Trinkets, wine, and everything divine
On this lilac night: when fate decides, we confide.
Beneath the crystal light of the moon
Let us discover the secrets
Estranging this wingless flight.
Remember me in the silence of stars.
One by one, let me retract your scars.
No need for fraction or fear.
Even love can be absolute, my dear.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
10-wheeler
Once a truck that screamed of the devil’s laughter that shook the stillness of hills, the exactness of the breeze to docile leaves and bending sunflowers, the distance between the skyline and your empty gaze out my window. Once my engine flames melded metal and mineral,
surged fiercer to the dark chasms of your mind running on rotors,
gone mechanical and maniacal with the irreverent revving I make
on summer-seared concrete. Once we sped past the hallucination
brought by this mirage, this fleeting chapter of gas and water where we saw
the end:
the world crashing into a mammoth wall
men built to secure their secrets
—instantly, Earth as a wrecking ball
with a mood angry as me beating the red light.
On this day we remember the tracks left by motored giants.
On this day we shoot the road signs with our eyes closed.
On this day we discover the pain in puddles conjured by the rain.
There will be more to the rolling of 10 wheels raging,
skid marks and all,
on this day. Give way.
Beep! Beep! I’m coming. I’m raging, 10 wheels, more miles and counting.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Watch me. I’m burning gasoline and gaining torque from this road’s
tarmac thrill. Beep! Beep!
I’m coming. 150 kilometers per hour. 151… 152… 160...
I’m coming. Past the murky wilderness, past the children flying kites,
past the solitary haystack where many a lover fucked when their cars lost gas.
And they never lost gas. Neither will I. Because—
I’m coming. All the way from North to South,
demolishing anything that comes my way. Diesel power, my new order. I’m coming.
Irresponsibly. Down your avenue,
polluting the wind,
ruining the road,
crashing your gates,
coming,
coming to terms,
offering you one last ride.
surged fiercer to the dark chasms of your mind running on rotors,
gone mechanical and maniacal with the irreverent revving I make
on summer-seared concrete. Once we sped past the hallucination
brought by this mirage, this fleeting chapter of gas and water where we saw
the end:
the world crashing into a mammoth wall
men built to secure their secrets
—instantly, Earth as a wrecking ball
with a mood angry as me beating the red light.
On this day we remember the tracks left by motored giants.
On this day we shoot the road signs with our eyes closed.
On this day we discover the pain in puddles conjured by the rain.
There will be more to the rolling of 10 wheels raging,
skid marks and all,
on this day. Give way.
Beep! Beep! I’m coming. I’m raging, 10 wheels, more miles and counting.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Watch me. I’m burning gasoline and gaining torque from this road’s
tarmac thrill. Beep! Beep!
I’m coming. 150 kilometers per hour. 151… 152… 160...
I’m coming. Past the murky wilderness, past the children flying kites,
past the solitary haystack where many a lover fucked when their cars lost gas.
And they never lost gas. Neither will I. Because—
I’m coming. All the way from North to South,
demolishing anything that comes my way. Diesel power, my new order. I’m coming.
Irresponsibly. Down your avenue,
polluting the wind,
ruining the road,
crashing your gates,
coming,
coming to terms,
offering you one last ride.
Heart-shaped
(after a Marilyn Manson music video)
two lovers in a car speeding
on a serpentine road dark
as the intention of the night.
while he drives, a reassurance of love
and photographs of her posing
seductively with a knife.
the road expands
while in their memories retrogresses
a scene of them bloody in bed,
fucking.
later on, he professes the last temptation
—together as one—
which she takes by the mouth
and spits back at him.
against all others, she says.
she is now driving.
(he has long been driven.)
role reversal on the fast lane.
he sets the car afire, kisses her.
she sends burning metal
crashing down a cliff.
their romance thickened
by the sound of which could be
the universe shattering.
on a serpentine road dark
as the intention of the night.
while he drives, a reassurance of love
and photographs of her posing
seductively with a knife.
the road expands
while in their memories retrogresses
a scene of them bloody in bed,
fucking.
later on, he professes the last temptation
—together as one—
which she takes by the mouth
and spits back at him.
against all others, she says.
she is now driving.
(he has long been driven.)
role reversal on the fast lane.
he sets the car afire, kisses her.
she sends burning metal
crashing down a cliff.
their romance thickened
by the sound of which could be
the universe shattering.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
How the Journey Ends
Transitive. We have always been
caught between how it was to love and be loved.
Overcast the overtones of these things
that compromise us, we remain one, whole, loving.
Because there is something more to this parting,
I'd like you to keep me as a photograph tucked under your pillow.
"Lest we forget," I'd tell you. But we won't forget.
Our memory crisp as paper, clear as light.
We pronounce ourselves beyond the memories of your memento.
Every once in a while, I ponder what wonder
holding your hand brings, and the phone rings,
you're on the other side. Reach for me from where you stand,
dig down deep the depths of my foreign longing,
speak to me in the clarity that you are.
On days like this, I wish I could be the cloud
by which you sit and drift by
as you watch the earth expand beneath you.
Absconding reality, you say, you fly away
to this cold and faraway place where I am.
Every time the journey ends like this:
the homeless romantic in me
finds his way home to your heart.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2011)
caught between how it was to love and be loved.
Overcast the overtones of these things
that compromise us, we remain one, whole, loving.
Because there is something more to this parting,
I'd like you to keep me as a photograph tucked under your pillow.
"Lest we forget," I'd tell you. But we won't forget.
Our memory crisp as paper, clear as light.
We pronounce ourselves beyond the memories of your memento.
Every once in a while, I ponder what wonder
holding your hand brings, and the phone rings,
you're on the other side. Reach for me from where you stand,
dig down deep the depths of my foreign longing,
speak to me in the clarity that you are.
On days like this, I wish I could be the cloud
by which you sit and drift by
as you watch the earth expand beneath you.
Absconding reality, you say, you fly away
to this cold and faraway place where I am.
Every time the journey ends like this:
the homeless romantic in me
finds his way home to your heart.
(Published, Philippine Graphic, April 2011)
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bumps
“The findings say I should undergo operation. My gallstones cannot be treated by medicine alone. The doctor said I'm also diabetic and that while my hemoglobin is low, my uric acid is high. She also told me my thyroid has a lump in it.”
- A text message from mom
the news came as a wall
to which i collided with.
the smash silent yet strong,
horrid yet hidden.
and i was left frail on the floor
dreaming of amnesia
—even if it can't unmouth
what life—yours—
had terribly spoken.
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