Hello all. I have been pretty busy with projects I've been working on.
I have been putting my poems up in PDF format and all of the new poems are available for download here:
http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere
This website works best on a desktop. I tried accessing the website on my phone but some of the titles are buried within the other titles so I think it is best if you just access the website using a desktop. All you have to do is click the title that you want to read and it should automatically bring you directly to the PDF format of the works. You may also download them for free if you wish.
I am converting these works into PDF format with the intention to turn them into zines and chapbooks in the near future, given the right price and resource people to help me come up with the projects. Feel free and read away, all of the works are free and downloadable.
The website currently has 19 titles for you to read and download (if you want to, that is). Let me know if I could help you with anything!
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Picture it when in a flash of a description, brought you the news
it said was your derelict.
when in becoming we ultimately fail
our being championed by our unbecoming
seeking the real scathed by a sizeable truth
like a persimmon in your tender hand.
This is the default
sketched over a sagging paper, plugged within the air
the motes depart and is as easy as it is explained: an elusive
thing that may never be captured. Something the arriving
betrays then assuages with a word treated benignly:
a transit.
let gray define the day: let the file describe the motive:
let presence soil where we stood our place
like a monument: let it seek a real object
or a found language
a wafting presence is lost somewhere gliding over unnamed territories
commencing a displacement said was our undisputable location
roads becoming roads vehicles becoming salvage
birds becoming orchestra shambles becoming complete
thus dearth becoming us before our denied image
from a source that was our implacable place like a deadspot discovered
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
They took you across the home
like an uncharted furniture as the walls lost
gait and stumbled.
Before I could shatter a word without
compunction, they took you before my eyes laid
lattices – they faltered, officiating over space that
fails infinitely when turning you away before
I could understand, say the day again happens
and my grievous art flails like a ******* child.
a deep dream within
a shallow sleep occurring within sundries – miscellanea
collected together, put to question but no answer folded
to be sure in its destination other than where they took you:
the air minting the world on your face wanting to move
and remind a fate of decay: to be malleable within clay,
and hunger for a face they stole from me.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 2:47 AM UTC
50:53
Strobe
when revealing a smile variegated
your polychrome
soul within sight
does not know where to go but to pine away
from the single light to touch
the innards of your button-down
making intimate the body contorts dancing with another
a minute past a gyratory
if belief is a grave: let stasis be metamorphosis.
this rained-on house will not give way any minute
else there is the wreckage springing from a singular
hiding behind the music ballasting ground
and from a convinced consequence of being
became fracture as if salacious to withdraw nothing but noise
from the quiet or vice versa. If when breaths were postponed, inert – they will
start estimates from outside
the neon sign that says Pulse and reimagine the lives when divorced
from the daily, and is then summarized
in a fusillade. When on the ground
they must have been dreaming of wings, or falling asleep
constantly with a warm body stranger tomorrow in that evening
a contingent
this place they have not reached yet against their head
said it was the most sincere of blankness at any given rate,
when movements statistical, numbered, unwarranted like a metaphor
or a glib downpour – the aftermath
becomes sleep so tender with a dream which resonates
They must have been dreaming of wings but by the time when someone
waiting for them
inside homes, they have already flown into days.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
1
There are more penetrating people if not the death of, as in living in this very livid moment of the unsure which is a surety.
Falsify me. Growing heavy with the absurd. To face you, me -- more mirror the blank end of a chamber, or if that you must **** me, do it at the plaza in front of my mother. That if you must lament me over the lapped up moment of some false life the invented and wrong, do it. Do it. ****** me the unassailable truth that is, I am capable to splinter this moment and that it still lives like a sprawled body spilled from the mouth in the bathroom -- it still lives: you have to be quick.
2
Once have you been startled by the form of absence as a letter slid underneath the soft and warm pocket of your mouth like it was the first time to have a naked body pointed at you, all with it trying to predict you in a sterile room, and is more shattering than an aggravated twilight.
Who, at first thought, was there behind the trigger, and was ***** drunk with any other pretense apart from the face that ***** hates that common meeting within the day’s fine-tuned crosshair?
3
If you listen to it carefully, the music is a mosaic shifting the hypothesis into a pallor of a question back to it again with its basic agony of becoming so bent and so small on paper – which is to say, that we are, if to listen to a droning sound, becoming of it delving deep into the center, checking our own weight like our name after a fall from a high place, they said they would.
4
I have left something in Baguio that I cannot take back – a monochromatic caricature of my face shoved into a crevice waiting for a revision. What have I furthered into?
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
through the mirror a light-forsaken world
in a used leather jacket, the packed scent of cigarette
exacts itself in the calendar,
hung on the wall it discloses a shadow compressing
an answer as in
where once to feel gliding into the air a figure on the ground
is song of color – that it is the truest manuscript
whenever I yield into
the inseparable gesture of foolishness as entering
a scene and coming
back only to be an uninterrupted furniture fixed in the finest day.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Elsewhere it was heard and then lingered
if not felt the disappearance of:
for this to happen, involve yourself.
it is the natural order of things not even their truest selves
but when unseen, becomes.
who has come up the vertical but has
fallen, who has curved into the meeting
and has gone wilding.
today you were surprised by
the nothing as today
if then yesterday was once a hand clenched
on your chest, or touching your face
a warmth the frailest issue,
or once the shape of the morning
we assume freely.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
I fear of becoming an animal to pin within the
forest of your silence yet a manifest
If I said once your accidental burden
was my presence, which cage shall I occupy?
To accept that being is sure custody.,
To the inundated moon to a full that was only light
when everything shook within the height of absence,
To have you a rumple on the thousand-fleeting foliage
and have me wronged as the green is cut from the
throat of dew-soaked grass
a mistake. Now the fear of
you almost peering through the shaded hall like a fugitive
waiting for an open space interfuses
with my burden. The geometry of our
setting has become the shape of ruin:
a descent. A path that arrows
to a consistent departure. A trajectory
lost midway, murdering the forest.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
Whose dreary face now becomes warmth – an ash turning
into a single drop of water
I love and I have – and I know that when she looks
she does not. Nothing moves the bird of her dawn but
her. Proletariats sing of steel in the night and I deaden
within their homes. Whose dreary face now becomes
the steady light on the porch – a thigh, or a river, turning
into a single gasp of song.
I love and I have – and I know that when she sings
she does not. Her silence moves the moon deep within
its womb and annuls. Each moment in her shoes, she is absent,
and I taste the pale death of her precise waist,
her sharp tongue having me curved when enough was said
when empty was sure. I know whose face I am talking to,
but knows not what day has escaped me. The possible:
to bring her so small in my hand, and invent her this fate,
to be unclenching like water and virile like stone. I know
the singular act of her likeness is born out of my lack:
there is a spring-clean image traipsing the water. I must chase
where it streams, and its origins not my own.
The city borders us two as we are demanded by the daily:
the smell of a home shoals me a satiny sob. Still the marvelous
sky, a knife, if not referring to me, the cut lily that is the Sun.
Whose dreary face now becomes a store,
commerce, becomes the silver of hills, becomes the gray assault
of an old cathedral, becomes the surety of a transaction
and then becomes wind chiming through cities. Becomes inquiry
between I love and I have – becomes dearth and is proud.
Nothing will stop the train arriving: when thirsty for a glimpse
like mine a fountain or a singular wave from an opened window,
she passes – and does not look for me.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
the upcoming word for word
learning the dissonance
overemphasized – the inventive wrongness
to settle for what has
decomposed, what has nearly drowned
a dream with the quickest sense of being
obliterated upon taking it to the shorelines
and now to materialize
as the body starved for, following the coil
of its womb
to whatever place it has strayed upon
in the world that is a cage
where breathing are we of clay.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC