End of Line

I see the light
from firecrackers dim,
as if poured into hidden spaces.

The sky is a blank wall.
Not one star blinks
or glows,

Like a poem whose thoughts
are unexpressed, halted
past the end of line.

I hear the horns fading,
isolating the echo
of a breath.

The air does not waver
like you do,
words stalling in their place.

In the powder-filled air,
my words were clobbered
by the mist.

Fill of You

It's never been clear to me
how close we could have been,
no matter how many times I rise up
at dawn to engage you in the light.

I walk just close by
everywhere you try to reach me,
pushing little rocks out of the way,
and teasing me with your splash.

We never had any conversations,
just quiet promenades until the sun
was golden in your skin, in my eyes
until they hurt with golden tears-

That's when I knew
I had my fill of you.

Threads

If life were measured like a thread, who will cut off
the fly from a spider's fiber, dead and swinging like a pendulum?

How many threads can bury a spider with legs dismembered
by soldier ants crawling over his upside-down body?

Stirring the mud, the rain digs on the earth a shallow grave.

My Diary

is cycles of fragments,
reflected like mirrors
of clouds, water over water
pushing forward towards water,
lost in a crowd of aggregation,
thousand details and choices
to look for. No wonder,
the breeze keeps pushing away
the present picture,
like clouds that never settle
in one place. They group and re-group
like false memory whose pieces
are from different puzzles.
In the end, they get recorded
like Egyptian history.

My Holiday Plans

Be like a timber, fallen on my earth,
and wet by the early mist

Or be like the vine, spreading out and creeping
across my length.

I could be the water seeping
into the base of your feet, rising up to your knees.

I could be the sun, peeking at you
from the clouds

Or the rain, pouring down on you,
or the shirt, wet and clinging tight on your body

Or the soil, dried on your skin
if you would only let me.

Shall we eat?

When offered as an invitation,
say for a wedding reception,
where you find an RSVP request
in a colored card paper, and you go,

you get mixed up like coffee, cream and sugar,
swirling indefinitely in a cup,
in this complex group dynamics,
and when placed in a table,
I know the meal has come to its end.

Whenever I see your smiling face
I like to write simile myself,
about the light that fell on my hands,
still holding fork and knife,

enjoying this new web of interactions,
an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand,
forging our social contract, mutually licensing
you and me, to ask the question.

Wide Screen

Your icon appeared in my wide-screen
laptop, like a flash of lightning,
an electric discharge, yielding
to the strength of attraction
between opposites, of protons
and electrons who orbit around
a nucleus, the apparent center
of things, to re-arrange
their structure,
through chemical reactions,
for example, making my eyes gleam
from the reflection.

One Way Street

The movement has gone way beyond
the one small step for man. Even tried
to step back twice, to move this forward.
'That's all folks!' blurted out now
would be like premature ejaculation.
Can you hold back for one more minute
and let me finish first? But these drivers
are like cabbies. When you delay, you pay.
When the service is delayed,
you can try getting discounts 'til elections come.
But on the one hand, the end may be nigh
with priests and merchants accelerating
the turn on the bend. You know it yourself
when you catch sight of a policeman
flagging you down from the other end.
You entered a one way street, man.

Be There

Taking unknown turns slam like a heavy foot
on the brake pedal. What if I had misplaced my map
and my liters of diesel were not good enough?

You have taken me into one of those turns.
I won't get off your track. Just be there
at the next turn.

Link

The sunlight
breaks through glass,

to warm me up
like this laptop.

But how can I be
any warmer

without you,
missing

like a WiFi link,
from it?

Falling Off

Your eyes lost their fear of heights.
You used to hold fast
on something you can grasp.

Not anymore.
You just let go of my hands,
falling off from life to death.

" . "

If you read this poem
to find words
to burn in your mental furnace,
to extract from it precious lines,
and to dismiss the rest as dross,
to be removed,
dumped in some trash bin,
I tell you, in the end,
this is what you will find-
a period.

Blind-side

After removing my glasses,
the smoke muffled the words, shuffled
the meaning, twisted the view like a slur.

The acridity bites my ears
like angry dogs tearing away not just fabric
but my flesh from flesh.

Outside this open window of the top-most floor,
the air is sucked out to the edge of the concrete
where I stood.

The Last Time

I recall the last time I saw you like a glow
scattering in a sky, cloud-less and full of wings,
as if to bring the light closer over waters,
rippling like recollections, glistening like my eyes.

On the sand, I used to feel their grain on my feet,
sinking into them as if falling to your embrace.
The light's warmth dispersed the breeze disheveling
my hair. Your glances, then, so generous with smiles.

You swirl in my memories like wind-tossed grains
of sand, crimson in the light.

Blur

I have become a window-glass, wind-splashed by rain.
The outside view blurs like words disappearing
from dreams. With my reflection gone,
I have no more thoughts welling-up from springs
that burst forth lyrics from my head.

The window glass is immobile like I am, battered
with heat of dry wind over a wilderness,
grass-less, where thoughts die like cattle,
their flesh wasting away. Then, the rain comes
to wash away the skin left clinging to the bones.

Between Our Eyes

Hi. Don't tinker with that screen
where your eyes have been.
Not sure you follow? Notice how many stops
and crossings I have taken you. You
have come this far. I like you
just being here.

I wish you can see me
from a superzoom's viewpoint.
Don't take for granted visual limits
or find yourself crossing to the blurred.
I tweak the control buttons to see
your smiles, round eyes,
and long, eye lashes. Then, I snap.

Viewers would later notice
how you enjoyed my attention,
how pretty you were from their screens,
wishing with their own cameras,
snap that way.

Don't worry. I won't disclose
the secret we keep between our eyes.

Appraisal

It seems to be in the nature of things
to be viewed at, gaped, then dismissed,
when treated like an artifact, on display, hanging
on a walk-way like a sign, mutual, visual
interactions reduced to the quick, transactional.

But I am your difference after taking out
the value of my visual attributes, or whatever
is left from your reductions. Do I owe you residuals
every time you peer into my features,
watching shifts in my color or lines?

I am neither an artifact nor your entertainment.
I don’t intend to keep hanging on walls.

Just Checking

Whenever I recall a need to check you out,
I turn and shift my gaze in your direction,
a reflex you imprinted with every sound bite

from the pitch of your laughter,
the shuffling of your shoes on the carpet,
to the heavy thud of your bag on the desk.

How does one unlearn the associations,
flush out from consciousness the residue
of formerly familiar pleasures?

When will I stop checking you out
in spaces you quietly abandoned,
and accept the absence that settled there?

Space in the City

is expensive. Some poor don't clutter theirs
with many things. Just themselves. So,
when the memo came out about enforcing
a clean-desk policy, I realized how physical
I was. There arrayed for display
are my worldly possessions-

my digital clock, black;
perpetual calendar, in metal, bronze;
pen holder, full of vendor-branded pens;
magnetic stick-on, as souvenirs;
company-issued laptop;
telephone unit (with my local number);
my PDA on its cradle;

and a picture of you,
big and in color.

Darling, there is an explicit instruction
to take your picture off my desk.
Like the city's poor removed
from squatting on private spaces,
I have to remove your picture
from theirs.

How to Dismiss a Non-Performing Lover

It is difficult when lovers treat each other
like sales agents, mutually asking for a love forecast,
and demanding each other’s commitment.

But the problem with prediction is the future,
not the predilection for unexpected roses,
but love reduced to  appearances.

If lovers were businessmen, non-performance
could be a development issue. Coaching may or may not
save the lovers. And when it doesn’t,

To dismiss need not be abrasive. Give each other dignity,
not insanity. Shake hands and hug each other if you must.
It’s all business. Find someone else who can deliver.

The Shortest Distance Between You and Me

He once wrote this - the shortest distance 

between two points is love. 

Were those points eyes I would have believed him. Maybe

mathematicians will disagree, citing Euclid's axiom number one. 

So, I tried again, one more time, approaching the water crashing 

against the boat's port side with myriads of moving points. 

Tap my shoulder and turn my face to you. 

Do I see an end-point in your eyes? I like what I see.

This is not a love poem

Yet. But who knows? With so much uncertainty ahead you
don’t have control how this will morph. It could take
one path and choose not to be. Bad, bad, yes, but
the span of your attention has expired like a breath,
are you expecting a rebound from your next breath?
This poem couldn’t hold you down either. You could leave
before the next line withers. When you do, this poem
can abort, abend like software and cast
a blue screen on you.

How to Stop a Beating Heart

First, let his eyes witness the inevitability of death.
(This silence is over-extended.)

Make his chest heave for lack of air.
(This is making me hyperventilate.)

Press your overwhelming weight upon him.
(You’re easing me out of your space.)

Look him in the eyes, examine his fear, and tell him to relax.
(You want to say it’s over? So, now I am your ex?)

Pierce the blade into his chest, through layers of muscles
(Can I leave now?)

to rest into his heart-
(I need to pee.)

Finally, look into his eyes ‘til there is nothing to see.
(I really have to go.)

Miss

To compare recollection of things with how and where they were
I guess is human nature. You can always log a problem ticket
for things that should be there but aren’t. Dial the hotline number-

But how careless or carefree one can be until the audit period drops
like a brick from the height, slipping off a day-wager helper’s hand.
I remember my head missing a brick by an inch.

Human skin is thick with layering. Even so, I pricked my skin
to wake me up from this self-made trick, of looking for you in places
where you should have been.

I know, I know.
There is no system yet in place to log such issues.

A Toy Soldier

No wise man ever said whether pools rush in, the way
flash-floods would in streets, in a tug-of-war with the van’s wheels.
Nor would you leave your baby on the car floor to taste
the water-tainted carpet, stains marked on it.

I frequently saw a green soldier-toy, only an inch tall.
He kept this fighting stance as if he were at war.
His green rifle though raised up and erect never did ward me off.
But his stiffness increased my desire for him .

It’s not for sale. Wars normally commence after this.
If I had the power of Moses over water, I would hurl the flash flood
against the window, break it up, then pull back and drag
as if with claws his toy soldier, and drop it on my carpet.

Fly

There are lies and there are
flies. These will not take you to the moon
or flay you before the stars.

Interestingly, like parent-birds,
the instinct is to fight back, kamikaze-like:
fly to the depths and crash.

But, the advertised phytochemicals
aren't scraping the fat off my veins:
Come on, burn, baby, burn.

What do I do with you now
and how? Look, the plate left unfinished,
has a fly feasting on it.

Slow Down

Hungry stomachs make sounds but some speeds
are measured in mach. So, how do you
measure an altercation between parent and child?

Heavy rains are advertised by a strong, cold
breeze. So, how did you miss the sound of tears
now tearing the inside skin of your ears?

Don't blame the weather. Birds still fly
together those of the same feather. Why not slow down?
What's the point of being there and not here?

Importance

In the lounge,
a thought escaped off my head
like a cold drip

from an air-con unit
protruding out
a wall.

It's lost
in a corridor filled with
consequential people

or who thought they were
altering the sequence
of the line

and the rest
who felt they were
but are self-doubters.

Awakened
by my own consequence,
I rise

to stop this
thought from leaving
as if a queue.

Black Sky

There is no visible city crow circling
this sky, blackened by smog, by night.
But I am here. Are the little wings crippled
or is this the loneliness of my pillows?

I demand your daily tribute of smiles when
the sun is up high, in that skyscraper. That window
glass cleaner is blocking my sight. Yet, she does not care,
of the printer's being out of paper.

If the power goes out while in a lift, don't panic.
I will enjoy the drift. Who knows? This could be
my black sky.

The Fall

The letters still feel solid. Not better, just the lid.
If you knew change, like earth shifting, the range
of collapsing infrastructure is called attraction.

Anyway, the rubble keeps things away from a blue sky.
Just put a sign on top. She is 'Love'. But, I am
so transient. And quick. Majestic.

Next, the sun comes out to burrow into thick clouds.
Who is proud of this new light snapping in the brain?
In the end, shadows covered the details of the fall.

Upside-Down

This is where uncertainty drops me off.
Normally, on highways, in daylight,
signs and landmarks are discernible.
But, this evening, the news is terrible.

Now, try to understand this fact
of ship captains angry with weathermen.
Who wants to sink an expensive ship?
The SSS chief voted anyway with her health.

It could be global warming is making things
unpredictable. Soon, the wind will blow colder
and colder until the air-con is turned off.
Hey, is not that a big hump on the road?

Stinking Hands

There are places I dismembered,
cut into chunks of bleeding meat
falling off my hands. These hands
washed off the meat using gutter water
from some neglected alley
of my labyrinth of memories.
These are stinking wetlands, wet
with all the pieces no longer
making sense. I could not escape them,
unable to scrape them off the skin
of my skull. They rebuild anew,
forcing themselves up my throat
like a vomit, or nose like a puss.

Some places are parasites.
You kill them with your hands.
They are reborn still.

Like the Early Sun

I remember catching the glow of her eyes
like the early sun beaming across a cloudless sky
for miles. Both eyes squinting from the way
her cheeks would rise, their lines shooting
like sun rays to meet mine.

I remember the warmth from her glance,
with my skin turn golden under a blue sky.
I do not wish to look away, letting light
fall all over while it lasts, a lovely,
transient thing.

I remember when all
were mine.

Miscalculate

Calculations assess risks invisible
in a horizon where a quiet sea can be deceitful
and dead bodies do not yet bob about directionless.

Some sail forward fully armed with numbers,
their visual map unlittered yet
with overcast clouds and spray of sea.

Miscalculations overflood rooms with error
before anyone in it can come out within
the safety margins and known tolerances.

How does one measure the deviation? Count
each distinct voice buried in the black box.

Shadows

At dawn, I stand upon this beach, recalling how
our friendship unraveled like a distant mountain
when its color shifts from grey to green.

But I fear, it's more like a shadow on these sands
as the day matures, just when your warmth
catches up with me like a lover's hand.

I know you are here despite an overcast
visiting my sky, vanishing our shadow
once clearly defined on these sands.

These eyes

These eyes, these big, round eyes
are huge basins you can fill up to overflowing.
Pour onto them like a downpour,
your glances and smiles.

These eyes will open wide like windows,
to let in your charm like an evening breeze.
Their pupils will dilate unabashedly,
like stars twinkling between shifting clouds.

These large, round eyes will close
only when like a multimedia file,
your impressions are stored
in my network of synapses.

These eyes are my compass,
always pointing themselves to you.

Jam

I did not take the ramp today,
believing straight roads
are easier to navigate,
but six-by-six trucks
and swerving cabs halting,
stall my poem abruptly,
like an unexpected brake light
flashing.

I wiggle my head,
like a pencil in between fingers,
unable to remove a poem
from a jam.

The Chinese Sprinter

He lies on the ground, fallen
like a house collapsed by a great quake,
whose door was used for his makeshift bed,
after clearing debris off him.

The tremor sprinted past him,
as his legs failed to deliver more,
stumbled over the shaking earth
and the tumbling concrete.

His friend later found him
among the rows of the dead,
found him curled,
as if running away still-

with white rubber shoes,
jogging suit in red and blue,
and a Chinese textbook over his face.

You Left Before I Could

I miss you mom whenever I am happy.
I did run to your warm embrace,
wasting your time with my crazy lines.

I miss you whenever I am sad or lonely,
recalling times I rested my head
on your slim shoulders.

I miss you mom whenever I felt returning
all the love you gave and shared.
You always knew I would.

I miss you mom whenever I felt like saying
'thank you' for standing up beside me,
for the choices I made

that differed from yours, made you sigh,
and broke your heart. You know I would
but you left before I could.

Young Seeds

With backpack on his shoulders, he's ready
to leave this view of wide open paddies,
brightly green and golden from reflections
of sunlight from each basin.

She often walks with him in these fields,
their small talk he collects in his head
like water settling in the paddies,
as if to ensure high yield of recall for her.

But whatever his eyes see in hers,
or whatever she sows in his heart,
it is not enough for promises to be made.
Both are seedlings buried under water.

After the Rain

While the downpour blurs the colors
outside the window pane,

you alone appear
like a torrent washing down my face.

I let you cling to me
as if to drench my shirt,

but you left so soon,
the sky breaking out in blue

and here I am
still soaking from you.

Fears Under a Moonless Night

Walk this unlit road
where stars blink at your fears

and catch every shift of shadows,
every whisper, quiver,

process them like lab specimen
in your brain.

A vision breaks out:
the next day's headlines, its images-

a body with blade-opened neck,
lit by the new day

but the lamp posts lighting up
appear like lab results reporting negative.

Unmasked

The masks last night worn under the Halloween full moon
Were kissing each other on the floor unmindful
of beer cans and confetti lying around them.

Strange masks, each one celebrating death, blood, and gore
When the wearers meant to enjoy life, to catch a glimpse
of wandering eyes looking to lock themselves in yours.

In this side of town, every night is Halloween
As hands catch another, lips lock with another,
Sucking life in from each other.

In the morning, exposed by the window light
are bodies littering the floor from another night
of revelry, bare, unmasked.

Sadness

Sadness.

'Tis when you let my hand slip away
through your palm, finger tips.

Gloom.

'Tis when your eyes turned to look at me,
like we have never ever met before.

Pain.

'Tis when you said good-bye,
after being kissed by lips, soft, warm.

Despair.

‘Tis when you walked away,
without looking back.

Remorse.

When you kept me in your heart,
after I depart.

At NAIA

this morning,
the sun's brilliant light
pierces the glass wall.

Welcome Intruder

You come up to bed uninivited,
and my slumber you interrupt.
You pass through my window like a spirit,
but walks on the floor like a cat.

Some days you're gentle, some days rough.
I remove my blanket from me
the moment your hands caress my body
from the strands of my hair down to the toes.

You make me sweat in bed effortlessly.
I toss and turn, to the left, to the right.
I sigh, I surrender to your welcome warmth
embracing me tight. Burn me in your light.

Some days I miss you when the rain comes,
When gloom is splashed on my window.
I lie in bed lost in dreams
of you, your light, your glow, your shine.

I'm

Childlike, joyous before your eyes,
feet on the bathtub, and starry-eyed.
wish we had fins so we can stay immersed
on our make-believe sea. We enjoy
the insipid rubber-duck as it gets
tossed, every where, in our small
space we call happiness. Wrapped up
in our carefreeness, life's trawl
awaiting in the depths, to catch
you and I unaware. Mute as the rose
floating on the water, ephemeral
but glorious in its redness, red
as blood that once floated in the
river Nile.

Warm like heated water, hidden partly
by warm vapors, like bubbles children burst
in laughter, one by one, you and I.
This is intimacy-
to be cramped in tight spaces,
bathed in laughter, teary-eyed.
Children soon grow up. Not long after
soon to dry up, to wrinkle, life-less
on sun-baked ground. Before death
finally makes its call
on you and I,
let us in this childlike pleasures
stay awhile, like gold fish
that just swim here and there,
within the perimeters
of their predefined life. We
may have invisible walls
around this bath tub
but we can be
childlike
for an hour.

Macabebe

The landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.
Lahar came to bury the memories in mud, sun-dried.

Where is the "magtitinapay's" honking horn, in his morning ride?
It used to be the day's call, a summer morn' has begun.
The landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.

Where now is the "aplaya" that was green far and wide,
and the lass with her lad, both in bloom?
Lahar came to bury the memories in mud, sun-dried.

Where will the "anaks" play under the watchful guide
of an apo calling each back when the day is done?
The landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.

The old river carrying the motor bancas lost its pride.
In the mud, heartaches, frustrations took residence.
Lahar came to bury the memories in mud, sun-dried.

The landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.

Starry Nights

There is sadness in the midnight sky
Starlight trapped within the circles of the night.

Have I seen a bird fly on your canvas
across the coarseness of your strokes?
There is sadness in your midnight sky.

You love stars decorating your canvas
White and blue against the orange lamp light
Starlight trapped within the circles of the night.

Why so much red and green on the canvas
Inside a café with roomful of folks, estranged under the stars?
There is sadness in the midnight sky.

Were you the lone, black tree on the canvas
Strong, upright, touching the stars?
Starlight trapped within the circles of the night.

There is sadness in the midnight sky.

This Bed

This bed is different without you. I'm not used
to its silence, inactivity nor to its bed sheets
and pillows over it well-arranged.

My body sinking into it is not the same
as yours sinking into it too. I prefer it to be
creaking, overflowing with sounds, sensual

while the full moon peeks through our curtain,
perhaps wondering what we are up to.
I prefer it to be disorderly

when we play love's games, the blanket removed,
exposing our skin to the moon, so that she
may envy us, as she outlines your curves.

I prefer that you fill it with your sound bite
in every corner, in the pillows, in the bed sheet,
with each space locking your scent, your laughter.

Let us fill it with groans,
and mix it with passion so intense,
the bed will ignite a brilliant glow.

This bed is different without you.
I am not used to space draped with loneliness.
The blanket is not as warm as you,

from where you would have been
staring at me with the moon in your eyes.

Overtime

as dusk approaches,
the sun sets
on my neighbor's window.

Treatable Condition

- My condition was said to be treatable and its dimension
is so observable- larger and heavier.
- Is it painful? People are prone to ask.
- Not really I'd say but I'm doing what's needful.
I'm not as agile as before.
- You ought to lose that weight. Purge your memories,
friends insist. Not everyone deserve the space.
They only pile up memories that adds up to the weight,
friends say.
- Can I purge them on to CD-ROMs? Or on to USB memory drives?
Is there a safe vault that I can store them up then
retrieve them if ever again?
- Wherever, just purge them, and you'll start to heal,
friends reveal.
- Can I keep my wife and kids safe from purging? Perhaps
I'll defragment my mind's compartments and sort them
from happy to sad after?
- You can keep wife and kids. Sort your contacts urgently
and purge the data from your mental vault. Work
to lighten up first.
- I did as told. But, there were no CD-ROMs nor USB drives
to purge them to. Not that its worrisome, as I started
with memories not worthy to store. Anyways, they're gone forever.
- The change is evident. The swelling is nearly gone.
You're nearly normal, friends say.
- Does it hurt? People curiously inquire.
- Not that I know of I'd say.
- Does it hurt not being able to recall what was forever lost?
The people probed.
- My mental BMI is actually better. That's good, isn't it?

Wide-Open Eyes

Regret is a self-incriminating tool,
a self-confession under the harsh light
of constant self-interrogations
up all day and night with wide-open eyes;

a self-imposed confinement,
shackled by the weight of memories,
constrained by thewalls of one’s introspection.
Half-wanting to see the glimpse of daylight

to shine onto a persecuted life
and perhaps salvage anything worth recovering
to bring out into the light-
perhaps a stretched, frail hand reaching out

from some dark corner,
asking to be redeemed,
to be resuscitated,
with barely audible words

‘forgive me’.

Cold Breakfast

With half-engaged brain, I woke up to this day.
The cup of hot coffee can't sip away
the cold space between you and me.
The warmth from my omelet did not reach you
to thaw the icy silence from your lips.
I wished I had remained in some dream scape
where stories can be altered to bring up
better endings. Instead, I have a pair of shoulders
served cold for breakfast.

Bleeding Wound

Like a bleeding wound from bullet holes
of the ambushed soldier in the street of Mogadishu,
passion pours out from love.

The black Mogadishu boy smiled, firing his rifle
at the right moment, his target within range,
a different Cupid but as sharp.

Like black smoke ascending from the military jeep,
burning, with rebels dancing around him,
love knows when to claim victory.

Like burns from explosives, love can scorch
your heart with passion, leaving behind scars.
You will remember even after wounds heal.

Workspace

He will miss this work space:

a laminated desk, smooth, matte-yellow,
a chair turned away from skycrapers.

From left to right-
the job, the customer, the deadline

and a few other things
placed there for a reason-

a framed family photograph,
for example,

where everyone smiles,
proud of their white teeth,

a fixture sitting there
for years beside the clock.

But, a work space
is neither home nor family,

despite the long hours,
the friendships, the thousand meals.

Another thing placed there
for a reason-

that pink slip.

After Dinner

I caught her gaze across the table,
her eyes lingering in mine.

Her lips lighter than the cabernet sauvignon.
I wished I were the glass she sips from

and that she would sip from it often
while her hands envelop the glass,

holding it firmly, tight,
bringing it close to her breasts,

as her eyes remain
fully-locked on mine.

The entrée is served
as I glanced down her thighs,

both of us anxious
to be satisfied.

In This Sea

I stand close enough
to where the sea can reach

my feet,
breaking into white foam,

in a tug-of-war with the wind,
my shadow too

the waters disrupt,
burying my toes.

I look at you,
keeping watch

for your return,
aware of the strength of your pull

the power you have over me,
there in your eyes

that you coldly withdrew
while I wade farther

into the waters,
to follow you deeper.

Now, here you are swirling
around me,

confusing my thoughts,
my bearing, my balance.

You can bury me
with your tides, your waves

until I have no more space
to breathe

between your crests and troughs
that pulsate like my heart

in these waters,
in this sea.

A Red Rose

A red rose held in my hand 

caught my tears on its petals like dew 

shimmering from the sunlight's kiss,  leaked

by rain clouds above the garden where I stood.

Up Close

A decommissioned body is enclosed in glass.
Friends examine how close the resemblance
of was to is,

comparing notes and pointing fingers
to petty discrepancies, as if it were
a document examined for fidelity.

Visitors queue up to see the glass enclosure,
to check how worn out is the life displayed.
Perhaps the signs will be self-explanatory.

Around it, dissonant voices mingle
with the yellow light cast on its surface,
where both noise and silence kiss.

The layers of wisdom-
the thin white hair, the wrinkles in the forehead,
the sealed lips-

are like a sequioa's concentric circles
while it lies fallen, cut in two
just like him unable to sit, nor rise.

After which things change,
when loneliness wakes up and the dead
disappears from view,

from their lives,
from what still matters.

Knife in my Throat

The sharp knife pierces through as it were
my malfunctioning mind where once inside,
the opening encloses an anger that has ruptured

as violent as the blood filling up my lungs
to an overflow, crowding out the life-force
until choked, the gasping for breath as if drowning,

all entry points sealed, all doors opening
to life locked, the warm sensation of finality,
as the full blade goes through my throat.

Your absence bites

Your absence bites
like ants that swarm on my skin,

overloads my nervous system
and holds it captive.

The longing lingers in every synapse
where you used to be.

I tried the shower to wash away
bites of longing for you,

to cool it down, drain it off
from consciousness like water to the sink.

But your absence left its marks
all over my mind, painful and itchy.

This Will Last Forever

Quiet eyes that will not open to see the sunlight
of the first spring day,

sealed lips that will not open to say a prayer
after the last winter night-

this will not last forever.

Your heart stopped beating for me,
and their veins like the air immobile

by the window where we had
our chat-

this will not last forever.

I will see you again when your eyes open,
and I will fill it with all of me.

I will hear you again when your mouth opens,
and fill you with my kisses.

By Jehovah,
this will last forever.

Cold Weather

I whispered, "The cold weather is upon us." The cold breeze
breathed to my face when I opened the fridge's door.

Can chocolates really make me happy? But what if
they are cold and stiff like a wife? Can my palms melt her?

I went back up the stairs into a room, dark, quiet.
The blanket parried against the cold; you, curled up into a fetal posture.

Were you conserving whatever remained of your love's heat?
I slide back into our marriage to exchange body heat with you.

There you are with eyes rapidly moving, were you dreaming
of someone else keeping you warm?

Worth More Than Twenty-One Roses

The flower vendor called up today,
asking for my order of twenty-one roses,
one rose for each year.

The first rose came with a promise
of longevity in its long, deep green stalk-
my simple, unadorned vow.

I learned to evade the thorns of life
while I held you, my red rose, sprinkled
with little white flowers, like children and mother.

We were bound together like a bouquet
of twenty-one roses, artfully hiding
the complexities and compromises of our lives.

Twenty-one years is a long journey
from 'I do' to I still do,
our very own endurance race.

You went from lovely to lovelier.
I will join you to loveliest with this hand
and eyes for you to hold and behold.

I thanked the vendor for remembering:
our twenty-one years is worth
more than twenty-one roses.

'I Will Stop Writing Poems'

I promise not to hide pieces of thought under my bed
the way alcoholics hide their bottle behind curtains of denial.

And when verses flash before me and my hands
begin to crave for key strokes I vow to distract myself.

Perhaps I should confine myself to a rehab center or
better still seclude myself in a mountain,

to come out later like Moses or Buddha, after 40
days of reflections. And when found by soldiers,

searching for an explanation of my presence,
caught with books in hand I will confess:

I am here to heal myself, to stop writing poems.

Erasing Colors

If I had a trowel in hand in this excavation site,
I could remove layers of history from these photographs,
to discover details I don't want to miss,
to preserve than dump them onto the spoil heap of memory.

Buried family artifacts, for example, this photo album
needed care uncovering from all the dust over it.
The stain of yellow pigments show signs of mud
that buried it after the flash floods subsided.

The sun came out today to dry up the mud
as it would bricks of an improvised tomb.
The government staff keeps tab of the numbers
of the dead,

but the tools for unearthing and the details they tell,
doesn't complete the picture nor fill the void
of the spaces from the album where once the images
of the father, the mother, and the children were

but the water erased the colors,
mixing it with the earth.

Bruises

You must forgive me for not writing sooner,
not due to absence of desire but thoughts
couldn't flow through the constricted channels
of my convulsed mind, their release every time, aborted.

How do you translate silence on paper? I thought
of sending you letters, full of blanks from edge to edge,
silent like signs of the hands. My thoughts are clamped
in its limbs, their weight increases the pain.

I really wanted to write you
but I rather that you see the bruises,
yourself, left by the clamps
holding down the words.

Vanishing Point

The jet engines' increasing decibels fill up the runway 
while the body of the plane shakes, the earth expelling it into the air.

I want to roar, to boom myself, to dislodge the loneliness 
draping my heart, to let go, like the earth the plane.

I look down at earthly objects vanishing to a point,
but my attachments stall my lift.

Above the clouds I see stars appearing. I waited 
for a star to look into my eyes, to tell her my good-bye.

I unlock the belt that held my thoughts that could stagger 
in the corridor while the safety-belt warning sign flashes in the ceiling.

The blanket did not warm me the way her smiles 
or the light from her eyes would have.

The featured movie played, ended but I didn't care. 
Sleep came over to turn off the lights

while all my thoughts scampered away into its own sky- 
cloudy and black- where she probably hides.

Zero Degrees Celsius

The weather forecast for the city

is below zero degrees Celsius.

But it was silent about the freezing rain

over piled up snow, the sort that makes people

fall asleep or warm themselves up with books,

overhead lights, and colored blankets.

My poem chills in the cold, the paper murkier

than the road. I try to lead it somewhere

but it didn't have winter clothes to bear

with the rain and wind.

With every word frostbitten, lines fall apart,

words give up their spirit while coffee and melatonin

deliver their coup de grace, 

leaving the TV set on all night.

This Heaven

This morning I was lifted up to heaven
at a speed of 500 miles an hour,

piercing the massive clouds to where the sun
shines with clarity at 31,000 feet-

if these were ordinary strings
they would have snapped,

but they remained tied up to you,
my heart's thoughts with yours.

The wine didn't weaken the threads
weaving in my head about you.

Up here, the sun is unhindered,
blue skies stretch all over.

Ten hours in heaven did not do me good,
the isolation kept me anxious

of our fragile link that held on
like sunlight to the window.

Basement Parking

I drive a 1990 brown Toyota Liteace van,
a diesel-powered turbo engine,
veteran machine of many close encounters,
scarred yet unrelenting in the road,
gliding through ample spaces
with the swiftness of a basketball player
breaking through tough defenses,
now seeking shelter in an empty lot

away from the scorching heat of the sun,
an inn for machines for a small fee,
as it descends into the bowels of the earth,
like a search engine exploring
all words, their spaces in between,
manually navigating across a neat file
of assorted automobiles,
quiet in their rows

like students half-asleep in their seats
in an early afternoon class,
confident of finding its niche,
just like this heart looking
for a slot in yours.

Burning Whisky

It wasn't a welcome home parade,
just the cold breeze blowing
a confetti of light snow.

Stepping out of the house past midnight,
shirtless, bare footed, I expose my raw heart
to falling snow and bitter air.

I give in to the temptation, to stand still,
and let white powder cover my face, shoulders, arms
even as the porch light struggles to warm me

so unlike you-
effortless, efficient.

Pull me up close, let me wear you tight
like a heavy winter jacket, and fill your hands
to an overflow of me

while your hair brushes away the snow,
warming me up deep within
like a shot of burning whisky.

Purple Triangle

It's an emblem of ordinary men
with extraordinary heart:

an inverted triangle, dyed purple
worn on top of the heart

but blood-red stained
from bullet holes across the shirt,

breaking up the pattern
of blue stripes the inmate wore.

In Sachenhausen or in Auschwitz,
they fell

but only the bodies are unstable
like an inverted triangle

made weaker by a Nazi kick
or an SS blow.

For now, it seems
like ancient history:

a prison garb
with a purple triangle.

Counting Money

You would think with all my math skills
counting money would be just plain clerical.
That's why I love fund-raising: Counting lots of money
is like good sex if you wait long enough to the end.

You think years of bonding gives you license to predict
a friend's response, to make a living out of it.
If I were alive today, I'd be a bad broker,
get fired, fall in line for a meal stub, instead of dead.

There should have been audits, controls, even reports asked.
But I wasn't asked any. If my friend were any wiser,
he should have known a money-maker that he is.
Instead, my weakness did me in.

I've never been good at placing bets but I thought
I knew my friend: Instead, he let himself die
over 30 pieces of silver worth of bet.

Frothing Mouth

The tears on your cheek are warm as I am cold,
my anger tearing through whatever wings you had
to keep yourself afloat.

They fell as quiet on the floor as you are,
teardrop on teardrop, the tiles a passive witness
to my show of strength.

And this is how I destroy myself, word by word:
the very mouth that kisses you keeps the venom
but it is I who dies day by day.

My death will take place the day your wings
are healed, has found new strength,
the courage to rise:

I will be frothing in the mouth
but you wouldn't care.

Simple Statements

It started with a simple disclosure:
'I have a tumor in my lymph nodes.'

I looked at you, calculating my words,
their tone, their weight, to match yours.

'It is not even Stage 1.'
I thought I saw something in your eyes

that reminded me of mornings after my wife and I
had quarreled- a search for hope, a different life.

'The chemo is not working. One gallon of liquid
was taken out of my lungs.'

So you and this went on like husbands and wives do,
except from this you couldn't divorce.

I heard your violent coughing,
echoing the pain I never knew.

Today, a brief statement was sent out
to all of us friends,

that you passed away 8:30 am-
the moment when death did us part.

Green Grass

I watch the flowers fall
between the small spaces of earth
surrounding your new home

before my tears blur my sight
as I look down,
but the earth's embrace

keeps you from us,
on this sunny day
with the grass all green.

Next Opportunity

A young boy of frail frame, perhaps 10 years-old
crawled like a spider on the jeepney's floor,

and with rag in hand started wiping the dust
off our shoes but the pasaheros ignored

his outstretched hand and open palms,
his lips mumbling softly a prayer

Ale, penge pong pambili ng tinapay.

No one cared to hear the plea, all eyes
were towards the window of the jeepney.

A few more meters and his hand fell
like a heavy log falling by his side.

The driver didn't bother to look back,
except for the image of Christ on the ceiling.

A pasahero signaled for a stop,
Tabi lang.

Was it said to the driver or to the boy
who like a devout Catholic has his knees

still bent on the floor, repeating his novena
before the Christ as each pasaheroleft?

When the jeepney stalled at one point,
the boy got off unceremoniously

and mingled with boys and girls
getting out of a school gate.

He rode the next jeepney.

Faulty Exegesis

Without a map, the next best thing when evening driving is to learn fast
how to read signs, and even here critical thinking is key or be misled

by false and make-shift signs some self-imposed authority,
put up for his convenience. It can distract you

like a high beam from an approaching car or much worse
misread a Right-Turn traffic sign on the asphalt road,

where the next thing you see is a policeman's hand waving,
his stern look, a fair warning of an approaching discourse

of a supposed error starting with definitions, then exegesis,
to etymology of words, and its consequences.

I Will Return to You Someday

But not yet. Not until I see a different sun
rise above your sea, until I see beyond the glow
hiding among your clouds

A brilliant yellow light, filling up
its waters with a thousand flickering lights.

I would rather ride your waves at their angriest,
tossing me to and fro, from one crest to the next
instead of this: Your composure unsettling me.

Until the day you choose to stir the air
with foam, perhaps I will return.

But there is nothing to look back at
just your hard crags, unruffled by the wind,
completing the melancholy in your lips,

Black rock rising,
to touch the dark drab sky.

Lumphuni Lotus Flower

It was overcast in Bangkok the day we met, 
light rain was falling on Ploenchit Road. 

Your Chinese skin was the only bright thing
next to the white coffee cup. 

Your eyes seemed brown as they studied mine 
but really, you were gazing at the Powerpoint slide.

Your lips squint like your eyes, your accent Thai,
Your fingers keep sweeping through your black hair.

Your eyes were sharper than my glasses,
tapping my shoulder for each visual lapse.

You have my respect, beautiful lotus flower
afloat in the waters of Lumphuni.

I smile recalling the laughter in your eyes
as rain drops drip on the jumbo jet's window pane.

That Seemed Good

He found me wandering in Quiapo* and offered 
to take me home. That seemed good.

He said, 'You need a good bath to remove 
all that grease off your body.'

He led me into a room where there was 
water and a bucket.

He cleaned me up with soap. His hands 
polished parts of me to his satisfaction.

He led me to a bed and said, 
'You need rest.' That seemed good.

He laid me down. My hair still wet. He said, 
'I will take care of you' as he undressed.

First, he let go of the pants then underwear,
dropping them on the floor.

I watched him get close to me, his weight 
pressing heavily. Then, he got up.

Leaving a twenty-peso bill he told me, 
'Buy yourself some candy.' That seemed good.

When the Saxophone Moans

Melancholy fills the wine glass, while despair
hogs the seats around me. He is playing Mangione
like a broken-heart’s groan.

The saxophone moans, its cry lingering
filling me up with notes, drifting high,
low, then back as I drink the wine.

If I were the saxophone, agile fingers
would caress me, echoing ripples of rhythm
across my length

And I would not let go of passionate lips
blowing solitude away from me
until the sax and I groan as one.

Instead, I sit here with the wailing tunes
listening to a lady bawl her lines
as if they were mine.

The Rainy Season is Over

I have squeezed the last droplet
of the season from my eyes. My heart
has seen enough of darkness, of the cold gust.

I long to see blue skies stretched widest,
warm sunshine on the skin, and a gentle wind
in my face under the shade of a mango tree.

Your good-bye brought heavy rains
to the sanctuary of this heart,
now filled with leaks, their drips taxing my ears.

But the rainy season is over. I don't have
to keep watching for your rain clouds.

When Wounds Heal

Do you recall? you asked pointing to the scar
on your knee. The moment flashes back:

First out of the boat,
the view distracted me-

a green sea of shrubs and grass mixing with blue
of mountains while ocean waves break up

into white foam
stumbling on the beach.

I hear people raise their voices:
Turning around I see-

you, fallen on the pier,
lost your balance

when the boat moved and all your weight
was carried by your knee, now bloodied.

Yes, I recall.

You didn't cry nor wince. Your eyes were drained
of tears long before by countless wounds

from tripping over unsteady hearts.
It doesn't feel anything, you noted.

Something else dies when wounds heal,
I sighed.

The Burning

He told me
to start making preparations.

I listened as if it were about someone else,
the need to do this quickly, remain detached,

business-like, keeping eyes clear
while reading the fine print.

As the last ritual, I burned
everything left of him-

his letters, photographs, dried roses
inserted between the pages

of an old greeting card,
collected in a box.

At the end, I didn't even collect
the ashes.

Internal Fracture

I thought denials would not wear me down
like metals straining against load but their repetition

pressed my endurance to its limit.
It fractured me in ways invisible to you

spreading like a crack until we are pulled apart 
like metals tired of each other

where the sex hurts like the weight of a jet engine 
sheared from the wing, then free falls.

Taken Away

'Move on', the inner voice demands,
slaps me like the ocean breeze,
its weight pushing me back
to alter my direction.

Feet soak in the waters buried
by the submerged sand,
the waves keep retrieving me
for themselves.

The clouds hover above my confused state,
only to be dispersed by the wind
like loitering passers-by
bored by the wait.

My indecision is now exposed to the sun,
scolding me with its heat. I give out a sigh,
as daylight recedes, clarity is lost
with the approach of a purple-blue sky.

Empty Space

The sensuality of the curve flowing
downward, touching the stiff black arms,

on its two sides, is undiminished
by the checkered, grey and black fabric

hiding the strength of steel partly exposed
underneath its structure.

It remained still, stowed under your desk.
No sound from the rollers pressing

on the carpet every time you shifted
your weight,

nor a squeak from the metal support
whenever you turned around my way.

But unlike me,
it doesn't care for your absence

nor for the silence of the space
where you once were.

Right Burial

When you're dead and grass has sprouted off your grave
with flash flood rushing to pile mud over you again,
only the agent of coercion-

the one who bored a hole into your head,
who tried to make your blood spill to the right
instead of left-

will remember this place,
how they dragged you away from your routine.

When the earth dries up and the grass over you withers
then perhaps one stray dog's nose will help us find
your skull with a hole that the bullet pierced.

In the New Station

The transit time was brief as promised. The window 
offered only blurs of colors and shapes for distraction.

You either move forward across this haze
or watch her diminishing in importance,

anchored in the past with eyes still legible
despite the tears and rain.

That turn, a mild jolt, finally moved the train 
away from her. But your sigh is too far 

from the window to smear it with doors 
now closed to any after thought.

Arriving in the new station, doors open again.
If only one's heart could quickly do the same.

'Click'

am not used to excuses
and long-winded stories,
to blood-flow constricted ears
from phone receivers,
to stuttering speech
and intermittent silence.

I ask you now
as if we were eye to eye,
my way of measuring
how much of me remains in you,
margin of error aside,
to figure out if this is
good-bye--

Craftmanship

Violence has levels of craftsmanship,
displayed in the bodies destroyed.

She was like a fortress broken through.
They pulled down her underwear like walls,
stormed through doors as it were

to expose her vagina, slit her throat,
and leave blood under her nape.

The old man is like a tower fallen
on the pavement. Grease, dirt stuck on his skin
like ruins of a fallen city.

His tormentors fried up his brain,
his wide-open eyes confirm.

The young man is the look of a city
destroyed. His tongue was cut, teeth broken,
an eye bored through, finger nails pulled.

His head was severed off,
for their collection.

Disappearance

Even if an angel were to roll away
the heavy stone-like lid that sealed his heart,
he wouldn't find you in it any longer.

He once cleaned up her wounds
and anointed her with oil
hoping to preserve her in it.

He hid her then under layers
of linen-like distractions,
with myrrh and aloes in between.

Hidden away from wind and rain
he hoped that she would remain
with wounds all healed and new flesh.

It must have been a long time since
he closed his heart,
for she is no longer there.

Starting Over

Like a thick smoke, the clouds
dim the tinted window glass-

his image appearing before wind-sent rains
splash on its pane, breaking up his thoughts.

But he knew this storm could drench him.
Its flood waters could take him away,

unable to find a high ground
from her good-bye.

Baptism

Her grip is the mist
on his skin.

While she stretches over
like a rainbow

over this hill,
he vainly holds her tight

but she keeps on falling
like waters

from the height,
holding him immobile

by her weight
on his loins.

He wades, sinks in
her pool of deep green waters,

drinking freely
as it seeps into his mouth

while here
closer to the sky,

among the clouds
where neither warm light

nor cool air
stands still,

fully immersed
in delight.

Detox

You don't come home to my embrace,
wanting instead the bed, sinking into it
like a cut-down log, face down.

Tired to say hello or share an evening meal,
you know I don't mind missing another one.
After all, fasting sheds weight of anxieties.

But I am past the fog induced by your abstention.
My craving disappeared. The new clarity is as striking
as the gap between us in the bed.

In a couple more weeks, the detox will complete
purging us of each other.

Unlit Road

Unable to hold my quench after the first sip,
the taste of your love on my lips made me swerve

on this road I thought I knew well-
its curves, pot holes, and humps-

unafraid of a little hassle on the wheel,
foot on break pedal, unwavering: I know when to stop.

Tipsy, euphoric and red-faced yet my vision
is still clear, speech still smooth.

While car in full speed,  you disappeared
like a headlight failing on an unlit road-

Computations

Adding figures in the columns, each row
heavy on her eyes, she shifts her shoulders
and seat, like numbers, repeatedly.

But they keep moving to the right,
distancing themselves from her.
The gap she fills with eloquence.

Not distracted by her fillers,
studying her sheet, her audience
computed her future right there.

You

Are as quiet as a city street
after the evening rains of September

but prettier than this scene
in black and white,

the brilliance of lamp posts
reflected on the pavement, wet with rain.

You are far more beautiful
than all the maple or birch trees here

ablaze in reds and oranges, with mountains
and snow to complete the photograph.

I don't miss Boston
looking at your photograph:

Not its coffee shops, river,
nor the shade of trees.

But this I remember-
you on my camera viewfinder:

your dew-glazed skin
shimmering under autumn light;

your long, ebony hair quietly fastened
on your exposed shoulders, arms;

your lips, pouting against
the sun's red-purple light.

Good-bye

Rehearsals held in his mind:
his choice of words, their tone, volume, pace
expecting to part ways business-like:

with firm hand-shake, restrained expression,
no tight embraces, as he signs his name
(omitting a sigh from the dotted line)

remembering not to look back (at her)
after walking away, nor recall yesterday
how it was without good-bye.

Unrestrained

The warm fluid swirls,
surrounds like a tight knot

breaking into,
opening access to depths

where breaths are pushed
like rapids among rocks.

Puppet

What if gestures incline a word,
how much weight is there before dropping
out of view?

Saliva drips

________________over
________________the


_______f
________a
__________l
____________ling




_____________word

but gravity
is a separate influence.
The ground offers no affinity.

The black, inclined _______________word

___________is a puppet

controlled by key-strokes.

Insight

The enlightenment desired when reading lines
lies in control, purely arbitrary,
and ergonomic.

Reach out to that knob, turn it clockwise,
see the brightness rise and pupils dilate
in search of meanings in b
______ r
_______o
____ken
lines.

The only li__ m____ i_ t__ a___ t i o n
is not in the





___________depth

but the w_ i__ d_ t h
of your screen.

It could be w__ i___ d ____ e______ r.

desreveR

Can mirrors change self-perception?
Will the image be an improvement?
For example, tnemevorpmi na eb egami eht lliw?
Where is the insight here?

What if you are not symmetrical?
lacirtemmysa era uoy fi tahW?
A rightist can be drawn as leftist
but which one is the illusion,
which one is Marx's disciple?

The reds their influence can be
e_x__p____a_____n__de(a)d,
amplifying their mantra
anyway wanted. But, does it matter still
with things are going desrever for Engel?

In this Rain

When it rains like this, I look out
the window to see how colors blur
with the wind-

remembering the times
you wrapped yourself around me
under my umbrella.

Wet from hair, shoulders, neck,
down to our drenched shoes,
we used up whatever warmth we have had.

The stronger the wind blew,
the tighter your grip was.

We ran, laughing like children
catching their first rain
in an afternoon turned upside down.

I recall looking at your eyelashes,
how pretty they were in the rain,
your eyes, smile when you held my hands.

I turn away from the window knowing
if you were here, you would have dragged me out
to walk together in this rain.

Seminar Notes

A lecture is the music in the room,
but it is neither time for ringing alarms
nor for the pop-up window

offering a view of friends
asking questions about lunch
on the Chinese restaurant five blocks,

all Lego, that a young boy found
after riding a tuktuk
whose driver charges

fast forward, a media player
on Windows, with bumpy DVD presentation.
The screen blanked, the laptop powered down.

Boat Ride

A salamander crosses our path,
past the pebbles lined up neatly
on our left and right,

the canopy hosts
the morning routine of
chirping birds shuffling leaves.

From the distance a boat
bobs on the waters like myself
unable to catch your eyes

but content to hear laughter
from you like steam
from my unfinished coffee cup

Intercepting Codes

Across the room she appears, re-appears
in between shoulders,

I synching my pace with hers,
waiting for the cue, racing to the spot

where she would take that 60 degree turn,
make that brief glimpse,

a stealthy scan for a familiar face
behind people's back,

to stand in place, intercept her code
printed in her eyes.

In the clearing, in suspended time
we interlocked:

her pupils dilate, lips pout,
cheeks rise

as the crowd refills the space
between us,

she, disappears like lightning
in the clouds.

What's After Forever?

The precision of a caliper
is not in question.

Regardless, old math counts
in whole numbers

much simpler than algebra. Is it
definable by numerical positions

relative to base 10? How distant
can spaces be from each other?

So, what's after forever
lingering is a question mark.

Yangon

Their scarves dye the street red,
reducing the drabness of an afternoon
pitting black boots against bare-brown feet.

Moss-green coating on iron no longer
inspires fear, nor their war machines
wearing mechanical obedience.

Orange robes flow like a river in city streets,
their skin heads reflect the sunlight
that breaks through now and then

as if to end the monochrome of tyranny
like clouds, heavy and lingering.
At the end of the road find

all competing colors, lined up in rows
with their weapons raised, their heads
lowered like bamboos.

Gandhi would have worn his robe white
in this overcast, on the ground
seated like a heavy log.

Distant Palm Trees

Sleep, like rows of palm trees
standing still, seems distant.

Waves of anxieties pile up,
to crash, like disrupted dreams

on my solitude, pushing me further
to a corner that your eyes do not reach,

leaving me gasping for breath
as I sink.

Our Skies

As a pair, I feel unsure
if we see the same sky.

Mine is full of blue,
and you are its sun

but in yours, sunlight
concedes its space to grey.

Come, see your roses
appear vibrant in this light

if only you would leave
your cloudful sky for mine.

Unearthing

The promise of discovery,
of unearthing you from layers of hear-says

bring me here again,
to recover buried artifacts of me

scattered about in you,
to be set aside from dirt, rubble

changes since the years
we met.

I dig here to find in your eyes,
a devotion once true.

The Ride is Over

The train ride is over
like a love song slowing down,

the time to part has drawn near.
I mean to say good-bye like friends

but you would not let me
catch your eyes.

Outside the train car I stand
to gaze at you

as the doors snap back:
just like a refrain ending, sweet, sad.

Sacrilege

The children break out into laughter
at the dining table turning his skin blood-red
who holds sacred quiet communion meals

as he raises his hand 
to break a bottle of ketchup
on the nearest child's fair head.

The lamp shade's light is not enough

to push aside this darkness and dawn --
is yet too pale with its light where silence dwells,
my unwanted guest over-staying on the bed.

Shifting body weight left then right,
I search on this bed, any space
where your absence is not missed.

Cheer of a morning light, you are yet far off
while a quiet wind chills the window pane,
diffusing whatever is left to see

Instructions for Timothy

She lifts him up, holds him tight,
and keeps him warm, daylight fading,
the cold advancing to this moment.

She kisses him as morphine flows,
before complying with doctor's orders
to remove him from equipment.

The stars come out in the autumn sky
to be her witnesses when the nurse
pulls away the tubes from him.

Thoughts of another morning make her cry.
The clouds came like a blanket over him,
the cold completing its embrace.

You are not the sunset when it's gone

You are not the sunset when it's gone,
your space taken by a crowd of stars
outshining your glow,
the fading red-purple sky.

Rather, you are the jet stream above me,
sun-less, cloudless and lingering
after the jet has long passed,
its boom already faint.

You are not the flock of birds circling
past the trees with outstretched wings
lifted by the wind, their reflections transient
on the still lake waters.

You are this young tree and I am the lake.
Your roots are with me, on me, into me
from where I recline under your shadow
watching birds, jet, sun, and stars.

Fish-Feeding Routine

Politicians and voters
run after money and dole-outs
like black jacks to the dead fish
thrown across the cove's clear waters.

When the fish-feeder throws up another,
the black jacks run after the catch,
bruising each other with their fins,
muddling the waters.

When the feeder leaves,
the jacks disperse
back to their cove-circling routine
like voters after each election.

Hangover

When he got off the cab by the fire station,
he didn't sway like a boat bobbing on the waters of a pier
as he stepped onto the concrete sidewalk
from the black asphalt-covered pavement.

There were no crags dotting a grey-blue sea
in a horizon where their colors change from black to blue.
Instead, rising high in glossy finish,
sunlight bouncing back from glass and metals,

are skycrapers filling up his eyes.
In the middle of the concrete lanes were palm trees
reminding him of beaches and kayaks. But here the sky
is like a trash bin full of used tissue paper,

the ground stiff underneath his feet
still remembering the soft crushed corals.
Like a rolling wave about to break on the beach
his paper work piled up on his desk.

Cold Seat

The day's first rain restrains
the morning light

but the cold
from the waiting area's metal bench,

is amplified by faces and voices
unfamiliar, distracting.

She would have smiled
across to him,

said hello
to raise body heat

or kept her hair
as cover for his arms-

the things he needed
to unlearn.

The PA announces boarding time.
The metal remains cold

while daylight struggles
to break out.

New Year's Eve

You used my pants' pocket

as drop box, slipping into it a note

(a raffle entry to win your heart?),

signed with your name, I bet.

It was New year’s eve when I pulled it out,

in time for the fireworks.

While the paper was lit

by the colors of the sky,

I finally won

somebody's heart.

A Sunflower

On my way uphill, I saw
a sunflower-
petals spread out to the sun.

Around a bend, sunflowers
sway as dancing children
to the wind.

I still see them
past the mounds of gravel
from a nearby quarry

like the image
of the day I saw you
pretty as a sunflower.

Unlit Candle

The gift reminds him of her
a candle with an inch high wick
enclosed in hard ceramic, painted red.

He fears that if he were to lit a fire,
her light will flicker but briefly
as when she first left him.

He would have been a wall around her
had she chose to burn and glow;
he, enjoying all of her warm light.

The braid of interwoven soft threads
stands strong in their fragility.
If only both had stayed.

Instead, he chose to do this-
keep this candle unlit,
his memorial for what could have been.

Command Post

His command post is shelled with rain
from clouds encamped around it
like an army since daybreak.

The wind muffled his voice
while battering at windows or doors.
An APC tank finally blast its way

against his pretensions,
dissolving them
in the evening rain.

Old Quezon Bridge

The network of steel trusses
embed themselves on concrete

like shadows of barbed wires and fences
on protesters’ skin.

Typhoons and earthquakes
have not displaced them,

their pillars immovable like trash
stuck in the river bed by Malacanan.

New Year Fireworks

Fireworks rip this black sky
to shreds of multi-colored streaks;

its pieces fall, rain down
through a powder-dense air;

only to recollect
and repair itself anew.

Milestone

Winds
lift waves forward
to break up these stones

like water
from a fireman's hose,
douses dissenters

faces
water-glazed,
glittering

like sunlit
wet stones.

News Break

The elasticity of the cord did not soften
the tightness of its wound on their wrists,

picture pigs in a slaughterhouse
immobilized,

but it was enough to poke the viewer eyes
watching evening news

of media men, their tied hands
filling up the T.V. screen like spilled shit.

A bus will haul them in, its windows
sealed with wire mesh like chicken coop.

Meanwhile, a government spokesman
gestures with untied hands

that by midnight a curfew will be imposed
to secure everyone's freedom.

Resignation Letter

He's browsing project papers
on the table

when I extended my hand,
unacknowledged

where it hanged like a bridge 
fractured- ties, chords, beams severed

when I disclosed
my need to move on

from all these manuals,
row of thick books,

Gantt chart and calendars
on the white board.

The letter is left unopened
on his desk

like metal-bending waters
that stayed.

So Ordinary

I see myself in my grave,
eyes peering through diffusion of light
from a summer sky,
piercing through blue waters
breathing into my lungs,
sinking down the sea bed,
bubbles rising up the surface
to a reality
of children and adults at play,
their laughters receding, fading,
their feet murking the pretty scene.

As the surface moved away
and water replaced air,
I didn't cry out like Icarus,
my splash, unlike Williams, was noticed
but misunderstood.
Alone in the beach floor,
I spent the last moments
reflecting,
how my death
was so ordinary.

Centerfold

She is not done yet browsing his thoughts
like she does his magazines,

scanning each one from his eyes,
determined to find

an image of herself
in the centerfold of his mind.

Private Collection

If she knew about these images
he keeps of her,

in his mental vault
collected from the day they met,

and if he would give her access
to view each one showing

her Asian hair, its entire length
glazed with fluorescent light

or her skin, light colored, unblemished
pressed against a mound, rough and brown

or her slender fingers holding on
to a coffee cup, made of paper, black

or her cheeks, powdered pink, and rising
or her lips, red lipsticked, and glistening

would she wonder whether he ever
looked away?

Agreed Price

The spreadsheet program
summed up all the columns

as in any military action,
the strength is in numbers

the need to discount the figure
is confirmed

but his never add up
to the strength he expected

requiring some escalation
to the hierarchy

his press conference
was viewed with curiosity

to seek approval
for a final push

by 3pm, he was hedging still
for a turn-around

to clinched the deal
at the agreed price

but by six, he was already
in police hands

allowing the sales team
to finally go home.

White China

The dinner plate,
Chinese ceramic in white,

slides off
his suds-filled hand.

While his cursing spurts
out his mouth,

the plate crashes
against his thoughts

like derailed
CSX train cars.

Remembering Guitar Chords

His fingers never forget
the chords he played,
nor the tunes he hummed with it.

He remembers
the night he played them
after her walking away.

The strings vibrate fine,
the lyrics are about ex-lovers,
but the singing comes out like a moan.

He loves his guitar
and the slow notes he plucks,
his fingers sliding along its frets

as he recalls the texture
of her skin.

Heap

The failed dreams of OFWs
resemble what Juan Luna painted-
they are corpses dragged
and piled up on some dark corner,
their dried up blood writing their grief
on the hard earth.

Though unable to tell how many they were
on the heap, this is certain-
the heap is rising.

Juan Luna painted a solitary woman
with a green scarf, wailing
close to it
perhaps the mothers, wives, and children
they left behind.

With swords in hand, their blades
protruding from their red cape
covering their breastplate,
they wait

for the door to open
rushing them into a clash of blades
and clangs of swords.

They will slaughter each other's dreams
until their breastplate wear only one red
from both cape and blood
gushing out of fatal wounds.

Some will come home dead
both body and dreams.

Her Laptop

I want to be her laptop
out in the park,

in her favorite bench,
to be coddled for hours.

I want her fingers
to work me up,

trusting her to stop
once I get hot.

She is a worded math problem

She is a worded math problem,
a complex set of algebraic equations.

Don't be distracted by her voluptuous data
in long-winded clauses.

Go ahead, simplify her complex polynomials,
and break her down like a puzzle.

Plot on paper what you found-
points of tangency.

My Friend's Ear

My friend's ear is my kitchen sink of stainless steel
where I puke, bitter words pushing up like acid

on my esophagus, rushing past the throat
full of indigestible vocabulary others made me eat.

I use it as my toilet bowl to defecate on,
when spasms and cramps contract my abdomen,

my bowels unable to halt fluid like secretion
crashing against the white-glazed porcelain.

My friend knows when to press the lever down
on the pop-up drain, to clear himself of all my stains.

Her Public Bath

First, with hose he let water
spray her generously
dripping down from head, body,
circling around her thighs.

Next, he washes her with soap,
bubbles concealing details of her curves,
rubbing her ever so lightly,
careful not to blemish her skin.

Finally, he wipes her dry,
in gentle stroking motions,
her clean, glazed-like skin
now more sensuous.

I came forward to inspect,
to run my fingers on her shoulders,
saying in an undertone:
Man, I love this car.

On Valentine's Day

He returns the card to its display row

as if letting go a spent balloon.

His eyes did sparkle like a soda drink

before the acid strikes a hungry stomach.

Picking up another one,

he studies it like a pretty face

in a coffee-drinking crowd,

then shakes his head.

Miniloc Waters

She is the dawn

striking tent off the waters

leaving behind the crags,

each one aloof.

At the pier's platform,

the horizon remains sunless,

withdrawn like a lamp's glow,

reduced.

Her stay is quickly dispersed

but her blue cast on his face lingers.