I.
She will rise like the phoenix;
as the old cliché goes, she will.

The sky will burn back and she will
take what she had left, burning it
to perfection like the yolk of the egg
once broken for mouths to feast on.

II.
A hanged star on a muggy night
hides from her presence; her falling
fingers, crashing towards the sea
making the old sky jealous:

She made the sea as gorgeous
as the night sky with a scatter of salt
for stars. She winced at the cold.

III.
She trickled my eyelids
open, and called my name

with the same heat from a Sunday
good night kiss. I opened my eyes for
her allure to take over the window:

IV.
she whispers:

“love, it’s time
to go back
to work.”

And I will always go back;

V.
I will always kiss her,
every inch of her

VI.
till the moon steals the show
tonight.

VII.
And that is why I call her
Queen.

I offer a few quiet
words under my breath. (1)

“I wish you a tongue
scalded by tea.”(2)
“I was born
of the fist. The hot Irish
Temper.”(3) “I am a master of Escape. Show me a body,
I’ll show you an exit ramp.”(4)

(For,) I want everything
to call me night.(5)

This is the dream where I play
God. And the front door opens(6)
In lakes, floating
logs ignite, burn. All the
fury is finally here:(7)

Once wayfaring strangers(8) as tall as steal as the New York Times(9)
that once they sang from our dark street (10), the song goes: Heart.

Ribcage. Envelope.(11)

______

(1) Adam Falkner, Poem for the Lovers at Pickerel Lake, http://friggmagazine.com/issuethirtysix/poetry/falkner/pickerel.htm

(2) Jeanann Verlee, Guilt, Not Grief, http://www.wordriot.org/archives/4780

(3) Jeanann Verlee, The Brawler, http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/04/09/radius-roger-bonair-agard-jeanann-verlee-adam-falkner/

(4) Joanna Hoffman, On Learning to Open My Eyes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/three-poems-37/

(5) Kallie Falandays, If Morning Never Comes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-75/

(6) Benjamin Sutton, Notes from the Daydreaming, http://anti-poetry.com/anti/suttonbe/

(7) Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Treasure In Timber, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-74/

(8) Lauren Yates, The World According to My Heart, http://usedfurniturereview.com/2013/03/20/the-world-according-to-my-heart-by-lauren-yates/

(9) Robert Gibbons, These Mean Streets, http://www.poembeat.com/fall2011/RobertGibbons.html

(10) Michael Lauchlan, Unseen Larks and Immeasurable Intervals, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-michael-lauchlan.html

(11) Leigh Philips, Dear New York City, Learn Gentle, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-leigh-phillips.html

(*) Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/january-2013-jeanann-verlee.html

“Writing is easy. All you need to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.”
—Gene Fowler*

It’s fun to look at the poet struggling, like at this
moment: he stares at the blank paper,

ready to do his performance, when in all he doesn’t
have any wound anymore to let the blood

flow in. Or at least he doesn’t have any more
on his head. He stops. Looks around. Think
about the horizon, burning outside. How
the orange is slightly burning off the sky
to a violet ; an ocean where every star
glisten like salt. He doesn’t make sense
upon thinking this. So he looks again.

Took out the set of knives. Scatter them around.
Names them his past lovers and beloveds. Thinks
about tombstone. Or last two weeks when he
buried a stubborn photo album out of its
existence. Now

the light in the kitchen distracted him. The white
light at the end of the tunnel, he thinks. Believing
if death comes at his doorstep, is he in white
like the moon is supposed to or is he in robe
of black just so the neighbors won’t notice.

And he looks again. Thinks again. And then

he rested his dancing fingers, he apologizes
to them. How they don’t dance
to the beat of his heart anymore. He looks at
the blank page. How the cursor blinks simultaneously
with the beat of his hearts. He’d sooner question

his memory. There’s a pizza he left in the oven.
He went back to the kitchen, looks at the oven window,
sees how the cheese melt, the meat embedded
at the crust. And how the crust, slowly unfolding
itself to the pizza that it really is like
a blooming flower.

He looks at the blank page, again.

Tells himself, “this will be
my poetics.”

Sometimes I wonder what a bird sees
at high noon, when the sun is at its peak;

when rustled roof speaks heat
at the sun’s flare of touch. I wonder
how many of them had died a crashing
airplane, all too distracted by the glitz
of those rusted roof, façade from their
point of view. Or have they just fell off their

air, to wallow liberally in their new found
home, glaring, inviting them through
hints of the sun’s fingers, poking through
their vision.

I found a skyscraper once. It stood
so tall that it abhorred all the sun’s rays

and left me crashing to its well glinted
torso.

for M., who never
had to. And never really
did.*

Forty degrees Celsius, and I never felt the sun
when I was at your doorstep. Here is the problem
with waiting. Stably idle trying to perch in a perennial
position knowing that there’s a chance of
a never comeback. I’m used to
it.

High noon, dressed in black. No there were
no funerals, just my usual self. I am
just waiting for you to comeback like the sun
had not forgotten about this place; caressed
it with its fingers till the whole place melt.
And we try to find enough shelter
from hot spots like this.

Like I said, I never
have felt the warmth of the sun.

Not in your doorstep.

Forty degrees Celsius. The grasses and the flowers are
wilting in your front lawn. I can’t blame them,

perhaps they’re just like you, wilted
from too much ember on my fingers—

wilted, so you go home; found shelter.

I am at your doorstep, heat stricken, ready
to die, and all I’m asking

is a voice to comeback,
like the sun does.

I. Head

Listen to his yapper, take the spittle
to your ear. Do not hesitate. Learn this.

When he’s done. All silent like a coin-ran-out
jukebox, breathe
easy.

Easy like how it should be.

Swing your head all the way
to Mars, release it like a slingshot,

and as your vision blacks out
and the blood flows down,

know how your head is like
a rock that could open his head:

his everything.

II. Arms & Palms

If necessary, you have
blades. Palms and arms
stretching like a sturdy
machete.

Use that ****
good.

Hit ‘em hard—

like the way it should
hurt ‘em bad!

III. Legs

You stand on
a battering ram;

And if that wall won’t budge,
find the right strength

and push. Push.

Push.

IV. Torso

When he whispers how huge
you’ve become; do not doubt
them. Know that you are a wall

that could
finally stop them

for good.

V. ******* and ***

You are more than
a set of sleeping
utilities tonight—

and the next night—

and the next—

and the next;

till you sleep
for permanence.

I.
Dear Mr. John, always the usual.
We go out every morning, greet
each other the way the sun greets
our skin. We let our fingers do their
own travelling on our palms. Like the
way the sun’s fingers set foot on our
skin. I am talking about the sun today
so that you may be reminded of warmth,
warmth, like the way you eagerly
take the cup of coffee to your lips,
and your tongue sets foot on Mexico
or Dubai. The desert’s sands flooded
your lips all too quickly the moment
you spew out that first sip of coffee.
I don’t recall being stifled the way
you expect me to be. My lungs are
bellowing to the laughter you had
brought me, warm, fuzzy, like it should
be. I find it hard sometimes to take
it seriously—to think that you are
in pain at that moment, first degree
burn and all of that. Smoke rises up
from your cigarette, why should I
worry? Languid as the air in the café,
we let the day stride itself, too serious
for detonation of seriousness, to the point
that even this poem or letter is a joke
worth some peso from your pocket.
It’s not hard. It’s hard to let this moment
sink in, melt like the sugar, granules of
coffee, and creamer on a boiling
cup of water. Boiling, like blood
that goes around our rooted veins;
we let this boiling pass through our
hearts, let it stay a little while till
languid takes it all away. It’s not
that hard, to be honest. Not that
hard to make your own coffee
at the morning’s call. I don’t understand
why you need me so much only on
sunrise due.  I fell tired of your voice,
high and low, as my alarm clock,
every morning till
the sun says we got to go
on our separate paths. I always find it
too hard, like chemistry had not taught me
to separate the mixture of water and coffee.
Too hard as it is easy to combine them. Morning
is easy and when the sun bows down at night,
I remember the whisper of the wind, how it is cold,
freezing what I thought as summer touched heat
of my cup. Cold and heavy like the block of ice
that is my mattress. I find it too hard to recollect myself,
lay bare and stay still as midnight whisper your name,
blew yourself into my window. And I wait for the morning,
heated like the coffee we enjoy. I wait for you
at that moment. But I realize my time is only worth
the length of sipping a hot cup of coffee,
and not a length of conversations worth spilling
on our tongue. I wish it was the words that we
spilled. And not the coffee.

II.
Dear Mr. John, thank you.
Thank you for the invitation to be
at your side every seven in the morning.
I find it warm, like the coffee that centered
between us. Between bellowing laughter
and languid awkwardness. The wind whispers
northbound as it should be. It says to follow its voice;
it’ll take me home. Alone. Like I was programmed
to do. The caffeine had lied enough. It’s normal
after all, for drugs to set in, form delusions and
whatnot. I’m tired, and perhaps I need
a little sleep, slumber for eternity without any
whistling midnight calls, no coffee smoke
to tickle my nostrils, no rising. Nothing.
That’s enough sleepless nights to think
you good. There’s the barista, I assure you
she’s good at what she does. Call her,
ask for the coffee you’d want at seven
in the morning. Converse with the newspaper
so that your mouth will spill not just words,
but important **** that you’ll never thought
worth a peso off your pocket. Spend the morning
not alone, but with the company of ghosts
that are too warm to even call a ghost.
And this time, when the sun had finally
heated your coffee, learn how to wait.
So that this time, a kiss on a cup
won’t burn your lips. Like how
it’s supposed to be.
So that this time, you won’t ****
your cigarette like you used to.
And this time, I can sleep
till noon.