See how the snake coils
Crushing tender

The bones
Of your own skin.

~after watching a news feature about the identical twins, named Prince Gerald and Prince Carl, diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta, an inherited condition causing increased fragility of bone.

Blue blood names
I give you, as though

A medication, a palliative
To your sufferings; or

Perhaps, to gloss over:
The Imperfect.

Every crack, foreign.
A genesis, always

Awaiting that another crack.
Never ending.

Every day, twice-told:
Pain is pain, never

An ordinary thing
To fragile bodies

Not accustomed to it.

Fully aware or not, we survive
This life thriving on clues.
How a baby beaming means
An angel is coaxing him to smile,
The elders would say. Snap,
And there it is, his only photograph
As a baby, hanging on his mother’s
Bedside green wall. Asked or not,
We tend to offer evidence that we grow up;
That indeed, we started off as tiny things,
Later into trees with unruly branches.
We try to take a second look at the faces
We see. Perchance, to remind us: Where
Have we met the unfamiliar ones? Those
Not perfectly aligned; the photograph’s
Uncomfortably pegged to a rusty nail.
Meanwhile, our eyes are gravitated
To the smudges forming around
The edges of that photograph,
Made perhaps by the mixing
Of time & water, forming maps
Of places and distances, where
The this once-child would go.

(for her; she who suffers silently)

It’s not just a river
But a river bending through
Pain and a road forking.

It’s not a stem of tender
But a branch of summer leaves
Branching out to the sun
Wilt further dry and dry
She did.

It’s the bone-dry hands
A cup to plead --
A cup to contain sky’s tears:
April’s first refuse.

It’s the barren soil she
Whose face is drought
Awaiting river’s touch:
A profuse of fresh blood.


Nothing’s left.
No more days spared
To find you.

I saw you talking to someone.
Then another came
Then another one.
One by one,
You received them all.
I told you
They will return,
One by one.

I told you.

That same story
That same book
Telling about a father
With open arms
Receiving
His returning son.

I am your new life, you say.
Every time one from your past returns
A part of me will disappear
Now, an eye
Then, an ear
Later, an arm
Then, a leg.
No violent tearing off of my body
But a voiceless disappearance of each part.
See how a puddle of water appears after the rain
Then disappears without a trace.
How an agreement though unwritten
Disappears.

That feeling.

I call your name…
You can hear me:
A whisper
Of
The
w
i
n
d
.

A name and a name will soon be forgotten.
Change a name change a name, Baden-Baden
But what's behind remains forever begotten.

When the arrow strikes,
The heart breathes its last:

They will be one.

My legs are burning;
In cupped hands, the heart.

I am burning –  the holder
Of the arrow

And I, will be one.

Imagine my surprise
Seeing you
Yesterday.

How often do
Our friends visit us
If at all

There you are
In silence
In the side walk

A wild
Green In the city

How did you come here,
My healer?

The last time I saw you
You were there
Near our river

Where the mountains
Meet the sea

Is it really you?
Or just a spitting image
Of a daughter?

Touch my nostalgic wounds
Can you heal them?

Bleed if you must
Please
So I can be there

In your blood
Once more

Imagine my surprise
Seeing you
Yesterday.

How often do
Our friends visit us
If at all

There you are
In silence
In the side walk

A wild
Green In the city

How did you come here,
My healer?

The last time I saw you
You were there
Near our river

Where the mountains
Meet the sea

Is it really you?
Or a spitting image
Of a daughter?

Touch my nostalgic wounds
Can you heal them?

Bleed if you must
Please
So I can be there

In your blood
Once more

In Tibiao,
My childhood’s home
I remember riding on a karosa, a cart
Being pulled by my grandfather’s carabao
While watching the setting sun
As we go home
After his day’s work,
I, accompanying him.

Tonight,
Seeing vehicles
Plying EDSA, lugging tons of passengers,
With their back lights, neon red, glaring
I think of hundreds and hundreds of bull frogs
Being pulled on their hind legs
With their smoldering eyes
Looking at me.
The night
Is my grandfather
Walking me home.

for Picasso*

The painter paints
a dove.
The moment he lifts
his brush
for the last stroke,
the dove flutters --
Flies --
Enlarges itself:
Her whiteness,
Her wings,
Her peace,
Covering the whole world,
Silencing the world
For a moment.
Then, it disappears
For a reason –
Why? Only the painter knows.
And the world rotates…
On its axis, rotating
And the world revolves…
Around the sun, revolving
And the world waits,
Waiting…
And waiting…
For the painter,
For another painter
To paint another dove.

But I can see the leaves fall --
Golden, red and brown.
The wind assists each leaf’s gentle descent
To the ground --
Wet from the midnight rain
Until dawn today
Before I walk among the leaves, crackling
And feel –
Ah, this could be autumn.

The red round fruits of the tree,
where the roots I saw
hanging on its branches
yesterday,
are strewn all over the ground:
little, plump and round,
like the smile of the sun
gently breaking
to greet you.

THE FLOWERS I SAW EVERY MORNING WERE CUT DOWN TO THEIR BULBS,
THEIR STEMS TWO OR THREE INCHES JUST ABOVE THE GROUND.
TWO OR THREE DAYS BEFORE,  I SAW THEIR WHITE FLOWERS,
LIKE SUPPLICANT HANDS, THEIR ARMS RAISED TO THE SKIES.

IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE. IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE.

A DECISION WAS READ TO A MAN, YES, TO A MAN.
WHY DO PEOPLE HAMMER THE WRONG NAILS?
OR NAILING THE WRONG MAN?

The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
A woman shouts, <Stop!
I’m just right there.>
Pointing.
<Dangerous to alight here,
In the middle of the street.>
the driver said.

The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
<Drop me in front of Citibank>
I said.
A taho vendor is serving a lady.
<How much?> I asked.
Twenty-five pesos.
<Give me one.>

The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
In my mind:
<The city could be cruel to cats.
So you better know which
Is right.>

A Rorschach test
I took while on the car
On the window
Ink blots scattered
That need my gathering
Those memories
Are black pebbles
Along the seashore
Of nostalgia and mal de mer:
My self-portrait slowly fades
As the vehicle
Flies fast.

Seeing things in pairs:
Two laborers waiting,
Puffing cigarettes,
Early for work.
Conversing behind the glass,
A couple sits face-to-face
At a convenient store.
Their hands, each hold a cup of coffee.
I saw a sign:
Half human, half horse.
I know I am near.
I see two “Caution” signs
Set aside, inside our building.
In my presence, the door slide
Opens, and then close.
The way I open myself
To the possibility (thus waiting)
To that day
When both our days open,
Then close.

The road where I passed today
Was not the same as yesterday.

The driver took the shortest route – the easiest.
Moulting:
The snake shedding its skin.

Changes, I said to myself. Changes.

There were three of us left inside the vehicle.
Two faces I am familiar with – that of a woman and a man.

Science’s skin  lapping that of religion’s

Stitching of the skin – woman.
Cutting of the skin – man.

Now, I’m thinking of Africa.
Now, I’m thinking of Jews.

I told the driver to stop on the other side.
I lifted the lock, raised the door open, and went out.

Waiting for an idea to struck:
An idea -- that a mouse should cross my path,
An idea -- that a cat would sit on its favorite spot.
And I would say: It’s too early.

The sky, after reading a letter from the sun, blushes pink.
“Look at her skin,” I would tell you, “pink.”

Reading is listening. We listen to what we read.
Reading and listening to their voices:
Their voices have their own skin.

Irezumi.
Traditional Japanese tattooing – an art.
I remembered you. And your skin.

She – the mountain woman.
Perhaps, they can make her a National Artist.

The living art.
The living skin.

The gate of the chocolate house
Opened, and its windows of truth
Were opened to all.
The speckled bird from
The sea has just arrived.
It flew around the backyard tree,
Sizing up at which branch
He will take his rest.
My eyes rove like the bird’s eye
Shifting views:
From the gate,
To the windows,
To the speckled bird,
To the sea,
To the branch,
To the tree,
And to the bird’s eye on the mirror.

The pavement glistens
While the taho vendor meanders
Answering the sun.
Four sparrows (or finches?)
Jump instead of fly, nonchalant,
While I look at them.
A bottle of water
Plants its feet at the intersecting
streets leading to white flowers:
Garlic flowers
Prodding me, Eat your breakfast.

I walked towards the sun
and realized,
I am the sun.

The day started with a night,
and the moon
at sun's grasp.

The night ran with the sun,
and I waited,
and was lost.

Waiting for the waves of the sea,
White horses, you are.
Wet the insides of the jar, gently. Suddenly I found myself
Walled by a glass, (from within
Wolf it down), I mean, the anticipation, I mean, I’m anticipating..
Walk. Walk. Let us walk. Walk me home
When you’re ready…

Every morning when I wake up
Two sieves catch my eyes
With their blinking tiny eyes.

The metal one bears
Seven stars on its bottom
Where seven dreams are sitting.

The other one is made of fine-meshed plastic  
Bearing a lone hexagonal star
Where I lump my questions

Of whys:
why we dream
and why we aspire.

While I wait for the first raindrop
Of the day, you are there in the silence
Of the aquarium, placid, not moving, waiting to be seen.

While I wait for the elevator to open,
You caught my attention
By the colors of your body, neon
Blue crisscrossing the yellow
Tang of orange sprinkled on the dorsal fin, with linings of black
To a puzzle, a maze, a labyrinth

Reminding me of a cartoon movie I saw yesterday
While my nephew is being bathed
By my brother and his wife.

The blue tang finds her own parents
The gist was beyond that,  I think:
It’s about finding one’s self amidst oblivion
When our dear memory forgets
Its own memory.

written for a friend*

What’s in a name?
Is it the sweetness
under my tongue’s
cave? Or the name-
less thrill I feel
every time I roll
your name inside
my pocket and
you not knowing it?

written for a friend*

I let the butterflies out
From my chest
Willingly

And see them burn themselves
One by one
Just to write your name.

News Item: Cold kills the poor in Brazil’s richest city
June 30, 2016*

Cold creeps again, pale as Death
Her long arms emaciated,
Bloodless.

Her sharp fingernails,
Dripping with dirt
Marking my skin, her territory.

My skin - a stranger’s skin
My blood, she draws
No blood. No longer mine.

“You are mine,” her whisper, cold.
Her eyes of death,
Piercing my soul

A single breath
I keep hidden under
My blanket, stripping me

Homeless.
“The security officers did it.” local media accused.
But I am homeless. Stripped.

“Please. Bring my blanket back first.
Please.
It's cold in here."

Little people thrive in the dark, said the old man.
And so I told my cousin: “Turn the lights on.”
A stream of light washed us.
“There was no difference,” I told him.
We are still little people, living little lives.
And so I told him: “Put the lights off.”
“There was no difference."
Eagerly he obliged.
I closed my eyes. And so was he.

Darkness grows what the light cannot, added the old man.
I felt my hands lengthened and so my legs.
“Cousin, I’m growing, I’m growing,” I shouted,
Rousing my cousin to no avail for he’s on deep sleep.

The last thing I saw was the moonlight seeping in,
Revealing what I truly am, what the darkness cannot.

(Young Girl Jenny Guides Her Blind Father Dodong To Work Everyday)*

Before the dawn comes,
I sit on the shoulders

Of my blind father,
To be his eyes.

Today, like other days,
Heavy mountains

Will be my playground.
Coconut heads

He will gather
And I, the dried leaves.

He will not complain,
For I will sing to him.

“You are not heavy,”
He would say.

Father, will there be heavier
Than this world to bear?

I spent the morning
Looking at you
Every now and then
An old friend talks to you
You accepted them
One by one
See,  they have returned
I told you they would
Like that story, a father to his son
You accepted them
I’m your friend
I lose a body part
Every time a friend arrives
And knocks a piece of me
An ear now, an eye later
A hand here, a leg there
No tearing of limbs
But a silent diminution
An erasure to an unwritten pact
I called your name
You hear me, a whisper now
Of a wind.

The sky
Is a book

I read
At night

And open
In the morning.

I planted a kitten
Inside a milk can
I waited for it to grow.
I waited
And waited.
I went to church.
Dressed pure in white.
Pray for it, said my grandmother.
I did.
I poked the eyes of the Father
In his picture frame
With his fingers crossed.
I crossed my fingers too &
Painted them purple, his eyes.
And waited
For the leaves to spring
Instead of fur
I looked inside the milk can
A pair of eyes I saw
Not the kitten's.
His body not moving
Dressed in gray.

The sun is tired.
It sleeps while the sky bleeds.
Night creeps slowly
With the moon in tow
The old night
Stanches the sky's wounds
With patches of twinkling little stars.

He entered our window
On his chariot, gold
Crashing the balloons
Left by a Sunday celebration,
My nephew’s 1st birthday
Last Sunday, yes, last Sunday
When all of us orbited
The sun
On an evening
Until 10:30, post meridiem.

The day I lost my voice
I did not cry
I rejoiced.

The day I lost my voice
I gained an ear
I listened.

I listened to flowers’ whispers
To bees’ chatters
To bamboos’ laughter
To children’s banters and giggles
To moon’s  cries
To sun’s admonishments

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Don’t cry for me
Rejoice
Gain an ear
Listen

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Allow my heart to do it.

I looked for the stars
And was given the sun.

I looked for the stars
And was given the moon.

I asked the tree on my garden
Why the star lights are so elusive
This time of year.

Or was I just blinded by the sun’s glares
Or was I just lured by moon’s sweet talking

Immersed to sun’s grandness
Drunken to moon’s wine

Come here, said the fireflies,
Partake on our humble light.

Or,  The Poor Man's Bread*

Three pieces
Of pandesal to begin a day.

Where’s the salt in here? I ask.

Then came three beads of sweat
Trailing my face after a walk

On three streets:
Valero, Leviste and Dela Costa.

I climb on the 9th Floor,
Of Liberty Centre Building,*
To make salt.

The sky
cries again

not because
it has acquired an angel

but because
one has left (an angel)

the earth
wanting.

Last night it dawned on me
That rain and music can meld
That rain and music are one
The notes and quavers of music
Companions to patters of rain
It is your half-note
That flies me to the Moon
Your steady rhythm
Plays with me among the Stars.
And when all is done
Wake me up by your rest
And the rain is gone.

Is a curious little girl
Who loves to collect
Shells & pebbles
Of people & events
Discarded by Time
Along the shores

The woman walked.
She, with hair locks
Of silver laughter
& smiles & mischief
Hid on photographs
Hid & framed by Time
On sepia boxes
Kept by an old dust,

My grandmother :
A golden native
Of photographs
Hanging on our wall,
A narrative donning
Her black and white.

This is my world, this is my world.
All men and women wear eyeglasses.

All truths we seek on dusted glasses
Of windowpanes behind windowpanes.

Ah, we see clearer, said the top, we see better
If things are viewed on top, by top, the top

Refuses to see, they refuse the refuse, further
Screen them, screen that. They will not see

Them, believe us, trust our hindsight, we have foresight
Bring us the microscope, that magnifying glass.

This is our world, you’re living in our world.
Wear those eyeglasses, we customized them for you.

The morning is a white lily.
Five hands raised to the sky
Waiting for the rain's kiss.

Daffodil the color of the falling
Of talisay fruit from its mother
Tree kissing the pavement.

Raindrops kiss the pavement,
Circular ripples on a little pool,
Lilies blossoming in your eyes.

The baby's asleep.
     Caterwauling cats, I heard:
         A life will be born?

Please,
     Don't give me flowers.
          Give me water, so pure.
     That when I shed a tear,
The desert will cry.

This is my world, this is my world.
All men and women wear eyeglasses.

All truths we are tasked to seek on dusted glasses
Of windowpanes behind the windowpanes.

Ah, we see clearer, said the top, we see better
If things are viewed on top, by top, the top

Refuses to see, they refuse the refuse.
Screen them, screen that. They will not see

Them, believe us, trust our hindsight, we have foresight
Bring us the microscope, that magnifying glass.

This is our world, you’re living in our world.
Wear that eyeglasses, we customized them for you.