time melts

• 
  

  
  
  the wall clock
  takes the shape
  of a wooden table
  and the hands of
  time stop
  sounding the hours
  of a happy life
  
  the twigs of our
  hard earned
  learning cannot
  withstand
  what is set to
  happen on
  murderous
  moments of
  a martial law
  
  a mountain of beliefs
  the green valley of of
  principles which we accept
  from a dictator
  as solid and unchangeable
  are at a distance
  paradise but when we
  arrive there
  was a horror
  
  we try to define our
  perspectives
  and reinvent our molten
  selves
  
  when i was a child
  i felt the swiftness of time
  on a hot summer day
  upon an ice drop on my hand
  and tongue licking sugar on
  water upon a bamboo stick
  
  on an assigned usual essay
  how i spent my summer vacation
  my mind whirled in search for
  satisfaction with my old teacher
  in mind: how to make her happy?
  
  enjoying jackfruit flavored
  ice candy in the store nearby
  with only one peso in my pocket
  in 1970
  
  i was thinking how to sell time
  and make most money from
  mere words, mere scrap.

  
  

  
• 
  

A beautiful cat is
nothing but black and white

a stair rises their way up
the wall
without your footsteps
without you
even

the world is complete
off white.

when you situate yourself
it will just be a waste of time.

The whole world
is a color of orange.

you imagine age
as pure
sunset.

there is a black
hat below this world

there is a face of
a man with
a screw for an eye.

nothing really means
much

except the dissolving
part

which is actually
nihilism at its

peak of beauty and this
is what we experience

when we say
we like to die and

this is the moment
when a writer says

nothing and the reader
say much.

once it is written
as i have told you once
it is not mine anymore
neither does it belong to
you

it is nobody's because
it is everybody's
breathing property

a mechanism of the soul
weary inside a body

a gadget for survival
in that battle where no one
stands as the enemy

measure yourself
with the daily-ness of
verse
make it free and let us see
in due time what shape is
there
let us see the shape of
your thoughts

is it a bird free in the air
on wings friendly with the
winds?

have you become too light
even with the bones inside
your flesh?

or a chain of iron eaten by
rust because somehow
you have stored too much
salt in there?

if we stay here, let us have compassion

compassion for our blindness, thinking that we are much better than the rest
of the herd,

let us too, have pleasure

that pleasure of exchanging pleasantries

thoughts that boost our desire to go on living, to keep our sails smooth,
ourselves whole, and never diminish our sense of humanity,

for after all, we are all here for some reason, some reasons that we still want
to discover,

let us too have that sense of humility,

not for anything else, but we just don't know what happens next
for instance, a friend just died, and he missed that trait.

death he frowned.

WHY DID I LAUGH?

upon a crazy day i laugh at myself

and i congratulate myself for being health

but the guilt somehow lies when i laugh at

other people's miseries, understandably because

it makes our less miserable, ha ha ha

on the other hand, i too, laugh at my own mistakes,

i just can't help it, for no reason at all, ha ha ha

which calls to mind that i may also be justified in

laughing at yours, ha ha ha, makes me feel more

at home with ourselves, laughing at each others' mistakes

and miseries, ha ha ha

i guess you must remember, ha ha ha, we are friends.

if we fall, we fall together, if we rise, the better ha ha ha.

UNFAIR

it is when you work so hard and dispose your work efficiently that they notice you and soon will give you a bigger workload.

the old men in the circle know fully well what to do. Keep being lazy.
Do not let yourself be noticed by those who are up there sipping coffee.

Be like the rest. Ordinary Guy. Or just be at the middle.
Do things in moderation.

That is the best place. Quiet and easy.

NESSUM DORMA

i did a Pavarotti
in the kitchen today

our house-help can't
hold her tears
finding out that her
16-year old daughter
whom she sends to
school just eloped
with her boyfriend
and nowhere to be
found

the rats
want to bell
the cat
for want of
standardized
meat

the cats
who simply
wants
rat meat and
nothing but
rat meat

wait in
ambush
with the
bell

if in this place
i am ruined and no longer
a virgin

there are other places
where i am.

if it is pure fun
who wants editing?

and those who enjoy
the most
are those who do not
mind

the children who play
on the shores of the sea
forget even their
mothers

forget the hours
and even if it is already dark
still want to continue with their
play

fears are strange
worries are vague
and life evades
mankind's
frame of mind

there is an inner voice
it speaks
unceasingly and sounds
always
correct but which we do not
care to listen
because we want something
else
like the way the feet walk
upon its own chosen direction
like the way the hands
argue with
the fingers
like the way the head shakes
its rift with the
unreasonableness of the
heart

there is an inner voice
that always lives in silence
and when it speaks
it speaks unceasingly
upon itself.

i know of someone
who loves someone who can never love
with love

it is the challenge

to have depression concerning
love unrequited
to squander so much energy in
indifference
to mourn unnecessarily and love
being hurt for a lifetime

because at any rate life
has no meaning
from the very first time
it felt

when we make
love
tonight

when we kiss
and hug

when we do it
outdoors

or even indoors
like in the garage

or in the camarin

or even in the train

or even in that
shallow part of the
public beach

i still do not

edit

my poetry.

she was thinking of
bridges

he was thinking that
the bridges fell

but she was quick
to make the pieces

turn into ships on
the sea

he was quick with
a storm to sink them

she was always saving
for the ships

were always
as empty as they can
be

from the beginning
when she thought

of bridges when he
thought of storms

we always wake
up earlier than it
used to be

now we wake up
at 3 in the morning

which we thought
as 4

we do nothing but
talk

and talk and
talk

until it is 6 in the
morning

when we decide

to go back to sleep

because we forgot

how to spell six.

do not mistake me

for a writer

i am but just

a plain breather

my work is to breathe

my only qualification

is my nostril.

do not mistake me

as a poet

i am but a another lonely

man

filling a wall with

words.

violet are red

roses are red

others rhyme

i don't.

do not mistake

a poem

as a nursery rhyme

to a man it is

another rum

and so

Rumi is just

one.

as we talk

i keep on thinking

who is this man who is talking to me

is he my comrade in poetry?

he is funny and he is hard

he writes too but revises as he says

as often as he wants to

wanting perfection perhaps?

is perfection a good motive to be a man?

or is it nicer to be a man of all the imperfections?

do you wish to insult God with your wish for

perfection?

i keep on thinking and then i keep on writing

aimlessly

firing all my guts to nowhere

and then i stop

i like it this way

aimlessly devoted to

me.

you like boxes
where your ideas
take shape
you like air
to be contained
in the shape of
a balloon
water in the shape
of a bottle

i have ideas as birds
flying in the air

as bullets hitting no
bird

but songs seducing
the moon

tempting the stars
to be meteors

again merely passing
by
to put in flames our

dry woods without the
fire of

wanton imaginations.

follow your heart
it has no destination
for one thing
journeys like these
are true
fascinations.

the usual things are gone.
what used to be mere chair
comes to you as the fire blowing monster.
the good changes and you think you cannot bear all these
unexpected. You thought you die just like the rest.
You knew some perished. The ropes come like jubilant players
of the killing games.
you are amazed. The changes after all are harmless
the demons are all in the mind
and if you really live with the peace of your fingernails
they are but flowers in the meadows
drenched with rain, gleaming with dew,
coated with sunshine like plated selves
with gold.

keep those hands under your command
do not let them betray you
you are still the master of this clockwork
and you decide
what time is it.

I like to see hills. Meadows.
Blue skies. Blue birds.
Trees are lining like
confident soldiers.
This must be the Alps.
White caps on mountains.
A winding river. Pines and cones.
Rabbits and squirrels.

This is the Sound of Music.
A movie in my mind.
You come with your lonely boys and
girls. You are the mother of escapism.
They are the hope of lost fathers
of the wars that man has waged
against himself.

I like to see hills. But there are none.
I like to hear the sound of music.
But there is none.

I face another darkness.
Tense situations. Another struggle.
No conversations. Heavy with
Monotonous Silence.

Perhaps i will light a candle this time.
And inside the flame. I shall see hills again.

he faces himself in the mirror.
he look at the papers.
How can a guy with a face that looks like a rock of Gibraltar
succumb to a common perdition of shattering
pieces of bricks submerged finally to the sea of
chaos?

he smiles at himself. Look at this mole, this is my amulet.
I am indestructible, he comforts himself.
Always a winner, he takes pride of his triumphs.

But that was long ago. The final curtain falls. The song you know
has killed those who in complacency relied on statistics.

Tomorrow is the wake of another dead man.
The people who came shake their heads.
Disbelief has become a norm nowadays.
Poor, rich guy, handsome and oozing with sex appeal
puts a bullet on his head
Plants it like a seed
Upon a brain where no flower grows.

to keep sane
one keeps talking
to himself

the desert listens.

sometimes one
wishes for
leopards

as there are no
camels
no oasis
no date palms

a caravan is a dream
a stream of thoughts

hoofs are possibilities
of someone who has passed
here and survived.

on such a harsh
day
the only thing cool
is a
mirage.

the wisdom of
a fly sometimes lies
on its capacity
to be
eliminated without
guilt by the
man who simply
swats the fly out
of life
because he is
on a moment of
his chosen pleasure
of sipping
his cup of coffee.

when it rains
you stay put

that is reasonable

but your mind
is always restless

as rain that pours
upon your roof
follows the gutter
and flows on the
canal and follows
where the surge
of the waters go

when you follow it
you have a thread

which your mind
like an ant takes
it in all the labyrinths
until you find
an exit

which you shall
now call

freedom.

when you are
convoluted inside
your mind

you think of
all the possible
doors of
your disturbed
thoughts

the ears could
not be for hearing

the anus could not
be for defecation

the mouth is not
only for eating
and swallowing

all the spores of
your skin
are not just for
perspiration

mind you, in case
of emergency
when you are
about to be
asphyxiated

they can be all
the possible exits
and egresses

multiple doors
like a magnified eye
of a dragonfly

you cannot think
like these
unless you are the kind
of man
who thinks that
the use of openings
is only
for entrances.

It could be anything else.

there must be something
to missing someone whom you have not met before. It has nothing to do with blue skies, golden fields of ripe grains, a bronze river, platinum music,
or leche flan,
not that. Not even a love letter left between leaves of
a notebook.
you have no idea. How is it to love an idea and not understand it fully.
You imagine it as beyond your grasp.
It could be anything else.
It is just a flow. A stream, A thread.
A camel passing through the eye of the needle. One night when you wake up
without your beloved in bed.

it is the shallowness of your night grave.
it is the emptiness of your heart. Your arms are bamboo slats.
Air passes on those empty spaces.

You are in love with an idea. It's been there since you were born.
You have no idea now what it was once.

it is something, It is the unity that you miss.
It is One.

Just nothing
For now.

small as i was
defenseless as she might have thought
i know what her weaknesses
were

her most vulnerable weakness
were the African daisies which she love most above all others in her garden

so i pulled them all.Threw them all on the road were the buses passed by.
Trampled by the rubber tires. And then i went away.

and they were dead.
all.

papa was never a malicious man.

when we both bathed in the river
all he kept to himself was nothing.

bare hands he would cover his
sensitive part

then walk towards the deepest part of the river
and swim like a fish

he would come back with some shrimps holding them with both hands.

we never talked that much.

what if my fingers are knives

sharp, so sharp

sharper than your eyes

that stab me at

my back

and then i will turn back

and face you

and gently touch your

lips

my tongue is made of

glass

and your heart is made of

wood

i 'd be careful with what

to say

and you tell me that you

love me,

my brain is made of

straw

and so we love each other

just the way

it used to be.

the rain is
a wall between
you and the
trees

it has fingers
where you hang
your thoughts

you launder
yourself

wet and trembling
under the
sky

i will not tell
you that
i love you

i do not want
to spoil myself

with the leftovers
of other
people

in a minute i will
remove this black
robe

and too i will remove
my white polo shirt

my black pants too
and my underwear
shall go

in a minute i will
be ready for a change

not of a lifetime
i just want to tell you

that even when taking
a bath

i could be too poetic
and melodramatic

i like bluffs.

some stuff
are good
buffers,

we meet, we talk, i invite you for a drink. I want it private.
Just us.

I will tell you how sad i am. I miss life. Life is too narrow.

I have a car. You like it the way you gaze at it with stealth. I see you
stealing glimpses at me. But i pretend i like beer. I like you more than the beer.

Beer is bitter. But i like bitterness at times specially during nighttime when
all my inhibitions wither. The moon is absent tonight. And so you
are my moon, and you like it. You like it when i am weak.

The weakness of other people is your treasure.

I ask you to play games with me. You like me to be a child again.

I take you inside my room. I undress myself. You like it better if i undress you.

Very romantic. I like you drunk. I like you to lose yourself in strong wine.

It will be pleasurable this way. We are naked.

Then i turn off the light.

i bluff you into believing that love is much better in the dark.

You and I shall rely on sound and touch.

We are blind. We are love.

I like you bluffing me. I guess this is the game that we play.

It is sad. Love has no hands. The dark has no ears.

those who have roots
sometimes forget that
we soon shall be uprooted
because we are not meant
to be just roots

we know that

our proper metaphors are wings
our home is there.

THE NEED FOR POETRY

poetry is not
social climbing
it's stairs somehow
are not easy to make
hands are trembling
and body is having
its uncalled for seizures.

when i am lost
poetry is a map.

when it is messy
it becomes a mop.

when life becomes
harsh, unbearable
or questionable,

although poetry does
not provide the answers,
but it creates an ambiance
for solitude where life
smooths out like a
flatiron to my crumpled
shirt, it's a hammock
where i can sleep and
a checklist what to do
for the rest of the
shaky hours.

the word is therapy.
it embraces those who
belong to the category
of the injured, the confused,
the stricken, the bleeder,
the crying loser,

who goes out of the flock
jumps over the fence,
steals the moon,
sifts the light of the sun,
decants poison, concocts
a potion, and

like those goldfish
or salmon or koi
run counter the flow
and rage against all
odds

to become enlightened
to be cured, to be whole
again,

to be integrated again
to life, to the pulse, to
glory, to Light to God.

sometimes we deny this need.
most of the times , it is more of
forgetting, because there is so
much fun, so much noise, and
we are drunk, and always when
sober, there is someone beside
to provide the heat and the smoke.

then you fall, and badly hurt, then
you find yourself alone in the room
and you are having seizures, sick,
and poor, and no one answers your
call for help. The bankbook is empty.
The clouds are dark. There is
thunder. Lightning strikes your
roof. The fire burns your house.
No fireman is coming.No water.

God comes in. You did not even call.

i, too , commit the same
mistake. I fear being alone
as though i was born with
you from my mother's
womb

as though i was conceived
in the the pronoun We

as though the crib was a
market with lots of people
roaming in there

we are not us. I am i. And
will always be in its solo flight
from what i am to what i will be.

For the meantime, there is
this marketplace, this mall,
this house, this home, but
at the end, there is always
this silence, that of a leaf
and the pond without a
single ripple....then a hush.

will you still love me?

what if i hug you
and my hands are dirty
and my arms are wounds
will you hug me too?

what if i do not belong to
your class? if i were just
an alien, without a face,
not speaking your language,
no trace, no planet of my
own, will you still
have me?

you have learned to love
black, and yellow and
red and brown, years have
taught you, to love

what if i do not have any
color at all? what if i were
nothing but an idea? what if
i am unknown? and you
are confused, and you
lose reason?

will you still love me?

the virgins of artemis

she meets
soulmate

and that
is final &
irrevocable

she writes
dear husband
dearest

the last letter
which says
"goodbye and
have a
goodtime"

soulmate is
her woman for
seven years

they were
all the virgins
of Artemis

stones and butterflies

we talk about stones

stones can be
sensations if
we keep on
talking about
stones not as
stones

you have stones
you like them
they become
diamonds which
you keep

those who watch
us feel stupid
they laugh and
laugh

and we laugh at
them
and then they become
stones
which are
sensational

i am stupid
i laugh with you
but i never like
stones

they're hard and
faceless and
silent and
so stupid for me

i like butterflies
and so i set them
free to look for
the flowers they
love

what i like in
them is that
they die in a
day or two

without a trace
where their broken
wings are

bread and pretense

you are busy
and lost

what a way
to be true
and yet
be false
at the same
time

the desert desire

there is no
way to stop
upon an endless
stretch of
a highway on
a land without
a sea
upon a world
without
water

a love life

                                 On that buri mat

   you
                                                          must catch

                                a live fish

                                                           much like

                                what is

                                                           inside my trouser
                               You do not have

                                                to ask my permission

                                                with much confusion

                            Hands

                            Akimbo


                                                  i shall learn the process


                             of sustaining
                                 groans

sans the metaphors less those illusions

sometimes he feels like he is
caged

he likes to escape but this
time

first he must be a bird
but in reality

a bird he is ever
not

and so he remains to himself
still human

sans the metaphors
less those illusions

UPON SEEING A FRIEND WITH HIS TWO BOYS IN THE CAPITAL

his two boys with same pants and shirts
looking like twins sit beside him in the capital

it is picture of a father sitting beside his two sons
who had easily grown up to witness the years

their eyes are all the same in different angles
how i envy the joys, how my heart bleeds

how suddenly i have felt the burden of all my years
how my youth and lust face me with all vengeance

a number of friends encircling you
in your misery is a big comfort but
you will be lost inside them and you
are in no position anymore to probe
the recesses of your sorrow: you will
soon forget how to cure it.

try being solitary in that journey to
creativity: marvel at all discoveries
how your shadow follows you and you
control its shape and form and movements
against the light. How darkness can be
a home and how you can still be light.

buy another
gold fish for your
aquarium

gather cranberries
in the yard

ride the red
pony

spend money on
italian spaghetti
and butter toast

sip coffee
on a table by the sea

write a poem
at nine

THE REUNION

We come back one time
at the end of this year
to the room where we
spent first year high school

we wend inside that room
of 30 empty chairs

we
remembered the brown paint
and the litter of crumpled
papers and we again heared
same words repeated for
the nth time which we
refused to memorize and
we focused our attention to
the blackboard where our
names were once written
but now completely erased
by them as new crazy voices
emerged replacing our
monotonic cadences fading
in the hallways enclosed with
those rusty iron grills.

WHEN A DAUGHTER MARRIES A DISTANT PLACE

when a daughter marries
a distant place
his father will be sad
knowing that
distance can always stab
him anytime

as years go by the bleeding
continues

the daughter can forget all
these with a child to bear
and years can add some padded
memories that make the distance
more bitter

the father goes to the kitchen
for comfort as he slices with his
sharp knife some onions

tears fall down and in those years
that he is alone
the floors where he stands are
rusting with all the crystals of
salt

the news is heard that the father
one day goes out of the house and
runs naked in his farm of cabbages
there, he uproots what he plants
there, he curses the rice paddies
and pours his misgiving to the
scarecrows

one day the daughter comes back
bringing her three daughters home
what surprises her are the changes
which she cannot believe: the
stair has only one tooth left
the floors of the living room melt
the roof is nested with black crows
the bed has a boa for a sleeper
and in the kitchen there she finds
her father who is still slicing
all the rotten tomatoes constantly
for all the years

the daughter embraces his father
and shows her three daughters but
then the father has turned into
a sculpture of stone.

the pink pussy
cat
lands on its
four feet
on the blue
floor

what you have
not seen
is her way of
scratching the
cheeks of
air
in the middle of
her
somersault
exhibition

THE POWER OF THE MIND

from a lemon peel
rises an iguana

your hands with
a sharp knife makes
it

from your own thoughts
shall rise
another green iguana
smelling like
a real green lemon

your mind with a sharp
scalpel shall
form it

we know fully well
who lied

but guess what
for saying what we

really want to hear
then we party tonight

IF YOU think that you
know better than the
chimp

then be a man

P.S.

And if you want to be
more complete

listen to the woman.

NOT FOUND

a lost wallet has always
a story to tell

which the owner who
misses it

can never hear.

DIRTY HARRIES

those who think like
everyone else
comes with a definite
conclusion that
we could not have
entered the room of
the motel and then we
chant the mysteries of
the holy rosary

honestly, you may not
believe
and we don't really
care

what we had was a very
lively oral intercourse

not what you have still in
your dirty mind

Fools! we simply had the
best conversation ever.

dysfunctional art

sometimes art
has no hands

the poor couple
who sat here days
ago

went to the other
village because no one

accommodated them
for a night's stay

and the famous artist
did not bother except

of course his way of
depicting them

in his new bronze
structure that now

lies on display in the
public park.

LONELINESS

A white cat with blue eyes
lays its head on the arm of the
sofa

it is a sunny day again and it has
not smelled something fishy.

a daughter marries a distant place

when a daughter marries
a distant place
his father will be sad
knowing that
distance can always stab
him anytime

as years go by the bleeding
continues

the daughter can forget all
these with a child to bear
and years can add some padded
memories that make the distance
more bitter

the father goes to the kitchen
for comfort as he slices with his
sharp knife some onions

tears fall down and in those years
that he is alone
the floors where he stands are
rusting with all the crystals of
salt

the news is heard that the father
one day goes out of the house and
runs naked in his farm of cabbages
there, he uproots what he plants
there, he curses the rice paddies
and pours his misgiving to the
scarecrows

one day the daughter comes back
bringing her three daughters home
what surprises her are the changes
which she cannot believe: the
stair has only one tooth left
the floors of the living room melt
the roof is nested with black crows
the bed has a boa for a sleeper
and in the kitchen there she finds
her father who is still slicing
all the rotten tomatoes constantly
for all the years

the daughter embraces his father
and shows her three daughters but
then the father has turned into
a sculpture of stone.

A LOVE POEM FOR A WOMAN IN HER 40'S

you shall soon love a man
who kneels before you and
sees the tiny stars below
your navel

you shall close your eyes
and forget what chains are

you lie in bed as you offer the
moon for him
and soon when light pierces
the blinds of Venice
when the softness of
tenderness wearies away

you shall wake up to a new
day inside his cozy arms

YOU AND THE NIGHT

night is a private affair
between sleeplessness
and pain

the sockets of the eyes
are repositories of
regrets
the pillows soften
trying to comfort what
pain inflicts

sleep is forgiving
as it comes and then
at least for these hours
you are rested
in such slumber of
forgetting

LOVE BIRDS

They were a lovely pair
as i sit down waiting for my turn
at the ticketing section of
the airline

The lover sits behind
the beloved and puts his
chin on his shoulder
and begins to whisper
as he giggles and turns
to him and their lips meet
at the middle

The lover wears a fitting
cotton white shirt while the
other has a pink polo

From the looks of it
they are all young men
smooth skinned and
muscular

I turn my gaze away
as my number is called

I feel nosy sometimes
The world really has changed
Love's definition

HAPPINESS IS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED

AT chow king
i've seen so many
new faces eating
the hours alone

no one is surprised
one gets attuned to
a certain individuality
a mode of indifference
where one minds
his own business
like a yuppy

i must be an outdated
fool feeling a little bit
ashamed to sip my
seafood noodles
alone sensing a
humiliating selfishness
underneath the spoon

i have decided though
to have a take-out
i am not happy at this
chair facing an empty
chair as others pass by

i want my noodles shared
with someone
where conversations
become spices where
news become condiments
where friendship makes
the food more delicious
simply because the hours
too are shared like food
for the soul itself.

i have no motive
to change the way you see things

a cabinet is still a cabinet
i dare not open those closet
full of skeletons

i am taking you to a place
where we shall have fun

a beach, some waves of
thoughts, we listen to some
monotones

we look at blue skies
and at night we make a fire

we feel the sands of time
falling to our feet

when we part it will be dark
as windows begin to show

the sparks of lights
to our homes where love waits.

SIMPLICITY

how simple is air
without raiment

not even color
and yet the most

essential

life is even simpler
than air

yet how complicated
have you made it

to be.

KILLING

You may justify the killing of that
bitch

But how can you ever justify
the cries of the puppies?

those who are helpless and
yet keep on waiting

THE SOURCE OF IDEAS

Actually it is not me
which is the source.

It is you.

I merely mirror
what you are saying

and behold, you
flatter yourself by

saying that i am
beautiful.

THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT THE PORK BARREL SCANDAL

he knows every detail
addresses, parking lots,
names of banks, brands of
shoes, amounts spent
in lavish parties down to the
last cent, all
the luxuries that the
pork barrel went through
senselessly
shockingly
he can name specific names
of those involved about a hundred
of them or so
but he remains

anonymous.

HUNGER GAMES

when i first watch it
i could but cry because of
the violence

despite the pomp of the props
the fire and the sharpness of
the colors

was the director merely hungry
for the blood and the honor?

nope. He shows what we are.
How easily can we forget our
violent history

how Cain and Abel were
how brother kills brother

i had years reflecting and i guess
we deserve more deaths of our own kind

to be human again. To be careful
that soon we all perish

and lose our very own inheritance.
Earth, Peace, Love.

BRIEF

People are so busy
and their attention span
is short

too much info
here and there and

everywhere

and so i have this
tripping now

brief. A poem must
be brief.

women easily
understand that

what is important
is not what is between

the long lines but
what is deep within

that brief
poem.

WHAT I DID TODAY

I went to our old house.
Papa built it for us all five.

The old santol tree is
teeming with fruits.

All Bangkok, sweet,
huge and pulpy.

When i was a young boy
then
I watered it. It was not
a tree yet.

All my other siblings
went their own ways.

I am left going back
to my past. And trying

to convince myself that
now, I am reaping what

i watered. The old house
is falling. Papa and Mama

are all dead. And i am
their childless son.

I am eating too much
santol. Look what envy

and that feeling of being
wasted can do to trees.

I just did it to myself.
But don't worry.

I have this feeling.
everyday. And i love it

somehow. Angst and
Anger sounding like

brothers bonding
like long lost friends.

WACKY

i am 52, reserved,
refined, and
serious.

i am more of a teddy
bear
in your cabinet

but when you said
"go wacky"

like the rest i jumped
and stretched my arms

forgot the teddy bear
in me

and well, i was wacky
and wants to be wacky

for once. But tomorrow
i want you to do the same

"shout at me, GO wacky!!"

i guess at 52 i can still
jump a hundred times

but how about you,
Mr. 70? Can you go

wacky too? How about
you Ms. Broken Heart

Ms. Forlorn, Mr. Insolvent
Mrs. Unpaid Credit Card

Mr. Failure, Ms. Cauldron
Mr and Mrs. Casserole

Do you like to go wacky too?

at any rate, ...hmm
"what is wacky?"

we're all put
aflame
we shine in
the dark

we are all
consumed
not by fear.

friendship
sometimes is

"i scratch your back
and you scratch mine"

someone asks
"what does that
solve?"

one responds
"what is your
problem?"

none, none

that is what
friendship sometimes is

none, none,
nothing

it just makes you
feel at home.