Fortunes

Some lines deeply etched
On your palm never rest

As flesh crevices. And cards
That have refused space

In a gambler's hand,
Settled methodical

On a clean cloth spread,
See you in the absence of eyes.

Perhaps definition—
A sort of fate's progression

Or its delay, or the dependability
On what lies beyond mortal time

And space: the be all and end all
Of soothsaying. But really who are we

To know how certain things will fall
In a forecast told by a stranger's voice?

A Deficiency in Decibels

And I wonder:

How will you comprehend
The scream I let out

The moment you lost
Your ears to indifference

Will soon be
A reticent pendant dangling

On your breasts?

From the Sky to the Kite

& the blessedness
to fill your wedding church will be him.
not the familiar faces cheered
by candles, splashed with hymns.
not the promise you'll sacredly utter
in front of god & a thousand petals. not the knot.
not even the groom who on that day
shall see beyond the whiteness you wear.
there will be an aching prayer
you'll hush in your heart.
& with that prayer you'll know beyond the heart,
beyond the prayer itself, beyond the vignettes
left of you of him—a cup of espresso,
a toothful & thoughtful smile,
kids commemorating him through personalized shirts,
birthdays, christmas, your mother—that
daddy is & will always be your sky.
& you, a little kite now flying away from the earth.
fly, little kite. say i do. & he has loved & loves you too.

(For Riz)

Your Navel

Tonight, as we discern the rising of the moon
in a single perception you tell me
that you can offer not the sweetest flavors
of desire for many lovers have already known
the secrets of your skin.

Memories of which instantly make you
as brittle as the pages of old books
kept in the darkest corners of libraries.

And I am diminished
to this lonely longing of lust:
I masturbate my mind hoping to reach
the whiteness of your navel.

(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)

For the Girl Who Loves to Play in the Rain

Look! The rain has freed
itself from heavy, ashen clouds.

Come, take my hand
as we shall cleanse all pretensions
and share this sadness of the skies.
Forever we'll hate the sun.

Together we'll hate the sun.

(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)

Love

Love to bother
Like morning hair
Flailing in the air
Never ceasing to its fixed form.

Love to gather
Lost thoughts floating
In a sea of dementia.

(Published, Philippine Graphic, March 27, 2006)

Cold

Behold me
when your lips
are pink butterfly wings
that have forgotten
fluttering:
an ice cube
floating,
soon melting
in a calm sea
contained in a cup.

(Published, Dapitan Vol. 1 No. 2, 2005)

Whitewash

On nights like this
when the moon is ill
with glaucoma, too white

to see the disturbance 
in the waves, I'd renounce 
the waking of words

just to feel upon my chest

your soothed breathing

as if telling my flesh
the everlasting story

of the sea and the shore.

Room 103

Under the red ball of light, the lone source
of warmth in this room freezing
flesh and flaws, we make the fullest of connections.

"How many times can a circle go round?" you ask.
"Limitless," I reply.

Lying down
we weave the wonder of wholeness:
my heart opens to human frailty
as stars explode between your thighs.

Romancing Camille

the purple dove in saffron skies,

the hammock of stars,

the dream in a moonlit room,

the souvenir of the morning sun,

the erosion of enunciation,

the landscape of memory,

that burning metaphor on the brink of sanity,

my reckless allocations and broken poetry,

who is antiseptic to wounds reopening,

who casts a shroud on all things clandestine,

who melts the cold in hibernation,

who blooms flowers from trembling fists,

and turns my heart into gelatine.

Note #22

camille, words are my possession
at the moment, also a heart
ready to implode at a sigh.
this infinite night has estranged me
from the wonders of the stars.

and i find no redemption
as this instance is the same
place i long not to be.
and there is no profusion
as this space becomes a great
emptiness where i can reach
no one.

not even you.

see, i cannot reach you,
the omnipresent truth
of fantasy and reality.
and for that i am one stale desire:
a smokeless fire.

this sadness bleeds into a poem
that cannot be written by these words
i own.

8: 22 a.m.

I should be continuing a poem
About you, Camille, with lines like:
I steal moments witnessing
How your eyes, crystalline like marbles,
Reflect the colors of stained-glass butterflies
Hovering over sun-kissed ripples...

But my brain, keeper of all
Realities, all madness, all beauty,
Rests in neural slumber.

Too tired from indulging
Too much in a selfish purpose:
Imagining you as a little girl
Lost in the labyrinth of my love.

Pieces of a broken poem are swept away
In the young hours of a Monday.