradise. Come, stay with us.

we still have our flag
flying high every Monday
on Fridays we fold them
together as one
national treasure

there are no wars here
that may tear the flags
for more bandages

i am glad and still proud
to be Filipino.

he passes by the house
though there is a doorbell he calls my name
(in fact, he is shouting that there is a man
with a covered face overtaking him and
takes refuge in the flowering bushes beside the fence)
i compromise and pretend that i agree with him
he is drunk, his wife left him, his children too
and lives in the old house
all alone,

and so where is the man? he says it is a shadow
a robust one, and it is running too fast past him
he is tipsy, his curly hair is glistening with oil
i mean it is unwashed for days
he is with a gay friend, a transvestite and
more beautiful than his wife

there is no man, there is no shadow,
i know, that he is lost, there is nothing to fear
but he has all these fears
of insufficiency, the incapacity to know what the real problem
is.
My house is fenced. I cannot invite one like him and have a drink.
I give him a bottle of whisky, and tells his transvestite friend to take him
to the old house,
now at least, he is not alone anymore
someone is warm, someone loves him now, perhaps
higher than his dog, that waggles its tail
as soon as the front door is opened.

she spends most of her time
(she does not know perhaps that it has
been shortened)
building a new house
choosing the landscape of her new cottage
at the Mediterranean territory
had some chosen lovers to sleep with
on those lonely nights
drunk more, laughed louder than before
the following dawn
before the first fighting cock in the
fenced house cocks
she lies there
breathless....slashed throat, bathing with
her own sticky drying blood
alone and even those walls and
soft expensive bed do not give the clue
as to who
and why.

puma

spots like giant big black lice
all over his body
specks of long whiskers
claim the dominion of
his mouth that hides
the power of his sharp teeth
spotted as sin
yet well revered in the jungle
of lawlessness
where restlessness for sure
is virtue at its
topmost hierarchy
to kill, and eat, to be full
and still bloodthirsty
very much like to the dovetails
of my society

What do you see in everyday?
books piling against its other like layers of
geological metamorphic rocks
aged, and hardened by the volcanic eruptions of the
beautiful
mind,
(self-proclaimed beauty of those
incomplete clauses demanding
sentences, and periodic disturbances
of unmindful commas,
somehow, one feels dogged,
tail concealed between the legs
because of these towering masters
who even in their uttermost silence
since they were not created with
mouths and tongues
now claim the dominance of
masters)
you listen to the songs of Solomon
the dreams of the singing ABBA
dismantled by the intricacies of
their islands of
loves

what is in store for the wanderer?
the lust that subsides like uncertain ebbs
what lies there over the green pastures
separated by fences
of restlessness,

you grope thoroughly through some kind
of syllabic fingers
you have lost the ability to quit.

a heap of dry leaves
under the trees

trees like fingers
stretching to reach
the moon

on the marshes
of the big river
the full moon sits
silently

a dog barks
this morning
at the wrong person

someone calls my
name but i do not dare
look back

promises are
feet without floors

faith is always
a blind item
and people accept
them always to
be true
and all giving
and
reliable

blank walls
speak too much

doors close
at the wrong hours of the
day

windows imitating
the natural
beauty of some
sexless eunuchs

facing the monitor
i am the nuclear
sun
threatening the room
that the explosion
is near

the dusts run in panic
the winds
stir the pebbles into
rebellion

etcetera is when
you do not know what is next
from your
self-proclaimed
knowledgeability

30.

he asks me to utter
his name
a la Rumpelstiltskin

for after all
it is his thinking that a name
counts

that a name solves a
problem
and that dropping names
sometimes
creates the
ripples as some people
shiver and
give in

i wonder
why God did not give his name
and address to
anyone.

finally i come to the
conclusion that
friends are not necessary
so i may be
piqued and enter
into compromises
and accounting of
whether i have given more
or that they have given less
and so one by one
i keep a list
whom to junk
and whom to keep
and oh my


i can't reveal
if i still have ten
fingers anymore

at the highest bridge on the city of
Cebu a man in his twenties
climbs the pole and sits there overlooking
the city
the City is in panic
for he must be saved
his name is taken: Juan
Molina, 32 years old,
a thief, jobless, and without
any known relatives
and he is so hungry
and it is so hot at the top
and he is coming down
if there is something to
eat

they thought he is going to jump
and kill himself

which is not the fact of the case
he simply wants to see
the whole damned city
of leaders who cannot understand
that he too needs work
to have money to buy something to
eat to pay for the rent of his boarding space,
his bills, and his toothpaste
and soap

all the while the city is angry
this man must be sent to prison
we are so disturbed
and he creates the massive
confusion

sad, sad city.
suicidal masses
luxurious lifestyles of the rich and
the famous elite

most of the poor and the
lost do not ask anymore where is God?

the speed casts upon us
a flash of what we have forgotten who we are
slaves of traditions
geisha of oppression
bars and locks, and meatless contentions,

just this noontime
everything flashes on the window of the car
unable to piece what all these means
i finish the journey
go straight to the usual paths
and when i go down and talk to the guards
of the gates
i am met with indifference
asking for myself to make an identification of
who am i

something too philosophical analogous to the
commands of the gates of Delphi
know thyself

and i remember the burning bushes
as i pretend to be another kind of a god,
and i utter the words,

i am what i am.

here we are again pinning needles
in our epidermal existences
trying to pierce every flesh
carefully noting every bursting of pus
and blood
mapping out the cartilages and bones
of our sorrows

two years more and perhaps another
twenty years of
existence
in order to understand the meaning of life

a life that lies there naked
so tempting and scented by the thousand jasmines
and saffrons
on spiced blankets
rosemary and lemon grass
and basil in every seams
of the pillows

the hands of time keep gripping
what ought to be mine (or even hours)
it does not know how to give
what we want to sip and savor
and caress

the eyes of the storms stare at us with
anger ready to strike us with its fits
and fists

this pilgrimage tiptoes on slow feet
because we are all tired figuring out what is real
oasis from the
mirage of the heat of the desert beyond us

we like to see the white seagulls feasting on a school
of fish
at the coastal collateral of our side trips

a little drink from the hands of the vestal virgins
some kisses from the dewy lips of dawn
a warm morning's hug, and nights non stop
fleshy circus

there are many things more to do
more events to attend too and many other letters
to compose

by then night has come with the gifts of silence
and then i say, " i do, i will keep on doing what is there to make
the best of yet to come"

keep listening Beethoven, keep dancing Lady Dianne
we are here watching.

7:25 in the morning
a ray of light
strikes the bridge of
my nose

mummifying
phenomenon

for how long did this
ray of light
travel
what distance
before it
reaches
its unfortunate
destination?

outside the
white bud blooms
alone on an array of
heart shaped leaves
how pure
how undisturbed
how lonely
shall it be
under the clear
white linen sky

(perhaps,
my thoughts alone,
but nothing
jibing with what
it really is,
as usual)

things rush
events want us to run faster
time is silent
actually it is as silent as a
still painting of
melting candle
but the hands of the clock
creates all the noise
with its new battery
of anxieties
running in circles
arriving
at nothing

all of these
around and above me
want to make me run
and rush
to that finish line

i am not an athlete
neither am i
performer of some
incentive loading
companies

sorry, i am nobody's
personal property
i keep this hobby
wearing the hobbit
of the Franciscan
probing what is real
and spraying red paint
on what is
fake... x is
dead.

outside i hear murmurs
of children, shouts of mature men
calling their women,
sweeping the yard of dry leaves
from trees of last night's
storms

i hear screeching sounds of
cars heading to the city
rushing
as though they are always
late for
appointments

the school bus carries the
teeming sounds of
kindergarten kids whose mothers
keep on saying
God bless you all and i

who is supposed to be at work
in my cubicle
just a stone throw away from
where i am seated
still keeps on tracking voices
that cover the inner voice
of my longings

it is frail and fading
and humming and still wanting
to conceal the true notes
of its song

e.e. Cummings, it says,
it wants, the rhythm
of comings, but i must have been
in the wrong direction
for a long while now
i have always focused on the
ambulant sounds
of departures
loud and deep at first
and then
fading and thin
like a needle finally
dropping on the
hay floor.

on aching eyes
and osteopathic backbone
one must keep the
art of
writing, because that is what is art all about,
talking about
self-denial, the mastery of the
perfect art of
restraints, how to place your hands on
your chest and feel
the rhythms of that
isolated and well protected
flesh and bone
covered
heart, everything is there anyway
like bread and butter and
rice and fish
on that white painted breakfast
table, with the matching hot cup of
coffee and
table napkin, sky blue, and
silver wares, like the river passing
through an arc bridge
in that Chinese painting hanging on
your gray wall,
well,
your hands are somewhat
Olympic runners
taking pride that the fingers within
their hold
can write well even
though blinded by too much light
drivers without headlights
reckless and
wild and free like lovers always
having inklings to
change partners
till the next sperm
whale that comes
diving flatly on the Indian ocean
breaking glaciers
melting ice
flooding the world of
concupiscence

somewhere beyond the
grasp of my fingernails
much different than last nights
grips on that
smooth back of the geisha
is the thick and black
skin
of elephantine shame
but,
who cares? you don't.
and i too,
don't.

this, i must make clear,
but i know,
all these seeds fall on
rocks of salt, where not a
messy moss ever think
to stick.

an exhortation about a dog

i

the dog that licks my
feet
every morning after
i wake up
does not appeal to my
senses anymore

ii

the dog that licks my feet every morning after i wake up does not appeal to my senses anymore

iii

the dog
that
licks my
feet
every
morning
after
i wake
up
does
not
appeal to
my
senses
anymore

iv

but i must
allow it
still
because it is the law
between
the dog and me
and this
dogged
society

v

and so the dog still
licks my feet
every morning
and at night
i do not ponder about it
anymore
i do not ask
i have no questions
for asking

vi

the dog sleeps with me
at night
in my bed
and spreads her legs like
a spoiled
prostitute
and she is confident
that i cannot kill her
because that is the
law between us
and dogs

vii

and society keeps guard
on this
and if i continue
having this dog's tongue lick
all over my body
and feed her well
and make her a part of my
life
till death do us part
then society
shall have a thousand hands
clapping
for my obedience
and fidelity

viii

my honest neighbor
(who does not want to be mentioned here says
that actually)
she's one kind of a typical
bitch

(and i will neither confirm nor deny
it, but please do not tell
anyone about it)

that is the law.

magpie

this i know about you
you identify yourself in the mirror
and you pass the test
of self-criticism,

you have become more than
a bird,
and true to your calling,
you have become
his rare
beloved.

the scent of oranges

when you peel
the orange
i smell the thrill of
citrus

it is the same peeling
that night
when you feel like
peeling the foreskin of
my penis.

we seldom talk
and i sent the message
there is peace in
silence
there is love between
a space
there is understanding
in not making
connections
there is respect
in not asking why
there is goodwill in
not knowing how
the when in my life
is none of your business
the what belongs
to me alone
the questions are mine
to answer
and your answers
actually intrude
the dignity of my
privacy
the pride of my own
independence
the sanctity of my soul
the warmth of my
armpits
the thrill between
my legs.

this early morning
i take my walk
on the path leading to the
ricefields

the men are killing the worms
with Japanese pesticides
the white herons feed on
poison

what else could that be?

the national geographic makes
the news
that eggs of herons easily cracks
and fledgling do not survive

agricultural teachers die
of colon cancer
and the causes remain
undisclosed
there is no cure

for men killing air
for companies making poisons
the herons still fly and catch and
eat the double dead worms

the air is foul and
turn back from the walk
i cannot carry my heart
it is heavier than
steel.

when you walk away
i inhale so much air
and feel the comfort of
the little space
that you have built
in the house

i mark all vacancies
and begin to paint the boundaries
from where you stand
the steps that slowly take their
exit from
the garden of
daffodils

how i wish to tell you
that i like this situation
when i am left and you are gone away
when i can think much
without so many distractions

your words on the wall
your thoughts hanging on the
china cabinet
your finger prints on every
empty cup

i think i could have been
free a long ago
without the benefit of
trials

on the breakfast table
i sit alone
and distinct from other mornings
with you
i turn off the tv
not wanting to hear any news

i have created a distance
to destroy the evil of
familiarity

faraway
i become a tower of light
piercing the
dark ocean of
darkness of
our twin midnights

this morning
i sleep
i turn the fan off
and dream of
coconuts and
sea waves

i fall like a dead leaf
on the bosom of
the river
and on a lifeless journey
again
i drift

the rain is the wall that divides us
i whistle
to make a connection
you open the window
and we created a world
between us

i need to climb
the long stretch of your golden
pigtail
to finally kiss you
my Rapunzel

at the peak of all these

ramblings, perorations,
at the height of artistic leanings
those that hide behind the
revolutions of the masses
offering a pyre of those
innocent bodies those that steal
a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese

at the peak of all these poems,

so many of them, all subjected to the
torture of the master of
governance, all foxes and manipulative
machines
designed for the preservation of
power

at the peak of all these speeches and
rhyming poetry

what is there to feel? what is there to
reap as fruits?

at the peak of all these restlessness
one can hear the toll of the church bell

another funeral, another march,
ash, incense, last stone, wooden niche,

shovels, mud, heavy rain,
sobs that we always hear and yet keeps

on reckoning, such a short time
badly spent for the fury that will never be

consumed, a problem never solved,
a crisis always in whatever time in whatever

nth life, what is the essence of all these?
let the silence do it.

there is more to get
than what we just see
on the surface of those
petals
one can deduce what
life is

the wilting for instance,
the shortness of time
that is left for all of us
sometimes
one must suspect that
all these
are but farewell
speeches.

behind the heavy rain
as curtain between our self-made
distance
i shall keep the music within
the hum
of self-belief, the home of
my heart, that inner
bone within my ear,
that secret vein
between my legs

shall be beg for a bowl
of understanding?
we become beggars
like them
who even in the most
uncompromising situation
still asks
if this angle is proper for
praise
that this pose is still the best
for everyone's liking?

been there, and tired
now, i am standing tall
and proud about
what i have done
and now they must
beg for me
and i am vengeful and
spit on them
and walk away
like what they did once
at me....

never again
i tell myself, shall i beg,
never again shall i
be insecure
there is no genius
to one who perseveres
there is no special weapon
but faith

trust yourself and
move on
with your instincts and
mindlessness

the best way to eat, and healthful at that
is to chew what small food is there,
savor the taste of every molecule,
and swallow bit by bit like pulps of orange
sound a bit, of this ahh and ohhhs
and say over and over, oh this is great
let them all hear the slurp and your burp
and don't mind what the other people on the
other table say

like you you are paying too
the price of honest and candid living
has taken the share of shame and glory
had been full and shall be filled again
moment by moment, piece by piece,
molecule by molecule,

on such an atomic existence,
till the next nuclear burst.

i must slow down and try to stay home
that is your message today,
i am not surprised, home has always been
my sweetest prison.

you cried on your first pain and tell
everyone about it, sharing the pain, thinking
that with others knowing it and saying "our sympathies"
can lessen the weight of the
burden and ease the pain,

i tell you, it is a matter of getting to know pain
familiarizing the drama of the heart,
scrutinizing every neuron of the emotion
getting to know life, and eventually preparing
for every inch and step towards death

for that is our destination, annihilation, but
something higher than that can comfort you,
birds fly higher so they can see from certain height
the smallness of lamentations,
we travel fast, and not arriving somewhere but
we gain something as we tread upon the pebbles that
make the mountains stumble

there is no use for cries, they are for the novices,
we must swallow that bitterness and from its effects shall we live.

for class 2010

when i have given everything inside myself,
the last breath even,
then i must stay, and once again this summer
like any other summers,
for another batch, i will say the same parting words,
"go on, without me"

to save yourself you have learned to lie.
your wife does not want you to live
perhaps she hates you
this i think i should know, because on
every lie you make,
she is there to correct it and claims
that it is not so, that this is it,
what lies you make, she is there always
ready to correct, perhaps, she does not love you that much
she loves herself more, and that is the truth.

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.