if you challenge him
he will not answer you

acceptance for that challenge to be separate
lives on separate feelings
on separate beds
can be as silent as feathers falling on a silk bed

then silently he turns into a line of red ants
taking slowly bits of leaves
and some tiny grains in a secret place
of his heart
buried somewhere else that even his eyes that see
do not know

where is it? where is the new home of the
bleeding heart? where can it rest finally when it is healed?

he does not tell you
he is building his dreams again block by block
invisible tower reaching another sky

orange and red
flaming hell

FLIGHT 5J-548

I met this petite lady

she was still on her second year
of a nursing course
when her aunt retired as domestic helper
in bakau

she had to take over
the employer paid for her passport and documentation

she works there for two years
vacuuming carpets
washing dishes
dusting off walls and windows
taking care of a baby
and sometimes cooks for visitors

she is round
and will do everything just to earn
her money
and please her parents
back home

she is 25, too young to be a family bread
winner
and an export labor
a heroine for another
locally written novel

she has her boyfriend back in mandaue waiting
but he could not meet her at the airport

her parents do not want her to marry
the jobless
Pinoy

"home for good", she says when she bids us
goodbye

deep inside me
i wish her independence

i know that happiness
is too elusive

but anyway i wish her that
too

DOMESTIC HELPER, Singapore bound

a woman is leaving for
singapore

back there to resume her
work as
nanny

late hours again before
she sleeps

she waits for her flight
at dawn

outside the glass wall that separates her
from the country

there are no more people
the atmosphere is that of a dormitory during after a semester break

she opens her i-phone
and watches

her hand with a cotton wiping her baby's mouth
spilling milk from her nipple

the coldness of your indifference

i watch a bon fire
it spreads upon a bush

into the forest of
dry trees

i watch a conflagration
i am inside it

i am burning and burning
still

i am not consumed
i am fire

i eat the forest of dry trees
i spread in the bush

until all is consumed
and then i stop

i am back to myself
nothing really happened

then we resume the conversation
about fire

you speak about it
your heart is not involved

you never felt any heat
i know because you are cold

there is no heat in you
you, in a few minutes, die.

the spectator who is not disturbed by the rush

I Get off the room
late bed to meet a perfect day

i sit alone
on the seventh stair facing the road

it starts to rain
gusty winds from the sea are arriving

hair is blown away
some dreams too

there is this joy you know
by simply watching

busy people rushing for shelter
waters beginning to rise on the road

you are not disturbed
nobody touches you

you are no less than that railing
that corner of the store

that road sign
that because of too much familiarity in the street

nobody asks
no one minds at all

prejudice

even when the lion
smiles at us
we still withhold
confidence
even if the lion is
sincere
and does not think of
evil
like eating all of us
as prey
we always think of
the worst
even if it is just a picture
of the lion
smiling at us
we still suspect
that this can be a trap
another deception

a lion is a lion is a lion
and will always be lion
no matter what

our weakness
is to see a Madonna in
every creature

a mama bear
and a baby bear

the skin of the earth
is cold
and melting

the sun that watches all
these
can manipulate warmth
and then
exploit

the heels of Achilles
are exposed

how many of us
shall die without
noticing it?

an understanding of the floor

a love
bird
sleeps with
a cat

the floor
does not cease
shining

those who had
taken the heights
who had wings
who must
go back home
still shall use
the same feet
to land
on the water

it is this grace of
defeat that
i see

to be back home and
not drown

pigeons live inside the ceiling
taking the entrance of the broken side of the gutter
i can hear them coo

some eggs hatch and some fledglings
are cooing

one day i have not heard of them anymore
and the rats are singing

like pigeons cooing
these rats wanting to get attention

tomorrow i will take away the gutter
so the pigeons will know that we are missing them

early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,

harbingers of
a new day

up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,

she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing

the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut

one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken

early mornings when
the hens are silent

when the ref murmur
a nameless song

when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child


one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use

at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling

a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows

there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself

it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave

i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.

the selfishness of the kindred kin

the truth is
i do not think of you
even when we meet and you hug me
i do not think of you
even when you make me live again
or so you think
i do not think of you
when you think you carry me as a burden
and that you are in suffering
i still do not think of you

do not ask me why
it is you who thinks for me
you have carried away everything from me
that goodness is choking me
that kindness is killing me
since i cannot move
alone by myself
since you think of me as helpless
good-for-nothing

i looked to the left side to see those
who were watching us
i was sitting on your lap as you focus on
the one taking the picture
it was 1967 when i was barely 5
i did not know then what was the significance
of the taking
i was crying for attention
and no one cared
childish they all complained
why i was there
disturbing the mood of their occasion
it was when school ends
when parting could have been cheerful

when you turn me off
what can i have but silence
i become the inanimate television
that watches you
stoically
i do nothing more than what you
can do to yourself
i do not have those eyes that can say yes
neither do i have the courage to say
no to you
i am the wood and wire assembled
insignificant because you have decided
to deprive me of my own
meaning

i neither have life nor death
to offer you as
relief

many times
you refuse me entry

many times shall
i attempt

until you give in
to my prayer

there is no stone
bread for constancy
of dripping water

the irritant sometimes
wins

slept on the sand
the wind was cool

under the old tree
between those
leaves

skies in
small pieces

like
a jigsaw puzzle

he never for once
imagined that he could kill

killing
the simple thought of killing
makes him puke

he tried once
killing a fruit fly
in a snap
reasoning that it infected
its dessert
that whole night
he could not sleep
for he was
worn with guilt

his brother is a moron
the worst in class
makes most of the fame
by killing
many fruit flies


he is the top of his class
but he laughs at him
short of respect
for his fear of killing

"it is a phobia" his brother says
and just like everything else
runs berserk and
becomes an unreasonable
generalization

let me cut this story short
he did not make money
waddled in poverty and
feared the art of killing

helpless n& useless in-himself
his wife
deserted him and his kids
lost that respect
because he will never kill
a fly again

i do not want to make this
story long and
agonizing,

know what?
he killed himself.

this dog is a pet dog
it is cute and
affectionate and will always
see to it
that the skin of my feet
touches
one of its
hair

i like it this way
i do not need to hunt to give it meaning
neither war
to let it prove that it is worth
keeping

all i need, and want
is simply this chair, this simple home
carpeted with the comfort
of the dog's
white soft coating

socrates revised

a life unreflected
is not
worth leaving.

not all paths are the same
not everything are carved by tradition

somehow you deviate not because you want to deviate
it is just written in the lines of your palm and there is no way
that you can avoid it

oedipus rex is not an exception
what he wanted to avoid he instead entered
it is the tragedy that leads him precisely
to his own tragic fate

someone was once asking: who wants to be myself? and no one answered
quite well
most people find themselves unwanted and that is tragedy by itself

" i never wanted to be myself" the ugly creature in grief said it frankly
to himself who never answered him

you end up unsatisfied and resigned
how heavy is it to carry oneself as a burden
how unfaithful one can be
what a disadvantage to keep an enemy within you
what tragic moment
to hurt your feet with your own hands
to torture your mind with your own thoughts
to pluck out your eyes from your sockets because you do not want to see yourself
or to uproot your very nerves that you think are the ones hurting your bones
to tear your heart apart
and shatter your fragile self into some kind of irreconcilable pieces

what if you were just as gentle as the wind caressing the waves of the sea
as warm as the sun landing on the valley
your hands are not dichotomies
your heart never a wasted part of your body

what if ...you forget the self and think of it as nothing
so that you shall become the wind of the earth
the sea of the continent
the earth on this universe? a darkness moving with space which has become
the part of everyone.

upon receiving the wedding invitation

i once told her
marrying the one you love is not just a matter of luck. she has to accept
it is not always beauty that wins
the updated ones get the best news in town
and those who have taken the first move
gets the prize.She is getting older, and not as beautiful as the rest who already
married and sired their man with many children.

the early bird gets the worm.
the beautiful woman loses to the flirt and the daring.
it is not just the wisdom, it is also the scheme of things
the way she arranges her hair, puts her best foot forward, lying sometimes about
age and experience,
or whatever, she must know better than i who was also caught in this web
of deception
where love suffers, where a woman sometimes has to take a man
because it is getting darker
not the kiss but the child,
that which time secures her the days of her wrath
the time of her
sunset,

when the flowers finally wilt because the roots
have never spread their tips farther

now he has to lose because she stoops for no reason at all
but to conquer

tongue twisters

that which you do
not know
never hurt you

that which i know
which can hurt you
but which i keep away from
you is what
you shall never know

that which you know but never
tell me does not hurt me
too

that which we all know but we never tell
never hurt us

that which hurt us but we never tell
we never know

we stay in this together
and people do not know and they are never hurt too

not everything can be imagined
lest your words become the 3D leeches

that do not really exist
pure breeze from a mountainside of nowhere

it is safe to open the door go down the stairs
walk along the street feel the sun on top of your head

swim in the air of this city dive into the crowd
hear their open conversations listen to the horns of the cars

create more distance tire your feet sweat things out
making thoughts more sensitive to the twitches of the faces of all the people
that you meet

carefully evaluate the lines of the tongue in cheek
scrutinize slips of their tongues

follow the lines of the curve body of the woman that you love
using the soft tip of your tongue the power of taste-buds

one cannot really just survive on the theoretical wings of angels
the feet of the dragon phoenix

shallow and deflatable as toy balloons are
do not draw the street and alleys in your mind

walk upon them and feel the water and the mud and pebbles and sands
to every pore of your skin feel the tickle of the bacteria of the wind

actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today

a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged

does her duty in the street
gathering dead leaves

as i watch
it is a bright day

the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus

a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree

a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard

a lady with short blue jeans
jogs along the shore

the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon

like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street

we sleep because we are too
exhausted

not really because we are enslaved
by the king of
work


but we are
we have become the kings and queens
of too much worried

preoccupying ourselves with
this state of
unfeeling

this loneliness that has dawned in our
days

widely awake to an unacceptable reality
dress in such a fashion of
denial

afraid that we shall be the first breakers of
the law of tradition

people shall mock us at the sacred
places
scared and scarred for soon

we shall be ostracized like
over-sized ostriches

our heads cannot be contained in closed cages
we want to fly
but we are too big for flight

we sleep because we are too exhausted with the sameness of our faces
years have made us twins

and we do not really like it
we need more moments of silence to make a wall

to change us away from a familiarity that is killing
what we want in love

there is no fire where we sleep
we are sculptures heavy on our bed

dusts have accumulated on stuffed toys
teddy bears that need to be discarded

our words are enough to promulgate its judgment
we still like it when we hesitate to say and choose not to say

what hurts.

if you are everywhere
where shall i see you

it will not be specific
like a street with a specific number
or that
widely accepted landmark
like a
rock of Gibraltar
or a room at the second floor
numbered 6

if you only tell me
specifically
i would not have been in this
doubtful mess

are you in the sky
or at the top of the mountain

you tell me "i am in your heart"
but my heart
i stabbed by the sharp knife
of sorrow
are you pain?

i am looking for you
everywhere

pity me
for i am tired and my feet are wounded

i cannot be in everywhere
as it can be nowhere

guide me
are you at the bottom of this ocean
of grief?

tell me
i am willing to dive there
and die

i could be an early bird today
that catches no worm
but i do not really mind
being early is enough
having to find something to eat
because there is nothing yet
to prey upon
is another

at most an early bird does its best
one time
after another time
till it is also being
eaten
by another early predator
who makes
the same complain

she keeps on waiting
he is numb

but not really dumb
he is just numb and getting number

numbers come like some significant
ages and hints or guides

as he get number still as she keeps waiting for more
of what does not come

he is not really dumb and neither is she
as she keeps on waiting for what does not come

she is asleep now
as he enters the room with all the lights

off.

because he keeps on talking
alone by himself
you do not have to make a guess
that something beautiful
is really wrong

because he keeps on writing
all that is sad and so beautiful
how can something be
so wrong?

because of too much concern for the house
that someone other than yourself may live in there
and steal away what you are keeping there

the furniture and the kettle
the glass and the spoon and the fork
and the spam and sausages and
wheat and bread

because of too much worry for what a house can
be
so much home has been wrecked
so many homes were not even conceived and born

because you want a nice and expensive house
now you don't even have that dream of a home

at the end it is just you and
as usual all alone with a little
difference though
that in this particular moment
the moon above you is full and
floats as calmly as a mellow shade
of borrowed light
soft and tender
above your hair
there is home in loneliness now
no one screams and blames another
there is no running anymore
away from something broken
or shattered glass with pointed
pieces
you lay your body upon soft green grass
under the thin golden shade of light
feeling the the life of earth
gently gently beating

when sleep does not visit you
till 11:30 in the evening
you take your time waiting for it
as you dabble in poetry

here is a friend that understands you
and listens to what you are talking
in that cautious silence of his metaphors

the evening becomes a romance of one soul
and one body all contented in the grace
and beauty of the gift of thoughts
and words

he toasts that imagined glass of wisdom
filled with that wine of air
and then the laughter that spreads
that no one hears

when i speak to you
i always keep my own eyes

sometimes when i speak to
some sort of people like you
i am afraid that after i have spoken
my eyes are no longer in their sockets
i get blinded
and then i find myself lost in the
labyrinth of our thoughts
and then i tell you that you are such
a cruel chatter
leaving me trembling with my fingers
trying to find my way back
home

and you tell me
where is home my friend? is there a home for you?
basic as what is home? depends on what home is

and then i begin to bite my nails
i shrink
a small child
asking where mom is where dad is
when house and home are gone
when the stairs are too high
when the lights are turned off and i am outside the door
when all the friends are saying their prayers with their moms
and when it begins to rain
and i have nothing to run to

and so now i am careful when you start talking to me
i touch my eyes feel my eyelashes
for a touch of home

my tongue gets twisted before
but now as careful as a cat, my tongue is a rope tied on a tree
the other end open ended
like a fork of the snake
spelling each word correctly

when you speak i listen
and i will not let you know that i do not easily believe you
i have a book in my head
and it is enough
it is good.

if you keep on hiding
your skin gets too dark and like the night
it will be
accompanied by that unnecessary
coldness of
stone that knows what numb
what silence
tolerated

so many of them
those who have faced the harshness of opening
tell you, open up open up
since you are a closed gate
a locked door
a tight bud

they tell you
open up or you die
or you have no meaning at all
or you are
a brittle bread
a tick afraid of the light of the bulb
in that old
Persian carpet

and so you open up
to the grass to the sun to the clouds
and you are badly hurt
skin burning like paper
bones lighting up like firewood

you run like hell and hell is hell
(what do we really know about hell?)
and fire consumes you and they follow you to check
what you have become

it is too shocking to tell for now.
and they want to tell you that they are sorry for you.

and then
they forget

you were such a fool
to believe those bunch of fools

my wife is a woman of wisdom
what i lack she fills it
and when she's full with what i lack
she comes back
and gives me that smile that reminds me
of a flower everlasting
a life eternal
a love that stays put even when
the floors are trembling
due to that emptiness between
those dirt that insert
between one floor slab to another
she walks carefully on those shiny floors
not to disturb
the shaky foundation

she keeps the word
forever in her bosom
and what you can find there are only
the memories
those good ones
the bad ones
long discarded into the bins
burned

she knows what must be forgiven and forgotten
to keep the fires of love burning

and when the fire is gone when every nook in the room is cold
she hides inside my arms

like some kitten to the embrace of the cat
on those dark and very cold nights

to a jaundiced eye the world
appears yellow

and that includes all the details
and shades: the graffiti and
the effete

a society overrefined
turning yellow green with age
and envy

over the happiness of others
those who jumped over the fence to find the unique
pleasures of
violet grass and
purple clouds and
gray sun

one must not be bothered by the latest news of himself
narrated by
an acquaintance from far north
where the buffaloes are butchered

a name is kicked out from the pages of the morning papers
over a cup of cold coffee
another refined destruction of an icon
in you

listen the mesmerizing sound of your name
as you pray to
your favorite saints
do not be afraid
that is what is always said inside your heart
be not confused
in the middle of the crowd
there is the lonely you

listen to it carefully
it is the only true and honest voice
it does not betray you
and so
obey it.

an idea always comes from
all of you, a chat early this morning

the wind outside is cold and the rain has
not subsided it
the road is empty and the leaves scatter
there

jimmy is starting the engine of his motorcycle
his girlfriend met an accident last night

my window is open
since last night and some rain came in but i did not really mind it

i look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom after i have taken my bath
of hot water

my body is another wasted material
my face is like a sinking boat in the water
my eyes like a drowning child

time has judged me like an unforgiving father
to a prodigal son


i have freed myself from some shackles but i have never used
that freedom too well

there are stories of murder and regrets after
and they shall remain always ready to be told

that will be the last reunion

i assure myself, i was lost,
in that reunion, their faces are no longer the same
their noses are elongated
and their words are
smelling like
dead fish their vision about us float like stinging jellyfish

the world has changed a lot, old friends are tied
to broken families
ex-girlfriends have become wild grasses in the forests
nothing and no one is as tamed as that old closeness
that knows
what sympathy was all about
the perfume of empathy
is lost in the air of indifference
nothing good spreads there

i listen a lot and i have heard what i must vomit
everything ends at ten o'clock in the evening
and then i flag a taxi
that takes me to a hotel which shows me the bareness of luxury
and style
i do not stop from there
i have to go somewhere else to appease what boils within
the rage of too much
expectations that fail

perhaps at eleven o'clock a bottle of rhum
while watching a comedy show of transvestites and clowns
something too far
and farce.

THE moon can be as beautiful
as its silence
as she tiptoes on the skin of the river

or she can be cruel
stabbing you with the sharpness of its stainless light
your guilt conniving in killing that innocence
of your
original mind

sometimes (seems to be my favorite word)
how many times have i used that to you as a starting frame for
an explanation
as i try to appease you and take you away from that
existential stupor

sometimes is just a word, but it can be a drug to drag us away from narrow alleys
into the open fields of a possibility
that sometimes

we can be wrong and be mislead by what others believed as a solid doctrine
that marriages ought to last (sometimes people have to go their own ways to find space
for themselves and be happy)

that sometimes there are irreconcilable differences
(how many people take this as a dessert during last dinner?)

that we get old and refuse to accept that age is a conqueror of our bodies
that we can be alone that at the end all the children have to abandon us since they also search for their own separate lives

sometimes, it becomes too comforting
that there is an average, a common denominator to our loneliness
that we know how to bury the past
that we can be part of those who shall be buried at the other side

sometimes we cannot help but talk about the miseries of our neighbors
to lessen our own

sometimes, sometimes how can i not stop abusing this word?
sometimes

we can always keep a promise to be together
to remember two hands gripping each finger because there is no one else in the house
because we need each other
because we have no other choice

yes, sometimes we do not have to think much
there is no time anymore left
and we need, sometimes, nothing but just the moment of silence
together one afternoon by the sea
savoring the death of the
sun

sometimes, we must call it the other way around
the birth of
a new
moon.

you don't bother me
even if you leave even if you are gone for weeks
and you do not tell me where you are
if you curse me i simply listen
i am attuned to curses
since birth
i can always remember how curses
hurt for the first time
but often repeated and repeated like a chant
in fact it becomes
comforting on the idea that you still make me
feel that i exist

if you are a thorn
i refuse to be another thorn
how can a rose bloom
if we are all thorns
in the garden
of Eden?

you don't irritate me
i have all discarded what sensitivity is left inside me
there is no more
lethargy
neither can you find its opposite
that unworded
ecstacy

you see at the age of thirty
i have already known myself
well rounded stone
hard and smooth
and
freed from the freckles of feelings

i know of a guy
who hates pictures
he does not own
a camera despite
his money

a fact that he lost most
of them
in anything
except pictures

by social conventions
as he is in this
circle
somehow he cannot escape
pictures taken

but he would see to it
that his body is covered
his face behind
the rest of the other
happy faces because

no matter how he
tries to expand the size
of his smile
his sadness still invades his
eyes like
a skin disease
without cure

i tell him once about this
noticeable phenomenon
and he breaks into tears
like a mad woman
put inside bars

there is this fear
this certain sadness that
stays within

somehow we are able to hide it
as strangers knowing how to conceal their names
on ships which are about
to face the storm

flowers for the bees

you talk about a world
of flowers
and i cannot help but
also remember
the thorns and worms

bee to bee
tree to tree

do you wish to bring me there?

is there a world for me?

flowers for the bees
rivers for the trees

suns for the grass
stones for the sands

in your circus world
Brigitte
the clowns are no longer funny

look at me
i am no longer a child
candies do not
attract me

i decide for myself
now
and neither sorrow nor joy
is not
anymore the prime
envoy

all for the dead

at the mausoleum of my ancestors
i light my 50 candles
put the white carnations on
glass vases

every nook here is painted white
the grills are always black

tradition we always honor them
on on the coming marked day

we who remain alive flock and pray
despite the sufferings inflicted

we show respect and recall
and savor what they all left here

never mind the deed we are one in saying
never mind those dagger words

we keep the fortune of a lifetime
those that they cannot carry in the

world where they are silenced now
black crow and rusty screw

grapevine

every morning i put
landmarks

after having surveyed
night's domains

meeting people and
hearing their own stories

taking notes where i can
possible situate my feet

my hands are not fists
they are tributaries of fingers

i have seen worlds
compared it with mine

there is this empathy
that somehow redeems my losses

how wonderful is the listening
about the travails of suffering

it lessens mine
grapevine

a night conversation

it is your
right to have lifestyle of your own
and you may
keep it as i ponder upon
my own

50 years
there is a zero in it
i know

you are discreet
with your favorite websites
that give you
maximum erection

soon they will trace it
when you become a star

for the meantime
no one is concerned with lowly worms
feeding on carcass

there is no envy here
as i have already written my conclusions

there are principles
that are not uncompromisable

your hands are waves
and your words are like tassel of a white dress

sometimes i could not help laughing
but i know how to pocket smiles like some secrets

you bloomed last night
like cadena de amor
ah, the dama de noche is
more like it

i have seen the genie in you
you bet the pink mustache is too revealing


i give a hint that you must leave
you refuse to take it

and so i simple keep my mouth shut
your words are undressing you

it is ugly
but it is the truth

i take a chair from the other room
sit there

look away from the fourth floor into
the far trees as the wind gets colder
the night digging deeper
and soon the paths which were visible before
turned into a
dark river

i do not wander what fish swims in your head
i do not wish to see bones

i am simply feeling the flow
i guess i simply pity you

in this usual pretense of happiness
there is actually no one there


like a tv show of canned laughter

for 'bridge"

The moon rises
above the river

as swans float
on the water

i wish deep inside
that you stop talking

own world

an earphone
and Ipod playing
Les Miserabiles
at 3 0'clock when
Jesus died.

the best way to escape is to use the fingertips.
From it some words are shot like bullets hitting anything
But there is no death here.
No war. There is only the sojourn, some moments
of variations like
gyrations of the human body that looks for
some blankets of affection.
The human body is nil now.
The touch is elusive as an ell.
The river is crowded with moss and mud
and the fishes can hardly breathe.
Life, this is life actually
The one that moves lonely amidst the crowd
in the mall one Sunday evening.
people are families. They are so selfish among
and within their
circles.
You have none of it. You are an alien.
A mutant.

You need another mirror to see how beautiful are you.
Without it, there is no more light in the room.
And in the darkness only the palms grapple for touch
like grappling for breathe
In order to live.

We make some trades.
Barters really.

I barter loneliness with the circus of my mind.
Acrobatic thoughts, juggling circumstances
Opting for the magic of transformations.
I can be a rabbit and then a flower
and the children open their mouths for me.

At the end, we take whatever makes us comfortable.
It is not always a chair.
An earphone, sunglasses, Chiclets,
peanuts in my hand, or
lemonade sipping,
summer hats, bathing trunks,
diver's oxygen,
or could simply be a book of poems by whoever,
immersion, diversion,
these are the words. We are not the same.
I have my own point of view. I take my own walk now.
Or i shall dance
and sing.

None of your business
because inside your circle,
i will always be an alien.

prosaic

she greets you by the door. She knows you are coming.Her heart pounds for you.
She shows the room. It looks for you for many years. Now she brags the room is alive.
she opens the window and lets the air and the trees know that you are here finally.
they all talk about you know.
they nod, you are no longer a dog.
Or a parakeet.
The chair opens its arms for you.
You take your seat.She asks you if you miss coffee.
Black coffee, without sugar.
You look around. There is nothing changed here.
20 years ago, all the structures are faithful
to their positions.
They miss you and like to embrace you.
She is restrained like a dam.
No tears this time.
Not even some tears of joy.
She knows why you are here.
The room, the tree and the window,
the floors are blind.

She knows that this will be the last time
of your compromise.
She is dead 20 years back
when you told her
about the truth.

How can she feel like the room, the floor,
the tree and the window
How can she be as foolish as air and cloud?

Her hands are strong now.
They write her name, her signature to sorrow.
Her heart notes the final statement.

Life is over.
Game is over.

restive

that early morning
when the sun just comes up
from the mountain side
rising to
the cone top

a yellow butterfly as tiny
as my nail
flutters over a red rose petal
holding still
on a dew

slowing down
this small world where i live
becomes a home


my nerves rearrange their postures
resolving
an entanglement

now restive like a goat under
a sycamore tree
chewing grass

the infinitesimal

small is
Infinitesimal

a small grain of
rice
contains all the food
of this world

need i repeat when he
once said
that one must see the
universe
in the grain of
sand

the whole of love and
affection
in the hands

the magnificence of
creation in the mere spark
of stone
to stone

the magical grace of
the earth
in the sway of the
bamboo tip



of change in the mere blink
of an eye

sui generis

we think water does not
taste anything,

quite true
for like God
water is in Itself
By Itself

and as mysterious as it
is
Incomparable

you ask for the name of
water

It is.
It is just what
It is.

like promo fares of
airline tickets
sometimes life is
non-rerouteing
no re-booking
no refund.

there are facts as vivid as the writings in a book
nothing changes in black and white
they come every morning and stay at nighttime
the familiarity of old places and to and fro pendulums
one takes a look at them again
they never rearrange themselves like furniture of a woman
who is still searching for her place in the house
one is surprised sometimes as they are seen in another light
one that you have never seen before and you think it must be
the only one that is real as real as a cemented wall as tough
as pillars of the house
tomorrow another angle alights from their shapes
and you change another belief again
until such time that you realize
and these they realized a long time ago
truth is relative
facts are angular
nothing is permanent
every thing is an atom in constant
flux in never ending vibrations
and as always
invincible.

it is the same old man sitting on a firewood
beside his granddaughter along a narrow alley

the doors align like uniformed soldiers waiting for
the nearing war

some children are playing hide and seek
it is getting dark

stuffed old man and a motionless granddaughter
i change my conclusion, i do not know anything

understanding need not be imagined
injection of what should have been is useless

we are the players and the strings are on the air
the spectator does not show how much it controls us

at first we think we have the anchor and the steer
we think our paddles are strong our engines well fueled

nay, nay, we are not even shadows of his power
when he says we step out we step out

one feels it now when one becomes weak so weak
as all the forces are removed from within

there are compasses of our mere existence
we do not think finally that we have the right to live at all

days are tricks the nights are magic
the hat is black and what comes out is the white rabbit

it is the usual story of a magician deceiving us with the speed of his hands
our sights have always been losers

Friday, when others fly away he is pushed on the wall
curls in bed, chants the words that no one understand

it is not a puzzle at all

what i do not know
does not hurt me

do not let me then
know what i must things

invade me somehow events
simply come uninvited flowers

may be omitted it is not
hurting anymore when it comes

by the door on a solemn face
on warm gentle guiding hands

what is expected does not surprise
acceptable always is the natural

there must be no questions neither
must there be answers on this fact

reason

i won't touch you
i only take a look and feast my eyes on you

i know what happens when i touch you
you turn into stone and i become fire that cannot burn you

i burn all night and day because i cannot touch you
because i won't dare

i burn all of myself without gaining from this heat
i burn myself in sleep

there is reason that this fire cannot burn
it is like you it is stone

it is the only one that i can touch
the one that now i can fully trust

you see i know how to make a story
i am good at inserting myself in the picture

do not be angry
stories become more emphatic when we put ourselves there

as though we are the characters themselves
as though everything is true

you may think that all these that i am telling are lies
that will be fine with me

you do not live in the place where i am living
some people here tell the truth using all their possible lies

and i believe them and feel them
i am infected and i am contaminating those who read me

and i tell myself
what a success I've been

a story about a wedding and my friend and poverty and joblessness

i met an old classmate
today
at the wedding of
a newly appointed high school teacher


my ex-classmate is jobless and his wife
looks like
an old sickly monkey with less hair on her head

(forgive me but that is
the only possible
adjective that
i can give)

he is fat and feels like
a louse

( i am sorry
i am intruding into his
own feelings)

he does not like me
his eyes are shouting at me

possibly because we look the same

possibly because we too
feel the same

possibly because our wives look
like twins

possibly because the weather is bad
and people do not mind us

because everyone is hungry and there is nothing much to eat

feeling like a dead man

i am at the
center of your
attraction and
you make me
happy

at night when
you are not
around
i ask myself
if this is
really
true

i rely on
gut feeling

there is this
ceiling that
keeps on
pressing me
to the
floor

it knows how it
feels to
be inside
a coffin

the insider

you know there is someone inside me
it speaks

i hate to listen to this creature
it sounds like myself

sometimes it demands something that
horrifies me
and i don't want to give in
because it seems not to mind if i am hurt most

i press it like a marshmallow
keeping it small and almost invisible

but this creature knows how to scream
like a cow and to stop the humiliation

i finally give in and keep myself
running pursuant to its instructions

it drinks some blood from my dog
sips it like soda

it bathes itself in mud and does not
want to be rubbed

it shows itself naked in the mall
what a shame to my soul

but then when all his wants are given
it says sorry and then says that now i am free

it hides inside in my tummy
and then sleeps all day

now i am back to my senses
after sacrificing for all these compromises

opening just like everybody else

it is always easy to
open
all you have to do is
spread
sometimes you get so
thin
and people do not notice
even if
it is you at
all

it is always safe to open
together when they open
like umbrella during a sudden rain

this way
no one minds you
no one notices what you are
this way
you are safe and comforted

everyone is like you in the open
no one is unique
and no one hurts you again

BROTHER YOU accuse of me of snoring in my sleep and that
you cannot sleep and you demand that
this bed be divided that this room
be changed

we have no other house brother
and this bed is the only one we have which father gave
when he was strong and alive when he felt that we can be brothers forever

BROTHER i accuse you of the same disturbance when you were asleep you were
snoring too hard and i too was not able to sleep the whole night

let us talk and before the sun sets today
let us understand our own lack

YES WE are brothers
we come from one gene from one
body and we are born in the same house
where we all live
we admit our umbilical cords were tied
on the same beam of the old house
where papa and mama died

time is unforgiving and strange feelings
are giving us miles and miles of mountains of
series of distances of hills where we can no longer see each other eye to eye
with honesty
and longing

yes we are brothers but like the rest of the brothers of the world
our worlds are torn apart
ripped by our very own hands
and we have become rugs and tiny pieces of papers
shred and thrown away from shut windows of our
sinking worlds

yes we are brothers by blood
but in spirit no more

now we are strangers not knowing anymore our real names
not able to trace our roots

somehow we end this strife
by closing our separate doors
our hands are knives
our minds explosives

the agreement is that
when he likes you he shall
stand and clap and
bow at you

res ipsa loquitor

he lies there motionless
his face in the ceiling
his hands clasped then hidden
inside his pockets
and being so tired for the
day's endless struggle
he slept

inside the car one rainy day
one sees the scattering of people
who do not have any and
as tears fall on your cheek thinking
that you are miserable
you finally wipe them and look
at those other miseries of
children pushing carts to
hide their wares of drivers looking
for money of women disappointed for
loss of customers tonight
this damn rainy day that finally
gives you the comfort that
at least despite all your
self-invented sorrows your
own chaos you are still one
God damn lucky guy

the compulsion to stay
and to keep on seeing and
to keep on bearing the
silence of what we bear
and see the way we select what
we must keep and bear
and see
we decide what must come
inside us and what must be
discarded this way we have
become more human and tonight
we sleep again on the same bed
saying we are
compatible on a common purpose
to preserve tradition
to keep things last which should
have perished if we dare not
decide at all

i know that you know
that i know that we have
long known what we have
known and we know that
speaking about it
won't do any good and
so we know that we simply
have to keep what we know
knowing that in doing so
we can be at peace and
people are envious about
the harmony of
our well kept silence and
all these we know is what
they do not really
know

honestly i too turn
to sand when love is
repeatedly uttered like
a chant to make the dead
become alive again when
there has never been proof
of its resurrection I've
seen people live
faithfully in the house
because there is only one house
not because they are one.

LOVE can be
outdated, we see
how it fades every
morning when
we rush to leave
and forget
the kiss, when we
seldom talk at
night when we
think that we may
see each other again
inside our
dreams when we realize
that what those
poets of love talking
about eternity
has degraded themselves
as liars
like us

we live in this same house it is big
and the living room is having three sofas
and the stairs are narrow
like a single bamboo
it is designed in such a way that departure is nil
that we must get inside and never bother thinking about getting out

we know leaving is extremely painful even if there is a promise that someday
wounds can heal and we take pride that we have forgotten
but leaving is a reality it is flood a deluge
and we are invaded with water and we drown
that is how we feel when we speak about stairs and roads

you know i write this because i remember
you see how smooth is my skin and there is no sign that there was once a wound here

it is only you who knows where it is but i will not ask you anymore for details
we speak about something else about the boat the wend sliding smoothly under the bridge and the man that sang you a song when you pass overhead like a bird flying away

when you arrive here
there is no stone not a single stone
there is no moss not a single hair of a green moss
then there was the pain of waiting
time is always delaying its coming
trains stopped and cars are having flat tires
but you are faithful you keep on waiting you entertain promises
like dear memories or dreams or wishes that come true somehow
and you waited for so long

now this place is filled with stones and moss grow in each body of the stone
the waters spread their territories and land is emaciated
and the house is covered with water and the roof is gone

and there is nobody here anymore and it is only i who remember you and
i tell them about you and they do not believe me

and i feel like i am a ship that just sunk.

when loneliness is overwhelming
miracles happen

tables speak to chairs and
chairs are amazed to their
new actions

the roof cannot be stopped
telling something to the floor

and the garden too and the fence
and the stair and all of them here

entangled in a relationship of such closeness
that you begin to stop thinking about how to end
and lose yourself

presences are born and they begin to speak
and it is you who has become one inanimate human figure

here i am turning off the
stereo of my car
listening to the silence
inside that now
tries to speak to me
in the language that
it knows the one without
words of course the one
that only both of us can
understand without really
trying: the car and i.

there is always this
unspeakable happiness when
after the day
you have inculcated some ideas
to the young minds
honing them
hoping that they shall find
themselves in greater heights
that they shall rise above
the sources of
their inferior beings
that as students soon they shall
realize that they can be much
better than you
their mentor

as i told you once
when it rains in pours

you break the good news
you now have a new found job in canada

now it is raining luck all over you
wait when it shall rain men and money

i got your missed call
i was then too busy and
almost forgot about it

until this morning when
i am overridden with guilt
i call you back asking why
you called and you tell me that
she is finally breaking up with
you and selling the house and
lot where both of you had been
living for 25 years

she will get everything as you
had never been gainfully employed
and you say that you will leave
even before the sale
and shall settle in the farms somewhere
in Davao to live alone there

and i say that is just perfect
with an inspiration that you
will have then a very good chance
of beginning anew
find a new one who loves you without cost
and finally forget her as she
does not deserve you

and i end the conversation with don't worry
there is always a place for everyone under the sun
that there will always be new beginnings
and that no one is poor or rich forever

ENCOUNTER

a young brisk woman stands still
on the side of the road
wearing a thick dark tinted glass
and a Mao Zhe Dong cap
i stare at her and she
stares at me
and then as i cannot stand
her strong gaze
i walk away rushing towards
a crowded mall

if you really want to be with me
i can sacrifice your presence like a lamb burned so the gods may smell the reality
of the smoke of death and pain and
sorrow

we can be together in all these realities
the first pact is: acceptance
you see what you get and you get what you see
as simple as that
no tricks no magic
plain hands nothing rubbery or plastic

we do not expect anything
in here there is no disappointment of what should have been or ought to be
anyway
the agreement reached is the voluntarism of our two wills
you invite yourself
and i invite you to invite me in return

we live in one house with only one door the getting in
we have two windows our two views on every matter presented by nature everyday
the sun in the morning the moon at night and some stars as bonus or the wind
and the trees, all these cliches of reality less the complicating ones those
sophistication of
sophistry and those fingers of an octal arguments
we are tired we ought to know better than tired

we make a river of course to justify our thirst for bridges
and some boats for easy rides
the paddles can come later when we are ready to learn to swim
whatever that
comes first in our mind shall all be welcome guests
no barrier no social mores no restrictions no exclusions
that is the rule here
openness of the roof and soon there will be no roof even

then we have a garden of grass and stones delineated well by the aid of
the grace of our imagination
more words that do not really help
but we tolerate it anyway to keep things going like a line of cars waiting for the
go signal

did you hear the drivers sing? did you notice the silent passengers afraid that
we will cheat them into these useless endeavor to keep on talking
though
we really mean nothing?

stupidity is a trail a tail of the rainbow where actually there is no pot of gold out there
it is trail that we all are taking now and yet
we refuse to stop we refuse to recognize that we are all fools
who take pride that we are the only ones who change our minds
and then we call ourselves
wise people.

i step out of the line and i am going somewhere because as you see
i am all dressed up as though i am dying.

do not follow me, you do not know me, i may be dangerous.

i am not throwing all the pages
but just the same i am not reading them
and you say they are all important for my
meaningful existence
i make a compromise
alright they stay pile upon pile inside my
study room where
i do things that i should not have done
where i prioritize those that
do not feed me
a junk of this bread and butter thing
grabbing air and space and
gobbling nothingness like
food and stuff like that

i wonder what is happening to me now
shying away from those that i ought to love
and cultivate
my mind wonders like a meteor in space
like a tennis ball that you hit and
goes away as a point in darkness
gone

i sleep the whole day and write the whole night
i wake up when everyone is asleep
i entertain thoughts that destroy me
i write those that do not make me alive
sometimes i make a conclusion that i am getting to be
a machine without any perceived use
a hen cackling yet without eggs
a house abandoned
a polluted lake
a broken toy a torn rag doll a train whose tracks are stolen
i feel so deprived and i work hard to fill myself
this void that expands like a balloon
that lifts me up to an atmosphere near the sun
expecting an outburst where i will surely fall
like a torn condom this rubber thing that does not bounce at all

perhaps i need a break perhaps i need to be broken
to be shaken so i may wake up and feel the brokenness of a champagne
cork lid.

i've been broken you know and i have mended myself
repaired every part but i guess this is just a cycle that i have to pass through
this circuitous route
this spherical world
this ring without an end

like love, perhaps, like love perhaps that i once missed
it is messy, i know but i keep on talking and writing you should know better

well, i guess, this is therapy on the going
it is free, as i am
free.

when i get to be fifty
i begin to know the nature of the hours
i am getting familiar with its hands
that i cannot really hold them
even as friends and so i have become
tolerant about its
vices the way it is giving me another
color of my hair
the wrinkles in my hands
the weakness of my knees
and the early exhaustion of my feet
when i try to walk farther distance again
in the same manner
as it is not giving me much favor
i learn to simply accept it
as a fact
and i let it go like the way how
a lover junks me sometimes
giving me the feeling that somehow
i am no longer desirable
but i am not the kind that surrenders easily
thus when time betrays me
i too
give it what it deserves
i begin to forget it
and the hours are spilled like i do not
need it too
and then when they are all consumed
and i am all consumed
i register in my mind all the memories i had
many years back
there is no regret
i have loved all the way
when i was younger
and i take them all with me in my final journey
where time itself
is not a part because in there it does not exist at all
because i have always believed
that i am not just this
flesh and bone and skin and skull
i am more than all these
and i am no slave of time
not its subject
i am into eternity where time too does not end
i am into timelessness
so filled now with all happiness.

THIS is my addiction: to write
my failure: sometimes i write without a direction
and my success: i am writing about everything
that happened here
without missing a thing
thru symbols and signs
when things i met are unbearable
thru stories to illustrate what
misery have others inflicted upon others
and themselves
thru poems that can speak what i do not wish
to tell you
this is my addiction: writing without a purpose
except to spend time with you
descriptive and not judgmental
letting the hours go and not imprisoning them in the
cells of my mind
accepting the fact that i am as insignificant as you
that we pass this way
and we do not really know where we are finally going
we hope that this is not just this
but that there is something beyond
we suspect but we kill it
we live each moment and so we live without fear
we are here because we are here
we step upon a path because it is a path
we think we think we always do this thinking
and it must not be for nothing
we think, we think.

this is a world where
everything must be mutual
you scratch my back
and i will scratch your
we organize a club
which is exclusive this
Mutual Admiration Club Incorporated
in this way
we are all secure
in our own self made comfort zone

no matter if what we say are lies
and truth shall be envious about us

our motto: we shall survive
our vision: share happiness, and the sorrow
our mission: live and let live

and surely, we shall humiliate death.

this morning i wake up late
i see misplaced things
lots of it, like dirty clothes
on the floor
unwashed dishes on the sink
blankets unfolded
pillow cases removed from
their pillows
unzipped pants
missing underwear
tumbled glass
spilled milk on the table
dogs waiting to be bathed and feed

i stand up to get my empty plate
take three spoonfuls of steam rice
and two pieces of fish
a cup of coffee and i go out of the house
sit on a bench under a tree
sunshine above me and air breezing on my chest
i eat alone
and something's good is growing inside me
i love it this way
my own space of peace
amidst disorder
my capacity to choose
what i do
despite the negligence of
others around me

welcome to my world
enter the gate and
walk upon its pathway
enter the veranda and
have time with the
swing,but beyond this
door that bears my name
you shall not enter

this is my world now
of thick walls with
so much pleasure that
has numbed all my senses
and you may not like it
and so
i beg of you
understand when i tell you
that you cannot enter
this.

This world is mine alone.
I have taken all the risks.
Soon i shall die here
without honor.

emo 2

white sheets crumpled in bed
underwear lay
on the blue carpet
the glass window is closed
and the air conditioner hums
a song
of loneliness
face on the pillow
i breathe slowly
i am not waiting for anybody
i am seeing myself in the mirror
inside my dream
i am real and i touch myself again and
again
this is a temporary room
of my own escape
i have no chains but i am bound

to nowhere again to a meaningless chatter
in this soliloquy
of my own created madness

shadows of birds and shadows of trees
cold air coming in from windows closed

i pause.

i face down and meet my
own darkness.

emo 101

there are other things to do
but they remain undone, i am lost again
in the intricacies of
insatiability
i am burning but never consumed
by my own fire
it is beautiful and it is painful
the two are here together
i am a ball of fire
in this night that others have always dubbed
as lonely
this is the fire of my own
eternity
always unconsumed always feed by
imagination
i live here always
no one knows.

flesh and skin and veins

i mark it tonight again
this series of images that keep me waking
flesh and hair
and skin
i am fixed and it fixes me
somehow
others have been talking dirty
and practices
this usually accepted procedure
for exclusion
i say it again tonight
i am not bothered and
I do not care.

The Life of Misery

Life has given
me reasons
to finally appreciate

Death who has always
been too patient
to be disregarded
on those
sleepy nights

There comes a day when
Death comes to me and
I shall give it
My smile.

i stopped chasing love

since then
i stopped chasing for
a relationship

my beggar story
was indeed
regretful and i do not
want it
retouched

the whiskey is a bottle
of the past
and the beef stew
makes me
vomit
even the smell of it
can kill me

now i stopped chasing
love

it does not mean
that i must pursue
indifference

there is only one thing
i learned an
art
and this is the art of
just being myself

just sitting by the lake
watching the
fish swimming on the
shallow water
and letting time go

i am just becoming like
everybody else

nothing more
nothing less.

from the bottom of his heart

did he tell you
that he writes
from the bottom of
his heart?

did he not frankly
tell you
that at the bottom
of his heart
there is only
sand and
rotten seaweeds?

that there is no
one there
that the silence there
is haunting
him
that there is no
sun and
stars there

that the starfish
has gobbled another
sea urchin
there
for breakfast

that in there
the only story is
all about
the predator
and the prey

the art of scribbling

this is art.
this is not really just a game or a habit.
it is not a barrier not a bar
or dart.
this is the art of concealment but which hungers for an opinion.
this is the player at the backstage putting a mask, or a thick layer of make up
winks, and practices the movement of eyeballs.

this is the art of conveying emotions
a little bit exaggerated to get you direct to the point
nothing about pegs on square holes.

this is the art of dressing up for the proper occasion.
you pay attention to particular details expecting that he can also
understand the protest of your
color and insignias.

this is what you read and analyze and say perhaps this is it.
that this is what i am and this is all about what happened to me in the past
or that the future is already well drawn and
with your conclusions, then i am what you think i am.

but this is not what i am.
precisely because this is art.

just art.Not a dart.

that is the circle where you throw the dart
you did not hit the red zone.

you see, why should you blame me for just being happy
for just living a certain moment?

this is art and this is not what i am.

this is the world, this is what we actually are.

the paradox of you

i learned a lot.

by not saying so much i realize
i can say everything

by only showing you the tip of the iceberg
i know
that you will always remember the sinking
and everything follows
like a wholesale
of emotions

i learned a lot from you

that in silence the noise gets trapped
it screams but no one shall hear it and no one shall be disturbed anymore

i learned a lot from your surrender.

i know, you win.

recovery disc

i know what you are up to.
i know that you do not forget pain and i know that that pain is still there and no matter how you hide it
it comes like smoke from an old
dirty chimney
and at winter time it shows all the black soot
the gray smoke from the house
to the sky

i know that when you invite me you do not really mean to please me.
you just want to show the changes in the house
the rearrangement of the furniture

it no longer the rose in the vase but
a carnation
that you say is loved by another
but not you

i know what you are up to but i have already prepared myself for that
in my heart i must tell you
pain has no bed.

city guy

it is the sound of the train that leaves the station
every morning that does not haunt you anymore and you tell your friend who
just arrived from a faraway province that this is the usual sound of the city
where people leave and come back
everyday
like worms following their habits
faithfully.

upon leaving

another one passes me by
in fact has already decided to forget

perhaps realizing that i am another wasted time
or a shape of regret

an abandoned house where the grasses have become free
where birds begin to think that they own this beam

how many women slept here and rearranged their hair and looked at their faces
in that old mirror of the dusty room?

there is no attachment whatsoever
each is bound by the compulsion to leave because someone is waiting and waiting
and expecting for a meeting

falling leaves outside the winds are tossing them
you only hear the usual sound of the rustling but only for a time

and then back to the usual silence
that no one is interested to question

someone is familiar and shakes her head and shoulders
and we do not react because we fully understand

we are pathways

when we begin to think only for the moment
we become like a pathway.

there is solidity on its face and even though
people walk upon us and leave we become so unaffected.

it is the moment that we seize and then give away
all the while
accepting that this is another fact of our life here.

some flowers begin to bloom
seeds sprout.

temporary moments....

people come and they go

rivers passing us by
and we think that the water is still there

we imagine that it is only the sound of the river that is leaving us.

we sit beside it and always think that it is always the same.