jefferson-lexus-jonson
Filipino
ACCOUNTANT|WRITER|NOCTURNAL / Jefferson Lexus Jonson—often referred to as “Lexus,” “Lex,” “Lexusa,” “Lexy,” “Lexita,”— is the fly-by-night schizophrenic poet of the UST AMV College of Accountancy. Contrary to popular belief, he had not smoked nicotine nor has he taken any drugs. The only drug he had abused is caffeine—if considered as one. Gluttony runs through his veins the same way as sports slip away from his mind. Right now, he believes that he’s the real life Hannah Montana—with the exception of identity theft. No one knows his preference up to date. On Wednesday nights he wears pink to write poems while on Fridays he wears blood red.
Dinner starts way past
midnight. But candles render
useless; the light, the moon,
the sky illuminates like skin,
golden brown, cooked
to perfection. I found the right
mix—ice in a form of smile,
the friction of skin, the aroma
of unyielding perfume in the air,
washing the odor of burnt
meal served for love.
Then bed was a melting ***
for tonight is a delicacy
in which you—I—become
a main course; we give
(to the ideology of sacrifice:)
the way we present ourselves
overcooked, overdone, but never
rare.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
i.
So tonight we are alone
at the park, and tonight,
the moon is at its biggest.
ii.
It’s fun to think of the universe
how she works undiscovered,
going one with nature:
iii.
look at the leaves: falling
like cherry blossoms. It is not
autumn, but still they fall
hard like the ground
had called them.
iv.
Hear the branches rustling,
shaking because they can’t
contain the blood rush
of a romantic scene shown
through klieg eyes.
v.
Midnight wind whisper
serenity: no city lights,
no commotion. Only dead
stars flowering above us
and the grass kissing
our feet.
vi.
Under the moonlight,
you disappear like smoke
arising from almost-used
cigarette—
like an angel, called
by God, claiming
your mission is
over.
vii.
I look at the moonlight.
A river ripples a reflection
on muddied puddle.
I swear that night
is the holiest.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
These skyscrapers are monuments
built by God. See how the moon is
shining tonight, how she is a perfect
circle as minuscule as a pupil. But I’d like
to pretend that she dilates, waxes,
herself to become a halo for these
monuments that were created like ziggurats
to reach God. Because, all the while, they’re
really
as holy and immaculate as the night
sky above them washed by the river
of luminescent car headlights flooding
the streets and dead stars flowering
above
like Jesus once stood naked
on a river to be
purified.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
Often time we hear things
phantom, *What did you say?
Nothing.*
A whispering skyline
says, *hold me close; I feel
cold.* It is spring;
ice melted, but still
we feel the Winter’s
arms around us. And so,
we let this moment
unfold, speak the story
that it is supposed to tell
like prophecies written
on tabloids. Yes, we are
only following the wind’s
directions to hold
each other close.
We hear the leaves’ ruckus,
shaking branches as if feeling
the rush of blood of a romantic
scene in a movie. We never saw this
coming.
I held you tight, and with that,
we first heard friction and closeness
speak the words we’ve aching
to hear from each other. Dulcet,
like an ice cream melting, kissing
the pavement.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
As always, I can feel the night’s
breath climb through my skin.
I am sitting here on this empty park
bench on a midnight waiting
for a taxi to stop by. Today’s
a holiday, and thus, the city
is devoid of its once river
of neon headlights coming
from speeding vehicles. I feel
the night’s embrace tightening
as minutes pass by. So I lit
a cigarette hoping to find
a hint of warmth. Then angels
spew out of my mouth
as If I have a choir boy’s
tongue. I see them rearrange the
stars and painted your face
because they all know
that tonight, is not a night
for a lonely heart to freeze
off in a corner of the street
waiting for something
that will never come.
And as the ash fall
off from this shortening
cigarette, the white holy
haze dispersed to oblivion
like your face did before
the sun burnt the sky
to the darkness that it is
tonight.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
I offer whatever bubbles up
from my mind to this city as each
of my foot became the water
for the shore that is the streets:
closing together then separating
like doors on these reveled city
clubs. I can hear the upbeat music,
and I can smell the smoke coming
from burning skins because times
like these are the secret well-kept
by the city: how friction became the language
of intimacy and the alcohol is nothing
but a gasoline to make rubbing easier.
I stood there like a stifled tree, closed my eyes,
and listened to the breeze of the midnight air,
this sure does feel like the shoreline.
I reminisced how the sky burned orange,
brightly holding the moment before turning
everything into ocean and sprinkled dust.
Still even when the city glows
the most under the day’s shadow,
Nothing can make my strabismus eyes
into feeling
Comfort than under a sky well burnt,
waiting to become the Pacific.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
*for M. Perhaps,
this will be the
last.*
I.
It’s funny. How words try to eschew
from my mind whenever the table
topic calls your name. How the prompter
tries to say your name but my fingers
refused to dance to its rhythm. This
II.
has to be the last of this joke. This poem
will not speak. Muted. Like how it
III.
is supposed to be. This line
on my right palm is nothing
but an illusion. Because often times they are
trying to connect to yours. This has to be
IV.
the last time I will think
about your cruel punch
lines; my drunken lines; and these
unsent letters I am trying to bury
underneath the midnight darkness
just because I am afraid of them
as evidences for the trial I am
setting upon myself. Because it was
always been a crime—
it always has been.
V.
This has to be the last joke. And
I am done
being the laughing stock
for the crowd that is waiting
for us to falter
and leave me
hanging.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
My eyes are fixated on the glow
of the moon tonight. The halo
of the night shines immaculately
here on this spot where you left
everything. I think about
how she illuminated everything
with only a few glory rays borrowed
from the sun, as if she, though late,
chiseled your name good on this
stone that marks the spot.
where we used to be. This spot
where you left everything
under earth—decayed,
like dead stars. I see the light
of the moon, full bloomed daisy so
immaculate. I left, believing
these stifled whispers.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
Often times I find myself
wandering in an empty field.
I am alone, and I can feel
the grass caressing my ankles.
It was familiar
the first time I have done this,
since that origami swan took you,
flew you off in a distance where
even eight minutes of light isn’t enough.
Familiar
like lying is always the only fun
I can ever have. Though
the place is dim,
the sky is not an empty
space. Salt sprinkled,
I see the stars sparkle,
the way your eyes do.
I trace your name, connecting
each dot of light, and, yes,
this has to be the last letter, hoping
that you’ll see it this time—
even when eight minutes
of light travel isn’t even
enough.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
After delicately finishing the cup
of coffee, (for fear of scalded tongue,) it’s time
to do the errands
for today: washing the ***** dishes
from last night; cleaning the mound of laundry:
the bloodstained shirts, ripped jeans, and *****
strewn hoodie. It was all from last night. I had these things
to do. Instead of the usual staring outside,
having my soul one with the wind. It was
white. I had forgotten about that shirt. The one
with the bloodstained. Like ketchup,
poured clumsily over at family dinner. Family?
Doesn’t even know that. After mixing the bleach
with the water. I wrote each of their names
on that languid surface, having it rippled a thousand
times. I smiled as I break reflections. There are
ghosts now surrounding the house. Why
should I play with things here? I am alone.
I do not have to worry about the kitchen
knives flying like jets, or the plates, breaking
into incoherent pieces like stained glass
fragments.
Today is a clear sky. Not a thunderstorm. Not
a cloud. Nothing but clear
sky.
And today, I learned how to silence
each dead voice trapped in my cranium.
Break them one by one like
Fragments.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC