upon a piece of old
rosewood
the hand keeps its
grasp

grappling for a hold
to prevent the
fatal fall

darkness surrounds
the grappling
continues
the man in me
must live

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

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

life 2

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

life 1

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

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

g8

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

couple

she accepts each sacrifice
as a stair
leading her home

they're going together
hand in hand.

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

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

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

whatever, is, the name of
lament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thus says the
Scrooge.

death of a pig

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

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

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

about manny...

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

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

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

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

which is not the case.

distance

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

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

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

powerless...

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

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

but not yet dead.

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

who knows?
it is someone else
and not you.

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

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

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

that is what you
do,
blackmail.

a shadow waits,
and it will stab you
too.

it is yours.

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