at the night when he was transformed into
a cockroach
the room has become too big for it
and when the morning comes
there is no one to open the door for him
the knob is too huge
and what he has are only its two useless
wings
at that time he turned turtle and cannot
set it body back to a runnable posture.

and then Kafka becomes famous.

pain is the seed
sown in the heart
time is the silence
which grows the root
of thirst for God
and patience twigs out
buds of hope that
finally brings the
flowers of our divinity

having known
that you love me
the surge of the sea
comes taking Samar
to Bohol where hills
grow mountains
touching clouds and
then all the fish jump
at night to kiss the moon

the cat is
a nonagon
it sits on the portal
of nine dimensions
it leaps and lands
gently unharmed
and we who watch
are amazed
for what it is.

we can be out of
touch sometimes and
people who see us
are so patient and with
so much understanding
dismiss the crazy idea
and say with comfort that
there is nothing wrong
with poetry --- just wait.

the one that makes us
feel good
must be too written
like floating birds in the sky
and swimming petals on the river
the dancing fish on the pool
the magician with his rabbit
why? we really have to.
we must still live.

there is a time when i
am a spinning top
conscious of the force
and the shortness of its
swirling moments.
and then the inevitable happens
everything in me stops
and there is no one there
to tie and throw me again.

i pass by the river
this morning and see
some children bathing
i hear the sounds and
the splash of the water
and the throwing of stones
and the loud laughter
and then i am taken away
flown to the farthest sea

while in the car
alone driving myself
towards home
slowly i take the road
with a song in my heart
"how great thou art
O Lord my God"---
fear turns itself off
hope flints, love's ablaze.

these are all experiences
like " I've been there"
and "here and even
gone tomorrow, like a dream
our love for illusions
what we become
a nostalgia
we like to hold like
frost and mist.

even fire produces
its best light before it dies,
the most beautiful petal
is the flower's last
the most beautiful part
of the film should be its
ending, and this i like
to happen in my life
with you.

in a situation like this,
you become a poet. It is
when the jar is emptied
and there is no water and
you are thirsty
and dying,

usually it happens that
way. I was once a child
frolicking. There was
poetry all around: sun rays,
beach balls, shore foams,
sands, and pebbles, soft feet,
and hermit crabs, corals and
seaweeds,

but i was not a poet,
it was beautiful then and
i was so innocent,

now, the road shortens,
my feet calloused, nothing
carousing, my lips crack,
my skin shedding off,
my bones hollow

time has a way of showing
a misfortune, and then you
write.

that is where everything
begins.

the coconut tree

i won't say that it is you. I always
hide things away from you. You see
it is the house where we live. It
is happy. You say i am not in my
mind. How can a house be happy?

( how can i tell you that i am
unhappy? i look for an island in this
house, and it is happy that i have
not found it here)

what is that island all about? it is
all about me. It is a small island,
with one coconut tree that i love.
It is touching the sky. And yet
it has no roots to make it stay.
Soon the wind comes and the
coconut tree shall be taken. I want
to hold on to that tree. But i cannot
find that island.

when i tell you this, you will say
you're crazy. You lied to me. If you
only tell me the truth

( if i tell you the truth i will find the
island but the tree that i love will no
longer be there. That is the curse.
When i find it, it will be gone.)

do you think that that tree has leaves
of gold, has trunks of silver? do not
accuse of me of greed. It is a tree
without roots. It has wings. And
this saddens me.

A lot.

there is a dark room
in our house
where we stay for
a while
to admire how strong
we are
how beautiful we feel
when are so alone
and quite

there is this corner
of the room where we lay
our bottoms
where we close our eyes
and rest
there is this window that we
keep closed
where we refuse to see the
world outside
where the winds are so cold
where leaves fall and blown
away
there is this self that you
want to meet and shake hands
with
ask its name again for the
nth time
and then you shake your
head
saying you do not remember

there are those
who flutter for a while
exist only for a while
yet how amazed we
are with their grace and
beauty,
like those butterflies,
we abstract from their
wings and the winds
we reduce it to time
how time too flies
and how we are finally
left out
how broken our wings
how fickle the winds
how fine are we
that others do not really see
what we really are
left-over existences
mere stories.

you are back from a trip
the dogs meet you
the house help serves the usual
food that you like: hot soup and some greens
you open the door of your room
the usual smell of wood and newly put linens
meet you

the trip has done you good
the casualness have changed for the better now
it is an old world right
but it makes sense now
the chairs dance, the table no longer tiptoes
the curtains unfold, the winds are fresh this time
the hinges sound differently
together they make an orchestra for you
as though saying: we are glad you're back
we are sad no more....

there are many of them
they are names, they have names,
but there is something in you
that sounds like me
and it has become too interesting
so i left my friends, followed the path
that leads to you
my mirror, my echo,
and then you ask me why?
i followed you, looked at the paths
you have taken, i listened to your
words, and then i see myself again

at last, i flatter myself this time
you are interesting because i am
interesting,
and this is the beginning
of a friendship, who knows?
i will learn to live again
love my image, and love at the end
all of humanity.

your favorite dog senses your arrival
waits at the gate, by the garage, and runs
to meet you
impatient about the meeting and
rushing to you it stumbles upon the path
where you drive your car
which runs over the dog
which gives its last yelp and
then dies.

there are those
who flutter for a while
exist only for a while
yet how amazed we
are with their grace and
beauty,
like those butterflies,
we abstract from their
wings and the winds
we reduce it to time
how time too flies
and how we are finally
left out
how broken our wings
how fickle the winds
how fine are we
that others do not really see
what we really are
left-over existences
mere stories.

i think much better in
english. sorry, but that is how i was
brought.
every hour, every book,
every lecture in school is in english.

now you are telling me to return to
my home.
be back in my house. familiarize
myself again with my childhood
bed. my wheelbarrow.
that slingshot, that river,
that swing.

i met old friends again back
in that barrio.
we have become strangers.
i have feelings that they simply
dismiss as overrated.
i am alone in the midst of my
memories.

i want to run away. But i have
nowhere to go.
i am back. I reinvent myself.
i have to grow my roots again.

i will be another tree in this forest.
let the monkeys come.