the way to my heart
she says is through my stomach

for years this will work
but soon it will not anymore

to live this life and never
finding true love

to die with all bitterness
and please the last worm

give the choice i shall choose
to be born again

hoping to find true love
hoping that it is still you

hoping still that i may know
what true love really is.....

you will the language
that i learn
when i speak you
it will only be myself
who shall understand

i fall upon a cliff
and dive upon the
sea
away from the rocks
i must survive

there is beauty here
from where i am lost
and then to where
i shall find
myself without you

the corals sing for me
the fish worship my body
the seaweeds too soft
and comforting
loneliness is a good
companion
together with solitude
mixed
completing me.

in the dream
we touch and i am
free
like rain falling
on everything

it is different
when i wake up
and you are gone

these guilt like
thorns
and i have become
its main rose

the tree is real
stable upon earth
confident of  its
leaves and trunk
rooted
and steady and
mindless
of the seasons
and the
travelers who
stop for a while
and then like you
gone forever.

we are walking up
towards the peak of
an old mountain, where

Papa before his demise
walked with me
to the top and told me
how beautiful life can
be when we are near
the clouds that dress
the trees with its
foggy days,

we have gotten heavy
on the plains and
our feet are not forgiving
us for our lousy days

when we reached the top
my world changed
as i remember what
hurts and having learned
the cause
i breathe life again
like a child.

who wants not
to slim a little
to simply whisper
make a hush
and live in peace?
who wants not to
go back
to a former body
of smooth and
tight skin and strong
arms and
muscled chest?
who wants not
to be beautiful again
and thirsty for love
and have those
dreams of youth
fulfilled?

time is so unforgiving.
fate is uncompromising.
here you are
waiting for the next bus
to your last destination.
you want not to look back.
everything is nice
it is over.

last night she woke up
to an unholy hour
felt my chest
and thought that i was dead
which i played
so willingly to test how she
reacts to said
circumstance

she loves me.

papa loved the poor and he let them live
in his land
there was this vagabond.
he said he knew how to fish and papa bought him a boat
and the net
and the man lived
on the shore of papa's land
where coconut trees grow beside the sea
for they love salt.

he did not live that long to hear from them
what happened after.
the poor sometimes are not correct.
they are bound by their poverty in spirit.
bound by their tragedy when they were once children.
their trauma are chains of their afflictions.
unable to rise from their calamitous past.
papa became an alcoholic.
mama did not understand how this matter came into being.
they were like a river which changed course and
split.
when papa was buried i prepared the eulogy.
not much people. the poor were not there.
we were not that rich but papa always shared what he had.
papa wanted to believe that everything done turned
out good.
i wanted to think that he was right.
look at me, i tell the children by the sea.
i am that empty shell. Press me to your ear.
My song is strange and you will ask me where i come from.
i am nowhere now.

how easy for you
to denounce the church for its frailties
how magnified are the errors of its priests
and how stupid you have named the lay workers
how blind are the thousand followers which you
faulted for calling one Father,

how blind are you to see your wrong desires too
how inconsistent are you with your love for the poor
as you brag about an imported coffee
which you want to share with your other blind friends
beside that mythical elephant
i have tolerated your giggles
your night trysts and you too
must think on this: to each his wrong
to each his own blind spots and g-spots too.

THE FINAL EXAM
I guess there will be no
written exam anymore
but a one on one interview

and it will be one about
a repentant asking for more
mercy and compassion

do you remember
that little boy who computed
the flux of electricity?
or that little girl who delivered
a speech on the inequality of
economies?

know what, they all gave me
goosebumps
and that feeling of loneliness
that sense of
"i like seeing them playing
in the park
playing hide and seek
chasing butterflies
doing the see-saw
or shouting it out
on the swing"

what hurts you is never sacred.
what does the sacred bush do to
the lost stranger? it catches him in awe
and wonder and thus he removes
his sleepers and bows his head down
in worship, until he forgets his misery.
the sacred bush burns but is never
consumed. There are no voices of
instructions. The self teaches itself
what to do under this holy circumstance.
The dogs of war yelps in peace.
The wolves turn into sheep.
If you ask the name, it is not given.
All the pain is gone. But then you
have to go and be on your own again.
For the journey is always wanting.

the morning comes
handing you the sun
at your command.
the sun shines
and your shoulders
bare what scratch
has that night given?
the flowers come not
in baskets
but in the arms of
its own petals.
the dog waits you
by the door.
It will be a walk of joy.

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.

there is something
so important that i want to tell you
but i just can't and knowing that
you insist, and you do not want to be
refused, and so i walk towards you
as though you are an open window
and i look at you and i see a night sky
without the moon and stars
and i am the candle light ---waning.....

the man aims a gun at me
who knows his name? but i know his eyes
bland, and tasteless
it is not seeing for itself
it is dead as stone
whose slave are you?
it does not mind and i look
straight to the gut of the barrel
if it bursts, -- i will say, thanks.

papa loved the poor and he let them live
in his land
there was this vagabond.
he said he knew how to fish and papa bought him a boat
and the net
and the man lived
on the shore of papa's land
where coconut trees grow beside the sea
for they love salt.

he did not live that long to hear from them
what happened after.
the poor sometimes are not correct.
they are bound by their poverty in spirit.
bound by their tragedy when they were once children.
their trauma are chains of their afflictions.
unable to rise from their calamitous past.
papa became an alcoholic.
mama did not understand how this matter came into being.
they were like a river which changed course and
split.
when papa was buried i prepared the eulogy.
not much people. the poor were not there.
we were not that rich but papa always shared what he had.
papa wanted to believe that everything done turned
out good.
i wanted to think that he was right.
look at me, i tell the children by the sea.
i am that empty shell. Press me to your ear.
My song is strange and you will ask me where i come from.
i am nowhere now.

i have a dog with
three feet
and with said lack
i always hide it
not that i pity it
but it can be of
interest to you and
you will steal it

some creatures
are unusual and are
meant to be hidden
more questions are
asked and we will
be all exhausted for
the answers
some selves too.

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