Tuesday, February 2, 2016

In the Absence of Feet

a cluttered room
a network of highways

cars zooming from one point
to another not reaching

their destinations
an abstract painting
beyond artisan comprehension—


this is the mind looking down
nauseating heights sans
taking the first step up the ladder

this is the mustering of guts
attempting an untimely flight
in the absence of knees, legs, and feet

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Never Here


Only the song remains.
Not the time it first played
Or the last. Not the silence
It once tried to splinter.

Not even the lines. Your voice
That filled this room
Emptied of chances
Is not here.
Nor the light
That attaches to your skin.

I remember how your shadow
Used to fall

On the floor. On the floor

Where occasionally I find
My head rested while picturing
You tiptoeing the steep summits
Of madness’ nameless hills.

Your hand, I also remember
Your hand. How reassuring it was
On the curvature of my cheek

During days when I doubted
Worth and existence. Your hand,
Sadly, is absent in this scene too.

Because

These things, these things

Closer to dream
than the drum beats,
Were never here.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

A Strand

Copper crown
half floating upon eyes
longing
descending
from steel steps
drifting to emerge
a strand in the mess of a hair
of a distant population
rushing on concrete,
have me hoping
to pluck you
from such wild tresses
and keep you
as souvenir of yearning
or maybe
wish for the winds
so they may blow you to me
and together we would
descend steps and drift away
and emerge and be whole.
Copper Crown,

I am the comb your heart desires. 
 

Friday, September 26, 2014

Even the Stranger


I could at least be the earless walls.

Or your least favorite room,
the space of it, the bed in it.

The pain reflected on your windowpane,
the comfort and discomfort of mattress
when you think of someone new
or old.

The bulb bent and burning
faintly, hanging by your lampshade
as you drift to a dream—

I could be that too.

Or even the stranger
knocking on your door,
the bearer of news uncertain.

But whenever you peg me
on the clothes line out to dry

—a lone,
plain white shirt—

My fate is fastened:
crumpled and cold,
waiting and wafting in the wind.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

He Will Give You Flowers

From a stretched car shall come forth
the perfect boy who shall take your hand
on that night you’ll say you’ve finally fallen
in love after swaying and spinning
in a bright dress under the burst of playful lights.

He will kiss your blushed cheek
after this juncture where you
will feel for the first time
you have come into full bloom—
the lady porcelain on posters in your room.

He will give you flowers
prettier that those already hugging your wrist.
You’ll realize after he has not taken
just your shivering hand but also your heart,
which, at that moment, shall shiver too.

And we will shiver as we commit this to vision.

Reality is harder to swallow with you
behind glass clearer than our eyes, face blank,
flesh frozen, lips refusing to let go
of secrets whose dwelling could’ve been our ears.

From the door shall come forth an imperfect boy
who shall take a moment to remember.
He will give you flowers you shall never touch.

(For Nicole)

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

The Most Dangerous House a Drifter Can Stay In

The most dangerous house a drifter can stay in
is his own fragility going beyond flesh.
It’s where silence is the flame
dancing in the fireplace, warming his face;
where mourning dictates the pace,
the movement of things,
the presence of broken clocks,
and fruitless meanderings.                                                 
There is no room
for misstep that can see him
tumbling down the staircase
of reminiscence, hitting his head
against the floor whose planks are memories,
thud making relevant moments
collapse, creating a gaping hole
where there is no room
—no room at all—
for his chest
and its rise
and fall.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Sakura

These soft pink explosions
shall burst in your eyes

the way my senses do
every time you unravel yourself,

petal by pastel petal,

as the lone blossom
in the wasteland of my heart. 

(Published, Metaphor Magazine, June 2014)

Friday, March 21, 2014

Between the Spaces of Falling Beads

If only we were delicate as the faint light
peeling from the edges of clouds
we could've heard the wisdom
of the wind

between the spaces of falling beads
and finally walked in the rain
even if everyone else was too cautious 
to get wet

Friday, February 28, 2014

From Here On

Days after we widened gaps between the steps we take every day,
the wind blew a little colder I thought snow would descend and whiten my hair.
Of course, it's not ageing. But there is a tendency for me to think it could be,

as imagining you in a distance farther than the customary makes me visualize the years
rolling in advance like a reel of a love film we are yet to see—
us as actors; the story, that of coming home:

from opposite points of a breakwater we'll run into each other,
the sun sprawling and splendid in saffron,
forming two crooked shadows melding into one.

Cheesy, you'll say, because you were never a fan of scenes like this.
I'll smile in relief for not meeting you this way.

It's scattered thoughts from here on.

There are no patterns to perceive to patch the lingering spaces
between our feet. The air is chilly, and I need warmth.
Sometimes I see you swimming in my coffee
even if I never really liked drinking coffee to begin with.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Aftermath

The sands of time have never felt
this heavy in this hourglass,
in this purgatory where days dwindle
into a dark and desperate denouement.

There is only anticipation for this kind of parting:
flesh ripped from bone, noise against tone, a place
I can no longer call home.

In the coming of a storm, we forward our thoughts
to the clearing. We will look up.
In the clearing, we will see clouds.
We will witness birds. We will find a sun
dying in its purpose to give warmth.

I will turn to you.

But you, unlike the clouds,
unlike the birds, unlike the failing sun,
will not be there.