she had a bad day.
That night she
did not sleep.
when she woke
up the following
morning
she did not touch
a plate of fish.

it was his fish
she missed.
The tail part
to be specific.

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.