Friday, April 25, 2008
Unmasked
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
'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.
Welcome Intruder
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
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
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
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
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.
Treatable Condition
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Up Close
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
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
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
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
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
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'
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
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
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
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
This 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
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
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
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
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
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
'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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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'
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
surrounds like a tight knot
breaking into,
opening access to depths
where breaths are pushed
like rapids among rocks.
Puppet
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
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
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
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
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
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
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?
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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 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
A Sunflower
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
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
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
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
to shreds of multi-colored streaks;
its pieces fall, rain down
through a powder-dense air;
only to recollect
and repair itself anew.
Milestone
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 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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
to run my fingers on her shoulders,
saying in an undertone:
Man, I love this car.
On Valentine's Day
Miniloc Waters
Parousia
Loiter
as the lamp's shade,
the fullness of your breasts
firm as bed pillows,
and your hair smooth
as the bed's varnish finish.
While your thighs
flex against mine,
let age
loiter
outside
our locked door.
We, Again
before the vernal equinox, we begin
a transformation, to be broken up into you and I.
Our orientations change, shifting our North poles
to repel each other, shaking the certainty
of our resolve.
We become fierce animals marking our space,
howling at our loudest, exposing our fangs,
the spoils before us.
Tomorrow, our lacerated self-respect
will awaken us, vowing again
to rebuild ourselves, to become we.
Body Count
with typhoon winds inducing stillbirth of anger.
The clouds expel the downpour like their protests,
the wind-pushed flood pushing away their pain.
Gunshots break the rank of farmers-
one, two, four bodies collapsing to the asphalt,
their blood spotting, splattering
on slippers left in haste.
With rifles aimed, soldiers eye militants
like dark clouds lingering. The sky clears,
as farmers hold silence in their fists
like washed-away grain.
The soldiers commence body count
of those desecrated by their bullets.
Home
Coffee Cup
like the sun pretending to break away
from thick clouds.
Closing the window to keep the chill out,
I finished my coffee until your eyes
came out of hiding.
A Different Morning
where he daily peered through its glass,
his head between the opening.
It’s 5 am, but the corridor is empty.
He is not there to brush his hairy body
between my legs.
I have breakfast, his remains untouched.
He enjoyed ambling first in the cool breeze
before the sun colors the sky.
I tackle the day’s tasks but his absence
keeps popping up like the sun's light disrupted
by the window's metal frames.
By 9 am, as I inspect the van's wheels,
I recall finding him here lying dead,
like a forgotten stuffed toy,
eyes wide open like mine.
This Summer
Do not look
in the direction of my desk,
why the cold has filled the gap.
You will not find traces
of the chill
descending on my skin
only an empty table-
phone, pad, and pen
removed;
the rest I stowed
inside a metal cabinet,
away from this shivering air.
May the summer wind
breathe on the windows,
dispel this air
the things our cold weather
let remain.
This man
were pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved
like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.
This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.
These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists
whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.
This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open
by sheep bones of hate, each clawed itself into skin,
into flesh, with every flagellum's whip.
These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear,
poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming
to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.
His time of death-
3 pm, Friday.
Summer Heat
from forehead, brows and armpits, drenching the shirt
just as I see your hair unfurl like a flag
in the wind, your face unflinching in the heat,
and you heading my way, boosting up the heat
to a melting point nearly vaporizing me off the concrete.
April Fool's
on April Fool's day,
as sunlight broke through the trees
dotting the expressway.
I replied that I myself was leaving
just biding my time
expecting a screenfull of smileys
from your reply
but all I got was you
insistent like the sunlight
flashing against my eyes
on not being there
when I get home
tonight.
Raining on Orchard Road
Silence
me,
irritating
your inability
to fill in
between
the sound
from lips
that wish to open
up,
to send v i br a t ion s,
and jar
the shield
of
yellow
light
where I
am,
a coffee-table
book,
closed.
Sketch
falls on your thighs,
the linen clinging tightly
on your skin,
sketching the shape
of your flesh
like fruits, dew-washed,
in a glossy spread.
The waves keep pounding
your thighs,
glazed
in this early light.
Pieces
your absence ____________and my desire. It is
a heavy log to carry ____________whose weight will plunge it
down my mental chasm, ____________to undefined depths of insanity,
from where anguish ____________does not rise to be heard,
but muted by ____________a thick air of uncertainty
where love like a flame ____________ can only glow faintly.
There is no reminder, ____________nor signal, nor smoke
that can rise ____________to advertise my longing
or traces of it in ____________burnt ashes or embers
for you to look upon, ____________the monsoon rains drenched them,
pushing them onto our gap, ____________crashing down on sharp surfaces
to break up _________________________like pieces of myself.
Good Morning
diesel engines in small trucks whir,
drivers slam their doors,
the goods they hurl on the pavement,
shaking it, fracturing my dreams,
while the lamp light is still yellow
against the pale white morning sky-
as if everything around me conspires
to push me away from slumber,
from the same pavement,
from the cardboard mat where I lie,
away from the sight of traderes
who want this to be another
good morning.
Epilogue
whose cover once attracted her,
its pages once held down her gaze.
She had moved on past his breadth,
their time together flipping over
like scanned pages towards the end.
With her reading done, his laughters consumed,
will she miss nights of him laying on her breasts,
exhausted, under a lamp's glow?
She takes note of what's left
of his borrowed time.