After the burial-parties leave
  And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
  To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
  Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
  And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
  That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
  Than the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may ****, and a worm may sting,
  And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
  Can never lift a hand.)

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
  Until their tushes white
Take good hold of the army shirt,
  And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
  For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men—
  Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
  Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man’s name—
  That is reserved for his kind.

If I try to be like you
Then who will be like me?

Can we compare a flower
To the beauty of a tree?

If I try to be like you
Then who will be like me?

Will you perceive this world the same
The way my eyes can see?

If I try to be like you
Then who will I become?

A follower~A fallacy

True To thyself

I must succumb ...........

Umiiyak ang dilag nang walang patid
Kasama ang dugo at basahan sa sahig
Nais kong mabatid
Ano ang nagdulot sa nadaramang sakit?
Binunyag ng kanyang mga mata
Walang puknat na pagsisisi ni isa
Hindi na alam kung ligaya ba o pighati
Dahil ngayon alam niyang tapos na ang lahat
Pakiwari niya
Natutulog na ang mga alon
Noon siya ay nilulunod 
Naghuhumiyaw na damdamin puno ng hinagpis
Gusto niyang isigaw sa hangin
Ngayon kailangan na niyang linisin
Niyurak na pagkatao dahandahan bubuuin
Pinira-piraso
Ngumiti siya na para bang payaso
Isinilid niya sa sako
Kahit gusto man niyang maglaho
Ang amoy nitong mabaho
Nanatili pa rin sa damit niya
Parang bang tumitiling aso
Sinuyod ang masukal na gubat
Tinunton ang malalim na balon
Puno na ng lumot 
Doon niya inihulog
Ngayon basahan ng mga kumot
At ang bangkay ng ama
Kasama ng kaluluwa niyang
Hinalay nang walang awa




-Tula VI, Margaret Austin Go

meet me in the parking lot
neither of us are dead
even though we pretend to be
pretending is what we do best
apart from blurry 2AM mischief
-lxs

watch her eyes
because they're watching you
her eyes are spies
secrets they know to be true

watch her eyes
creep into her head
watch her closely
before she's dead

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

imagined moment vivid
split second prior scythe’s felling contact—
panic, fear gripped soul, constriction
shadowing hand clutched chest
the final occurrence
my last breath

a life’s span of years
the reaper’s patient approach
confident encroach, task assigned
above reproach, his grim stagecoach
my taxi toward mystery forward

the grind of wood spoke wheels amidst
drop of steady hoof against
an astral road cobble stone
the anthem of death performed
by angel orchestra the
conductor my heart ceasing beat

what memory does surface
allowing in moment to bask as
my life to fade?

sons, opportunity misspent
a wife, her caring consideration unmet
parents, who lack receipt of admiration
the instance impossible to own preparation

to say that which ought be said
a careful avoidance of things that not
rather plead for one last word
a beggar to show heart’s comprise
adoration without question at
time of demise

love, more than a hug
but time spent
love for them—taught shown felt
love and its spread
upon which would serve
death’s beautiful bed

to take the hand of His angel
rather the reaper to dread
a confident smile knowing
in arms their embrace
will be felt once again