things happened so fast
she says death is preposterous

a friend was drunk from a
reunion
and drove his car back home
alone

his body stiffened
he was dead last night

and no one found him
the police came late

death is fast and furious and
flattering

he courted it and voila
he got yes for an answer

when he goes out into the world
there are no arms waiting
it is loneliness that walks with him

so he decided to stay and close the
doors and windows

thinking that in this way the world
will love him as others expect

the rope of loneliness chokes him
and so he prepares to go back into the open

he dresses well enough to face the wind
and dance with the shadows

they demand that he tells him his real name
and not wear a mask and sing the usual song

he refuses to cater to a brutality
he goes back to his room and reads a book

and closed the door again
and he grows up into a very strong silence

confident upon the soundless nook and
expects no one to call his name again

at the end he learns this game of
responsible loneliness

the one that does not speak when hurt
that does not smile even when seduced by joy

when we are too near
more is left behind

when we leave
we carry less in return

we either leave or stay
it is neither less or more

when we are full
we are speechless

when we want to speak
we think less

then we regret
it would have been

the other way around
the culprit is this silence

regret

i wrote a very long
sentence

and i pause at the
spot where i could have
put an end

and then i press the cursor
back

i have deleted you
in there

i wish to build a house
away from here
i have stored the necessary
colors of the paints
on the walls of my mind

i wish to stay in that house
alone
i will be in the company
of paper and
pen

i will fence it
it will be high

our house is not
my home

the night road
stretches its arms towards
an endless horizon
seeing to it that
we shall not reach each
other
the parallel edges
do not meet each
other
even you feel so tired
and fall
asleep

no one says
no one accepts
that there is nothing in there
between us

sensing that you do not wish to talk

or engage in

oral intercourse like those previous
free falling conversations
which we
conclude to be honest and candid and free
and agreeable

i stopped talking too

talking is not important anyway because
my fingers
have taken as many mouths as there are

without being loud

i respect your silence but somehow i detest your way of
surrendering to the helplessness of

silence

i remember when i was told that tomorrow will be my last day
and which happened to be false

i visited friends and knock from one door to another
telling them

that i love talking and that talking relieves me from the pain of
having been given only one day to live

when i have not gathered the sunflower which shall bloom in February
when my book shall arrive next week before
i shall close my eyes
and cease breathing

we were under a pyramidal roof
surrounded by coconut trees
beyond us the sea and some white painted boats

the seagulls are busy catching fish on their beaks
while fishermen arrive with salt on their bodies

and it was that time that i notice that this world is so beautiful
and the people too friendly

and yet
when we leave and be away for good and think that out there
there is more to all these

there is that sense of obligation to comply
this is not our home but just a hotel and we must not be too ungrateful to stay some more

because we did not pay anything at all.

the difference between
you and me

is not the sameness of
our miseries

the difference is that you
are an open window

that has closed again
but i am a window that i

broke and never close
because there is no more reason

to keep me closed i am
sinfully opening to the

changes of the clouds &
the course-less drifting of the wind

i do not pay attention
to direction now
except perhaps on the basics

of having to feed my day to
day existence

when you arrive here
i am no longer myself

and then you leave
saying i am the useless wind

of the house and i deserve
no room at all

early in the morning
before i become myself again

words rain in my eyes
like tears

salt to my tongue and
biting

i want to put them in a
bowl

treat them like salad
days

but i do not eat words
neither do you

so i let them pour
on the vacancies of the

floor and they drip on
the earth and

gone & i said i have no
time for thoughts

thoughts do not help me
find my arms

i rush to go and be myself
again

on the wings that you
detest

above everything else
i resume

catching breaths
like words

feeding myself like
paper

last night
i was a flat tire

it is the usual
deflation that

makes me sleep
and she is not surprised

anymore why we keep
this matter happen

the reasons are laid
on the dinner table where

the food has gotten so cold
and the mantel unchanged

we keep busy
that is the only way to live

we keep ignoring
that is the only way to learn more

and keep the parts of the house
intact the furniture stable

on four feet on dusty existence
on days that we let go

because there is no more reason
to make them different so

we can stop and gaze for a while
and say we love to be here

when the news of any disease come
we do not think anymore of hospitals

or recall the best doctor in town
or whether we sacrifice time for it

it is enough it is enough
our mouths are singing

we do not think whether we
have gone crazy

we have no time for all these
we think of place far, so far away

and if there is only one that offers
eternal shelter we are ready

to set aside home, kin, and
memories

to escape
asphyxiation
i open
a lot of windows
and wear
my self-made
wings

i do not land
i skip skies

drift on clouds
nine to ten

i try burning my
skin with the
sun's terms of
endearment

it will be a whole
day affair

i speak to no one
and no one speaks to me

so many
so many words trickle like rain
in my hair

thoughts wet me all over
like flood on the grasslands

when the day is over
i go back to my room and

lay my self on the floors
wings hang on the ceiling

i repeat this all day
and i am not destroyed

the separation makes me live
loneliness is my bread

between shakespeare
and bukowski

i prefer bukowski

brautigan smells better
than shelly

this is my way of telling you
that i am shallow and cheap

on the other hand when i
begin to write like
bukowskin and brautigan
combined

i know that somehow in that
pretense of yours
you still like me and read a lot
about me

inside your room, and then
with affection
you kiss every word
that you think i do not really mean
writing

every day
i climb a mountain
and i like
it
three more mountains
to go
and it will be dark
and i like it
when i arrive there
i will be very tired
and i will have a nice sleep
beside the stars
on the grass under
the moonlit
sky

dadi

oh she was miserable
she is always crying

her handkerchief is dirty
with her tears
and make up

i told her there is no reason to panic
everything here
is temporary

i assured her
her woes are much milder than the woes of those
who are here
and listening to her

and i let the other four who were with us
speak about their mess

they tell their own sad stories
how they escaped from hell

and then Dadi starts to smile
her handkerchief is dry

and she leaves us with a happy heart
to comfort her

we have to concoct miseries much
greater than hers

and then we start all over again
back to chapter 1

i always know how to create a happy world

i do not have to wait for a designer of
a happy interior

there is no place for a home maker here
i can manage

i cook a stew of happiness here
put them in a bowl
there is no recipe or choosing of
ingredients or even
measuring the quantities of salt and pepper
to be put there

whatever is available
i cut and make part of the menu
if it is hard, i soften it
if it tastes bland, i add salt and
seasoning
and if i want it sweeter
i do not have to ask for an opinion
i put whatever is my
dream and liking

i have learned to live alone
and happier this time

you must see me
perhaps next year
and i will not invite you
anymore
to enter my
new house

if you give me a ring
i will not answer it

there is no more rain
in my pond
the fish who is alone here
does not surface and show to me
it mouth
it has always been toothless
the moss are annihilating themselves
and the stones are
bald and
old and
dead
the nipa palms are cut and left there
there is no more roofing to do

you have abandoned me
and it is so painful

you are old now.

when i step into the room
i could have told you
but you are the one always speaking

"the king can do no wrong"

i look at the pile of books
silent damn books

i am following your footsteps
into that
hateful anonymity

when time brings us all here
we are told
we have not really done anything great

the books of our lives
will be consisting of empty pages

you were so engrossed in speaking
and i am lost in my
boredom

i was thinking of those that have not arrived here
those who have also given
hope like me but they are still in some unknown places

i turned off my cell phone
this time i must confront the void
into speechlessness

into my failures
for what i have not done

before i left the room i took one book
it is not that the king can do no wrong

there is no king.

as i drove the car last night
i passed by the thick crowd of people
in a big circle
the old yellow bus stopped and
some motorcycles were
blinking their lights

the ambulance finally arrived
in short seconds

two bodies of bloody unconscious
males were hauled away

blood flowed again on the floors
of the night

i did not know who they were
what they did and what they dreamed
from where they were
the women that loved them
... i am not interested
i am tired of this routine of
deaths almost every night

i guessed another alcohol caused
mishap, perhaps

i always wanted to be back home
and it was already late at night

i have had
that round faced
stone in
my hand

i felt its potential
for perfect
roundness

it was smooth and it
could make
a difference

it could be something
greater
beyond itself
beyond the concealment
of my hand

i see time shrinking
like a drying bubble
of rain
on the ground

and so i threw the stone
away

no one knew it
i was not that interested really
about potentials
or about
perfection

time shrank
what is the use of hope?

when you walk away
i am not sad

what i think most
is that you must find the right path

this one is not for you
i have seen your footsteps break
themselves upon
those roadblocks

i have to drive you away
for you do not grow well here
a moss to sand
a seed on a rocky ground
a tower on a pile of sand

you are destined to be great
in the land where your feet are desirous
like some kind of dancing feet on those
dancing shoes
like some kind of fingers fidgety on those
guitar strings

law is a serious faced monster
with blind eyes and sharp claws and
venomous tongue

the fool in me

i always think
of you

do not forget
that
i always think
of you

though i doubt
if you
also think of me

i like to think
that you also think of
me

upon a hill
under the moon
and stars

i always think of you
even inside my dream
i always think
of you

i dream that
you also think of me
as i always think
of you

i realize i am a fool
until last night
at the mall

when i see you in the
arms of another

like a vine clinging
to a tree

like a jacket to his
body.