A Hand

At this exact time I find myself
lacking in motion and opportunity

—an expectant father to a barren womb—
waiting for calmness to fall like a cloud—
a feather descending to still water—

it helps to have a hand to hold: yours
amid the reign of distrust, the rain of memory.

(Published, Metaphor Magazine, June 2014)

Sweet Start Something

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

Madonna

Always the reflection of the little one in her eyes:
Supple & smooth the skin that is part of her,
The flesh no longer distinguishable where it began
& where it ended. The serenity held by what she holds
Reminds her of loveliness she once knew. This was her.
In such smallness, she remembers how her innocence
Won praises when it was her in the arms of admirers.
& she was beautiful even before: that this beauty
Never paled, only whitened, now apparent
In her precious’ skin, is something
She is thankful for, the way the baby is for milk,
The way she is for the baby: the survival
Of beauty & continuity.

(For Janine)

The poem I wish to write

Has fluttered a thought ember
towards the sun departing
from the edge of my window.

I gaze at it with wistful recall
till all colors blanketing the earth
have paled to shadows.

Tomorrow, the sun
will rise in your eyes.
And it will speak of a morning

more physical than longing,
more eloquent than lost verses. 

Wish

always the conversation to open avenues
long forgotten in the mind.
hers be the thoughts that have wandered
in this forest of forgetfulness, whose trees we used to climb
to shout to the sky our longings now birds bringing
the bleakest of rememberings. how interesting
the way we hide in our sleep, how we find blankets for keeps
in the fragility of waking while we take snapshots of us dreaming.
soon we shall be washed by the reality we escape: light.
light which is faster than the utterance of names
we give our wounds. tomorrow the healing begins:
i part the grayness of memories the way an old man parts
his hair of senility. and let me tell you,
you do not age the way a woman should. should there be a woman
to capture this heart burning in prayer, the same prayer
that burned down the house built by doubts,
let it be you. into the fire, i say, let it be you.
the birds are now returning to proclaim the secret of this wish.
and the forest is still, wide, and quiet. the avenues reopen,
the names and snapshots more vivid than ever.
the old man rises like a fleshed specter
and loses his hair in madness. again
we are perched on the same tree: love above all.
because all there is to love is above.

A Song With A Beak

Let me tear down
the wall you erected
between us
with this kiss:
a crow
that has once pecked
your heart.

(Published, Metaphor Magazine, June 2014)