Visual Life

I see myself again walking
in a corridor or alley

lit by reflected light
off the main street,

from where children in their bare feet
run, passing by cars parked

on both sides, and in an empty slot
a throng of women sit

around a bingo table, their cards
with numbers marked with stones.

Or in an avenue of a business district
with buildings, tall on both sides

slicing up the sunlight
in patterns of shadows

across the faces of crowds
in their branded shoes or sneakers,

as big SUV cars, one after the other
unload their VIPs on the side,

and before big glass doors,
smiles and hand shakes.

I can hear from the glossy surface,
across the entire scale of grey

the shrill of children,
the honks of cars,

where I was in one moment of life
immersed in its pulse.

This summer has ended

When reds, yellows and greens
have lost their brilliance,

and the lake's deep blue
has turned into shades of grey

While on this ground, brown and dry,
falls the first rain showers

mixing you, earth and tears-
a good-bye to many shared summers.

15-Minute Break

A hand hits a glass of water,
turning it to its side.

It doesn't matter which
decisions are consensual.

Is soiling reputation worse
than wet business proposals?

In simple English terms-
'It just happened.'

There is wisdom in putting
carpets on the floor

for glasses to fall on
and break quietly.

Do people understand
the urgency of the times?

There is only
a 15-minute break.

Exposure

It's fail-safe for them to contain you within
these walls. Here, their passion can heat up
safely and the sound of their violence ripple
invisibly in the air.

Silence begets no questions. Such men know
only their desires. The noise they create
continue to distract them from yours-
your common space tightly soundproofed.

But your head, though bowed, shaken and wracked,
will rise like superheated steam, exploding
against these walls, to burn and crumble them.
Everyone exposed will die from it.

Early Morning Light

Stepping on the beach, the sun throws
its first rays against the sky.

I see hundreds of clouds, in little pieces,
as if keeping each other warm.

The waters ripple, bringing forward
an image of a thousand lights

from far away. So far, it exposes tiny crabs
climbing out of their pits,

and star fishes, still and rigid
on the ground, deserted by the sea.

The breeze dishevels my hair. I have to turn
my face away from the light.

When I look back, a wall of water
blocks the light, and its noise

rushes upon me like a pile of blankets,
heavy, wet and tight.

Not Toxic

Somewhere I read that age is not toxic. It does not make love sick,
get weak and die. Love is like muscles. You stretch your arms
to draw some shells near, bend toward the clear waters to inspect.
There are star fishes, red, orange, and yellow, decorating
walls of a room repainted to recycle its appeal.

We agreed early on that we will take up resistance training,
lift some weight from off our chest and dump them on the table.
We need to stretch our legs, arms, back, and life span
or pull up some web sites to get some advice. We really need
to work this out.

We convinced ourselves this: our love would be like the sun,
rising up to a new day no matter how often darkness engulfs
us. Tomorrow is another set of breakfast, lunch and dinner.
A new round of vegetables, fish and chicken to keep our bodies
from pork, beef, donuts and sweets.

I've got a wish: be here every morning even if Stevie Wonder
wails from the radio, 'this time could mean good-bye'.

With Jehovah Over a Cup of Coffee

Jehovah is seated,  a  coffee cup in hand,

the umbrella's shade towers over his seat. 

I am sorry I am late, not my usual self. I sighed. 

I look at the street, the cars and passers-by, restless, 

I am not sure where to start. Can  I can look him in the eye? 

Snapping his fingers, he offered me a seat.

It's alright, relax, and let us have this talk. 

Thank you for this meet up,  despite your busy day 

But things are getting tougher. I'm sure you knew. 

If people knew you're here, the media will be all over  you

with cameras and microphones, in global TV, on the web, demanding 

that you who parted the Red Sea to do it one more time, or 

heal the world of COVID or Richard Dawkins or bring 

Bertrand Russel back to life. They will test your brain with instruments 

 or enclose you in a lab. Sorry, Jehovah, I'm distracted, with many things. 

Let me regain my focus quick, been working at it for years. 

Then Jehovah  asked, what do you want to know?

Only one thing and if you require an NDA, I'll sign- 

Do you have a schedule now, a date, for dooms day? 

Jehovah replied, Well, sorry, you know that's classified. 

Iba na Ngayon

Dati-rati, sa panaginip
kumikilos ng kusa ang isip,

hinahabi ang mga salitang lumulutang,
parang kulambong na hindi lumilisan

hanggang ihulog nito ang ulan
sa lupang kailanman hindi naging handa

sa pagsalubong o sa pag-tipon nito
sa kaniyang mga konkretong lansangan.

Wala ng pag-gising sa hating-gabi,
kung saan ang diwa ay basang-basa

sa mga kaisipang nalikha sa paghimbing,
at iniahon ng pagbangon mula sa higaan.

Wala ng init sa dibdib na parang alinsangan
na hindi ka magawang mapakali,

naghahanap ng ginhawa, ng malamig na hangin
o tubig sa katawang nagi-init.

Sa labas ay patuloy ang buhos ng ulan,
habang sa kalooban ay naghahanap ng dilig.

Violent Waters

Her finger met the steam half-way,
as it plunges into the cup.

It could break an ear drum,
the shrill bouncing on the walls.

Not Being Here

On the window, sunlight flashes on and off
as clouds assemble overhead.

Daylight, streaming through the curtains,
is a false hope once overcast gets here.

There is no breeze to cool the skin.
It is likely too soon for a thunderstorm.

But, what do I know? Your cancer spread
like clouds in what had been a blue sky.

At 8pm this evening, the rains came.
It was a downpour.

A love poem

I will not give away that this is a love poem.
Run it through a search engine but you will not find
a lover's vocabulary in it. You'll be puzzled,
disappointed and confused: lovelorn.

The lines are deliberate to lead you on, to raise
the hope that it is here somewhere. But it is
like courtship where the thrill is in the chase.
The rule remains- haste makes waste.

Stare at it long. You might chance to catch a glance,
quick, elusive, intermittent. Be smitten with written
words promising bonding with page. Maybe if
the wonder remains, give me a second look.

Bu(llet)s

It was the sort of day I could have ignored, overslept, snored.
Unable to recall, in fact, details of a fall. My phone did not ring

to wake me up to challenges of a to-do list. Were the clouds
to assault the sky? Or unable to stay or go?

I rush to a bus while its doors are air-powered open. Dozens of us
push to get a ride. Can't hammer your way through windows.

Stuck in traffic jams? Man, this is a whole-day stay
in an air-conditioned bus! That makes angry or hungry or both.

Honk the horn. Get those electronic eyes catch details of inconsequential
conversations but the most important question - are we there yet?

When I got home, the lines were blurred by hungry stomachs. And so it was.
The rain was a precedent. It poured outside like a hail of bullets.

Still Clear

It's not exactly clear which words became
the vow we made before God and men,
but I do recall the only thought I kept:
to run away with you.

You worried too much about the cold
air inside malls when strolling
along its wide corridors. I only took notice
of your hand, its weight, its texture.

You enjoyed the mountain hikes,
the sound of water falling from a height,
and the thick crown canopy, but I
only looked to the glow of your eyes.

Your conversation recently has turned
to therapies, of bottles and pills
but hey, I only see a bride's face fair
and unblemished as the day we said our vows.

A Box to Fill Up

Lying in bed, in this room, one afternoon, 

while rain water kept dripping on the glass window, 

depriving the room of daylight, I kept peering, 

for no reason, at the ceiling. 

Signs of you were in every corner: 

that small picture frame which kept your smile, 

those magazines you often asked me to buy, 

that lipstick-written graffiti you wrote on the wall, 

and the laptop full of logs 

of our chat. 

Today, at 36 degrees centigrade, I've got a box 

I can't get myself to fill up.

Colony

Over 50 million registered voters are expected
____If you want to know where the sweet is, follow the ants
to troop to polling places today.
____Not one ever hoards information or loot. They like to share.

All in all, nine candidates want to be president
____It's hard labor until they die
while eight are vying for the vice-presidency
____carrying loads of sweets into protected vaults.

There will always be complaints but 85-95%
____Others are destined to mate first then die,
success rate will be good enough
____others to fight to keep the sweet intact then die.

Voter turnout is expected to be higher
____But there is one who needs to survive
than the 70% registered during 2004 polls
____and for whom they live. The queen who woudn't quit.

So Dry and Still

In this summer heat,
anything I touch is too warm.

I miss the coolness of your skin-
my fingers wrapped around your arms.

I wish for your shade-like presence
in this air so dry and still.

Changing

The furniture was re-arranged in the same space.
Don't expect any kaleidoscope likeness.

But what does the pattern disclose to the viewer who
just wants a seat in the sofa chairs and gets lost in their pillows?

Pillory is not a play on words. It is war in peace time.
Vocabulary furnishes the ammo. Cold metal, dead

metal like the gun fire on the tarmac. It was perfect
range but the picture puzzle dropped on the floor.

His image on the glossy is not the real picture sure.
But flipping coins forever will not alter things.

Perhaps it is time to try this again. I need help
to move that single-seater here.

The Profits of a Vow

In the age of Tiger Woods, cars hit trees from loss of direction.
But loss is a not an action word. It is about now not later.

Late arrivals disorient movements, eyes follow the shifting sound
Like hound dogs. They can search and kill with nuclear payload.

This is the era of abandoned homes. Before the drones came,
they were deserted. The destruction is just formalities.

So, to keep one's sanity intact, shut a partner's mouth
with a kiss. Very pacifist, muffling dissent with affectation.

When you come to, try hard to peer into the heavy floating dust.
I recognize myself, organized and structured like a poem.

She does not bother with meanings or intentions.
The familiarity of words is an enough welcome.

Come is such a risky four-letter word. I ask,
Is our adventure so far profitable?

The Other End

This road, to the first time traveler, appears to have no end,
just forever winding. Like her, no sharp edges, only curves to learn.

His audit of the sceneries are adding up like expenses.
The totals are getting heavy in the pocket until they bore them.

"I wish I learned a foreign language, perhaps Russian,
these people don't know and read a Russian book as if I can."

The dizziness can make you puke. If she jumps out into the open,
totally unexpected, that will be indecent. Creditors will note.

Will anyone stay riding a runaway project? Must act fast.
Ahead might be a big hump from which you cannot see the other end.

New Year Fragments

Darkness breaks up
into colors then black.

The ears catch first the silence,
then the blast.

He carries on
between the presence and absence.

You are still here, in his thoughts,
blinking (on and off)

in his memory,
like a New Year's eve fireworks.

X'mas Love?

There was love in No Man's Land. You don't ask,
what is war? What is killing you for?
The answers were confusing for politicians.

There were no stars but lacking GPS was not
a disability. Each one found his way to peace,
in an enemy's laughter.

It was not a funny word, slaughter.
A bullet pierced though a Christmas card,
after the carols were sung

and soldiers were pulled away from peace,
were poured together like a mixture
on a holy cup.

Could this be the end of things? To the enemy, dead,
one said, 'I had wished him a merry christmas.'

No Rule of Three

To shoot a message across a screen using bullets, 

follow the rule of three. The rule of thirds keeps subjects 

in focus too. 

But, wait, there are exceptions. A riddle 

may not subscribe to rules. A bullet-riddled body 

violates this rule. 

To count is a basic skill. After the kill, 

who will finish the body count? Did we do 

more than three?

There are no new rules. There are no women 

or children to isolate, only objectives, keeping the earth 

wet with blood.

Ripped Apart

This is a perilous season.
Some content may not be suitable-

In color or black-and-white,
they are still dead.

Why count bodies in peace time?
Something about parts and whole.

I agree. This is more than just
an inconvenient fact:

keeping your feet away
from blood-soaked pavements.

Today, I ask, while watching TV-
Were the bodies covered by newspapers?

The Issue of a Singular Act

The rains erased what had been
a whole picture of you.

Reduced to myriad pieces
on the marble floor like a puzzle,

I see no single match
to light a fire inside a room.

A broken voice is insistent.

The need to act is a reaction
against the sound of tick-tock.

But the seriality of my singular act
is no match.

Am I enough?

El Nino comes

El Nino comes-
dry ground gets buried by
rushing flood waters.

In the calm morning

In the calm morning,
father lifts up his dead son
from the flood waters.

Another Dawn

Dawn breaks. I rise to wait,
for this curtain between us,
to be set aside.

As the light exposes the horizon
of our thoughts, my wish is
to see your eyes, brilliant, again.

I wish to welcome you back,
to walk with you, with joy
that belongs to pride of possession,

to revel in your details-
black hair and eyes, on your fair face-
clear, distinct, once again;

to enjoy a small talk,
with your sanity back,
strong, no longer shaken.

But a gust has yet blown again,
the cold is back, in your eyes-
but I will try again.

Distracted

To fall asleep on this seat,
on a long haul flight,

may appear to shake you
off my thoughts,

but the air turbulence
will shake me awake instead.

The airplane's ceiling lamps
are all turned-off

but you are my reading light,
spot lit on the laptop,

my fingers
busy on the keys.

Maybe, it's the best way
to ride this disturbance:

you-
distracting me.

To My Brother Jonathan

'Tis not when a heart beat goes full stop
and eyes then lose the power of its stare,

Nor when the sheet is stretched to cover up
your full length, no longer gasping for air,

that my pain like skin scratched by thorns
ignored when running away from hunters,

can now rest, bleed and cry for attention.
There never will be a good time ever.

To nurse loneliness like a wound,
and dress it everyday until it dries,

is to hope a healing can be found,
to finally say my good-bye-

We have few words for each other,
but love is not bound by them or any other.

Rainy August

A sunny 8am did not
come true,

the sky looking grayish white,
the color of the bedsheet.

The weatherman did forecast
lots of rain for August.

As clouds keep shifting,
a gust hits the window pane

just when I looked away,
your body still warm,

after the doctor said
you are gone.

Dump Truck

I missed the dump truck this morning.
Now, I am stuck, counting garbage bags

the neighbors hate to see torn open
by scavengers. I wonder should I

be sitting here, checking
your pictures on Facebook

or be ridding all this
trash? But your smile, new company,

longer hair, without me seated
anywhere close to you-

I can't keep on piling up all these
thoughts and keep missing the dump truck.

No Better Time

It was a matter of bad timing.
Einstein asserted enough about spaces
and for you it meant no vacancy.

Death happens here regularly.
In this vacuum, there is no room
for the sound of your agony.

In a purposeless universe,
disappearances are just too far
away from us,

like nebulas signing off
above our night sky beyond
my span of attention

as your dust is dispersed
in this air, demonstrating Einstein,
his physical laws.

There is no better time for gravity
to bring you back to me.

Friendly Skies

What if I were thirsty and 7-11
ran out of styro cups?

What will hold the overflow
of words, stinging to the ears?

This is an escalation
of the weather's status.

In Manila, a government man aimed
his thermometer gun

to those out in the sun too long.
Its laser hit a forehead.

But this is not Iran
where standing up could fetch

a stray bullet
from a hostile sky.

Get out into this rain,
umbrella-less, to be counted

as ex-warm bodies
under this red-shifting sky.

If I were in Boston,
I would say,

'The snow has mixed
with mud'.

Mobile Church

The jeepney has an entry way and corridor 
leading to an image of Christ above the windshield.

Here, a poor boy serves like a sacristan. 
He cleans the passenger shoes as if to make them holy.

When his service ends, he raises his palms 
not to pray but to collect for alms,

Before his altar, he looks up  at the Christ
gazing down on those seated.

He leaves but another passenger gets in
with his own Bible and pouch.

Glow

While the flame was there, she left,
like smoke dispersed by the breeze.

He is left with embers, wavering
against his breath, the wind.

Remaining seated,
he watches the death of a glow.

Independence Day

A holiday excuse is coming, flags notwithstanding,
do you recall the answers to serious questions
from your last exam? You failed again, thinking memories
are so volatile and your recall of the national anthem were
like a game of jigsaw puzzles, singing the wrong lines at the wrong time.
What did you do with that Chinese media guy now
that you are in Hong Kong? Right, it has nothing to do
with Disney world. Don't shake my hands for now.
Everything American seemed to have caught a virus-
their peanut butter, stocks, and airports.

Another Project

Hands, clapping, voices, boisterous,
high-fives, and a document, signed:
after this, I worry about you and me
if we are to see each other again.

Soon, this room will host others,
after blanking whiteboards
and removing papers posted on walls.
The hours had been logged, accounted for.

I am losing you like a re-assignment
to a new room, another set of numbers,
deadlines, late meals, delays,
and change requests.

Maybe, you are like another project
I need to close down to move on.

Homecoming

The dinner is cold,
a seat remains vacant.

I wait like a wife
for a knock

on the door
of my thoughts.

Perhaps, tonight,
like a husband

words will come,
to spill like seeds.

Lost

He confides
'She only has a few days left.'

Fighting the loss of breath
I ask, 'So, what is next?'

As he lays out what to expect,
I lost you in the details

of many new mornings-
mourning.

The day you leave
I will be somewhere else

looking for you in places
we have been.

A dead poem

His poem
lifted my eyes

to the ceiling
of his ambition,

from where his lines hang
down to expose a body,

twisted,
breathless.

This is not a love poem (again)

The sort you'll find in bookstores
and greeting card racks,

with nice colors and illustrations,
with words, simple and sweet.

It doesn't have a dried rose petal
with leaves and stem on the page.

It doesn't come with a bouquet either
wrapped with eucalyptus or rosemary’s.

It doesn't know how to start,
and not sure how to end.

It's like that nimbus
hovering in your sky,

but never letting go
of the rain.

To Return

To return is to shuffle recollections,
to superimpose images

against what is seen, what is felt
under this different sky.

Where we stood has been altered.
Before us are rocks, black

against an earth, browned
by lack of grass and trees.

I fear the rains took away
whatever is left between us.

I can plant seeds here and there,
if you let me.

This side of the mountain
can return its color once again,

its past and present will be one,
if you just say so.

Have you seen love?

Is it something we can speak about
or pass over in silence?

Is it warm like a poem on paper
lying on the pavement at noon?

Can it be contained in a bottle
and instructed how to spring from it?

Can it be measured like a meter
in rhythmic pulses along a line?

If I say 'I love you'
is there a picture

in your mind?
Is it the same as mine?

In the Shadows

To where shadows
and road wind as one,

I descend,
testing my resolve

against the steepness
of the mountains,

looking back at you,
the sun gone

leaving what we have
between us obscured,

those parts of you and me
unenlightened.

Dismantling You and Me

The instruction was
in the one page manual,

of us in pieces
and disassembled.

After inventory of all the parts,
of wood and screws,

we located where we need
to hold fast together.

We were happy then
with what we have put together.

Today, with a different tool set
on the floor

we pull out each screw,
as in a rush,

uncaring if we damage
the threads

or splinter the wood
or hurt ourselves.

We just want
to be dismantled quickly.

A Small Factory

Outside the window-
the children watch cars, vans, trucks
fill up lanes with soot;

under the floor-
black water, still like stalled automobiles,
their mufflers blowing carbon;

in the floor-
black with flies blanketing
a baby lying on the mat;

home-
a human factory
in two square meters of black space.

Starboard

Tonight my eyes chance upon,
on this starry night, your star's glow
just above the horizon of this plain heart.

You fell onto this orbit, my love's weight
denting space where you spin. I studied you with maps,
to predict your journey across my sky

while sleep agreed to let me be intoxicated
by your sight. Your reflection starboard side,
made me grip the railings

lest I fall,
into love's unmeasured depths.

Alterations

You probably know
what an emptied seat means.
How blinking an eye could miss
the minute changes in the shadows,
and be burdened by what seemed
to be a desertion.

I am still here but yes I've changed
my seats, desiring a viewpoint
on how I can look at things, or you
not with loss of interest, no,
but with never ending wonder
of how you remained the same

despite the alterations
of the visible.

V-Day

Here comes Valentines
like a deadline,
and I've got nothing
to show for a result.

Unable to secure
a scarce resource,
a lover, for example,
it has all been a struggle.

I think I know
what's up for me come V-day-
a pink slip on my desk,
minus the chocolate and roses.

A Promise to Keep

The heart is treacherous, but by it our love we pledged,
wary of its fickleness unraveling what we held.

So, I promise this as God demands of me
to love you with all my mind, will, and integrity.

A poet wrote, 'i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)'.
I will carry yours in mine so you can fill up all its space.

So, declare to me this-
Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui*.



* My dear one is mine and I am his.

(w)Age(s)

"Stipendia enim peccati mors gratia autem."
Breath-deprived, the marriage is given up like doves
let go on wedding day. Where before the bride wears white,
now black is the motif, the sun eclipsed by clouds.

Soon, we'll reach the terminal
(si non sola mors me et te separaverit)
but the road is still bumpy up ahead.
We haven't paid ours

but the debt collector will soon find our address
and he might not care about the house or the old car.

Moved by a poem

To agitate the eyes, drive them fast
first here and then over ... there.

Between the distance of a millisecond,
was there consciousness of Newton's law?

To be conscious,
does it require conscience?
or science?
is there a con and a pro?
or a quid pro quo?

Is there a poem incapable
of moving a reader,
their eyes,
by a single letter?
or space?

This poem has traded
its abstract existence
for death.

To Lose Weight

Stepping on the weighing scale
is a sanity check for him
this morning after his head overflowed
with sound bites, moving images
and snapshots of her.

He tried many self-help books
on losing weight, compared the risks
and gain. He agrees it helps to have less
of her clogging his system,

that it takes time to lighten up,
to remove the weight of her arms
around his waist and love handles,
but he will do it the smart way
not looking damaged by the loss.

His new year's resolution:
Lose all of her this year.

Defaulted

This blank paper
is my report

about the poem
I meant to write.

I laid off words
when thoughts defaulted,

sans attachment-
clinical, precise-

to keep the piece afloat
in this difficult time.

But, I failed to live
within my means

and so the rest
had to go.

Priorities

Intervals of flats and depths
are irregularly spaced
but their frequency is high enough
to cause vibrations, for shaking
the water bottle tilted to pour,
dislocating its contents
from mouth to pants,
now wet, with its presence passing
through fabric down to skin,
even as he raises his head
while colors shifted from green to red,
the car stopping in the intersection
like water on the leather seat.

Your Exit

You are here. There is no site map as guide
to find the nearest exit.

A scan for the familiar (I am no liar),
will not yield the path. Stay

and check each words instead.
Get drenched in the meaninglessness.

Don't look at your watch wondering
when will I point the way out.

How much time do you have? I only have
one more period coming up.

Next Mom

She says she is in the city
whose streets are valleys of honking,
between buildings of glass and steel,
to work there long hours.

How long has she been out? I can tell
by counting the stars popping out
in my sky and the number of buses
dropping off other kid's mom.

I wait for those hours to run out,
for the next bus to open its door.
I am sure my turn will come next,
to welcome my mom (again).

Half-Open Door

I do not know what to expect standing before this old house.
The dust, rocks, and leaves of my memory are no longer here.

The breeze is still cold, on what is now a paved road, clean
but stiff like your eyes, but your welcome is only for the pet dog.

Soon, it is going to rain and I am still here looking at you.
I can still see some trees left from my childhood but without fruit.

The breeze has gotten stronger, slapping me outright, as if demanding
why I had not moved on instead of lingering by the still half-open door.

It's alright. I will leave, you can close the door.

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.