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.

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.

It comes to this like all the gift
bags during children’s parties:

too many surprise to abhor,
like candies that trick the teeth,
toys blasted into space, thinking
they are angels reaching the horizons,
marbles ballasted onto the ground
like the planets rolling on the cement.

Peaceful times when our biggest
problem is the darkness: how it
eats everything that we have,
afraid of the emptiness that
will be built.

Now, I found another candle to waste;
held to me is a new gift bag
filled with surprises, but this time

There’ll be no toys, no angels,
no candies. Only bandages,
syringe, an alcohol, and
a bottle of *****—

everything which defines

emptiness. (But that is not
to say I’m afraid of it.)

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.

The gold concave shells on the east park cathedral
sang songs of silence
with forgiveness trapped in every note;

the gears moved and squeaked
on that hollowed bell tower
(and all I can hear are the murmurs
of those gears rotating in agony to bring me to sleep.)

White skinned queen glares
reflection of a million spectrums that just pass through
people’s translucent glass chest

(and she walks down the aisle;
her face—flood ravished)

The groom waits
like a God on an altar,
perfectly smiling with grace etched
on his face.

The ravishing flood around the town
became the wine that intoxicated them.

This is the lonesome leaf they waited to see
to fall down from a withering tree.
This is how they make cheap whiskey and *****.

I remember when I was flooded
by the light this ring on my finger reflected.

I remember when tasting your lips
is enough to intoxicate me into a sweet lullaby.

Because your lips are pages of a bible—
(because your promises are gospels.)

I’ll wait here on these cathedral steps
that were once filled with my footprints,

Because I still remember how your words clang
like a bang from that bell tower—I remember
how you said “I promise, I’ll come back.”

“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.”

The strips of meat sizzle on the pan
as I carve the bread for this meal today. Look
at the eggs: how perfectly cooked they are:
a golden yolk, as if the sun, burning
back the once ash day. Then there’s midnight

that hides under the bed: invited by the sweet
aroma of the coffee swirling in the cup. There’s always
that tease, playing with your nostrils for you
to get up to say “Good morning.” It’s never likely

about the day per se. But about that selfish
act in which gluttony lures you to your silver
plate, your eyes, focused

on whatever it is that is glowing, like the sun
asked it to glow. I am smiling for

even this warmed my heart. I stared
blankly that I forgot about

the bacon, cooked once to perfection,
but now a black strip to mimic
the electrical tape. It’s bacon. My stomach
will fix it, anyway.

But then the leftovers told me

that this is more than a selfish act. More than
tiresome beginnings to commit the same,
more than feeling the heat of asphalt
on your bear feet. This is about

finding someone, smiling next
to you on the dining table, then

laughing about the midnight
that crawled back to the darkness
beneath the bed. This is for

sharing spaces.

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.

The dun slit on your face——
————resembling the sky’s radiant croissant————
had revealed a black cave
filled with sweet unending—echoing—vibratos
of your fine-tuned chords——
——erasing my melancholic note——
and glistening, slender,
jewels sitting in thrones——
————————in shards——
————in thorns——

how generous of the universe,
to give my name a kingdom——
——a castle——
for its new home——

The bed is just another happy pill
to bitterly swallow every midnight
when your lungs are still encapsulated
along the taste of the caffeine infested air.

(beds float)

I always do this trick, that
when my eyes hang loose from waiting
for another sunrise and blooming of a wilted flower,
I would turn to my side and wilt myself
while shutting everything pitch black—

(yes, exactly like how that flower is wilted before
blooming on a six a.m. sunrise.)

It became my favorite game—
when I would turn myself into a                            baby—
fingers intertwined into a prayer—
feet bended—afraid
that the lava will kiss my calloused feet;

and my mind would wonder
trying to align the stars to make a path;
trying to wonder off to the galaxy
in the next house, in the next street, in the next corner—
trying to kiss innocence “come back”

(I know the spectrum blooms
better when our eyes are shut.)

but things are on a constant revolution
for change—permanence is a temporary
vase, shattered by accidental running
and childhood giggling.                        change…

childhood tricks and lullabies
won’t visit my prisoner mind anymore

like sepia pillows softly
kissing my checks trying to write
a poem I knew where smudged
along the coffee stains.

I’m on my way to my Fatherhood
dreams (beds float)
and my head is as soft as nostalgia
pillow in the corner of the bed.

Your name
is every piece
of headline
on every tabloid:

****,
car crash,
champagne,
******—

*You are the beautiful
blooming disaster
that I want to witness.

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.

Mounds of papers where you once confessed
about everything lie on the ground. They created

a stifled cemetery where each of your part
is buried. Scalded tongue. Ripped skin. Torn
ligaments. Everything.

These are the things I mourned
every morning despite having a cup of good
coffee.

Because midnight is already hiding underneath
the bed, and the trash had enough **** to eat,

I let them scatter here. Each, a tombstone
to remind you that you were here and that

midnight still hides from the light
in which it says that the darkness
is much more easier to be a home;

where being blind is more of a blessing
than a curse, thinking that maybe, a hint
of darkness would suffice the emptiness

because the last letter is still walking with you:

your smile, an apology letter for each of the time
our skin would kiss

again.

I feel the wind crash against my skin,
enter my nose and into my lungs. I am
alive today. My eyes are fixated at the thought of

those Narra Trees, standing proudly
in the backyard; how the wind rustles
with their branches; how the noise becomes
music, whispering through my ears. I feel
safety. Safety, like the way I lay

at my hammock—the way I trust
the ropes with an arm-strength
of a man; how they held me so high

that I could touch the sky, like freedom
soars across horizons in form of contrails.

Today, I feel love
and I soar to the

Universe.

When the telephone line screams
the headline of your love
tying a line of vow to someone else,
do not scream poetry lines
over the skyline;
do not write suicidal lines
that traces across your veins
and arteries that crosses your heart;
do not draw the linear bottle of *****
and spill your heart out;
go ride the train and count the miles
of parallel lines that made the tracks;
go down to the farthest station that sells
ice cream with rainbow lines,
with flavors running across the horizons,
trying to mimic the spectrum lines
of a cathedral stained glass;
draw out the silver line
of a spoon and dive across
the rainbow blitz of the ice cream;
and forget that person with each
fireworks of flavors exploding
inside your mouth;
cross out that person’s name,
like undesirable clichéd line of poetry,
let the rainbow ice cream scoop
spill over the last line;
and make that concave line
turn into a crescent moon line
that reaches ear to ear—
like train tracks reaching
both the far end stations—

Heart beats fast
            clock
                        ticks—
           ­                         tocks—
f           a          s          t           e          r

eye lids .    .    .
            f

                        a
           ­ l
                        l
                                    ­s
                        a
            w
                       ­ a
                                    y————————
—————darkness­embraces———————

silent songs whisper in cold air——————

f——l——a——t——l——i——n——e———
                           ­                                             speaks
**—————————­—————————————darkfateawaits—————————

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.

My mind is the body
of a dead raccoon
in a road ****—
the cadaver dragged by wheels
to the nearest street—
fast paced cars will spread its blood
along the pavements—
making tracks of Death
we’ll never see—
(for the land it stood upon one minute ago will eat what remains.)

The sun sets, burns
the immaculate blue horizon,

as we stare blankly
on our reflection in this
water.

Sadly, like the sky,
our reflections dim
to nothing
but silhouettes.

We drift away; and

Apart.

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.

It’s been years since we dated
and I still remember the mixing taste
of your lips and that sweet *****.

The bristles of my toothbrush have been bended
and I can still feel the ravishing flood of your flavor.

And every day, I visit the bathroom
to cleanse myself of the memory you
etched in my mind. You see,

sometimes, four baths are not enough
to erase the stench you left on my skin;

sometimes, emptying the perfume bottle
won’t make any difference.

The fogged mirror is whispering
that my cheek is still wearing
that imprint of your chapped lips
that I don’t remember you gave to me.

The shower walls are molding
and so is the bath tub;

Sometimes, I forget how we bruised
each other’s body by slamming the other
against the wall.

Sometimes, I forget how we turned
a mere bathroom into a house
full of living.

The drain is clogged again by the hair
I cut every day, and the room will flood
with rusted blood coming from the pipes of my broken body.

I know, you hid the soap

somewhere around the corners of my eyelids;
somewhere where the rats escape.

This is not about giving two *****
for a “Please, come back.”

This is not about begging pities,
under dim corner lights—No!

This is about washing a dirt filled face,
an overused ragdoll, with tears.

He sits beside me—
10 seat a part: we are both
the extreme points of a smile: those two deep
points like craters marks on earth,

we are station to station:
            (ear to ear) yet

I see his eyes pierce through a thickened wall
of reality—thoughts flow like rivers
in them, gleaming with the golden burn
of the sunlight—he looks forward.

(his iris is a pure brown forest; I swear
I was lost in it while tracking a lost dream.)

In a distant light, I see him become
a slick canvass—coated with exploding fireworks—

a masterpiece—a painting of nature
—I haven’t seen
            (and might never, as well…)

Over at the café, we are alone
at sharing our own thoughts, and hot coffee

easily drifts towards our tongues. This is the time
that the bats replace the birds. And we hear

crickets call one another. Tonight,
the moon is high yet huge. Though

the thought of a celebration: a cheesecake
two cups of coffee, friction, we ourselves take

the knives, slit each other open. Hear
our hearts beat the same anthem

we hear every night. So we let the blood
flow from these hummingbird chest,

ooze to the pavement like honey. It
glints against the moonlight, a river way

filled with rubies. And we can be sure our insides are

finally healed. For the demons had
set foot against our will

and into the wild. This, indeed, calls for
a celebration. Friction,

we let it speak.

The flower wilts like
a swan’s neck. the sky has not
forgiven her yet.

Tongue scalded by coffee I am finally
awake today. When the sun’s kisses burn my skin,
and I am finding a new threshold for this. This flint
spark where it outshines the moon at the dead
of night. Lost in the forest, trudging thoughts through
woods where luminescence is nonexistent. A gas tank
explodes in the middle of the city. See now how my mind
trudge thoughts of light? Heat?          Pain?
Thundering through my cranium like mad dogs barking,
this is summer. Summer, where heat dilutes my vision.
I am awakened. The sands crept to our feet as it replicates
each of its curves, took their body heat and turned
everything to Mexico. Jalapeno lips, I make them quiver.
Quiver like tasting a spoonful of wasabi. Quiver your name
to the sound of the hottest song on air. Pretending
it was some ice to cool off my scalded tongue.

See how I am trudging? Because this had to be
enough to make my mind a rustle piece of abstract, visions
flint spark, when you near me, pressed
your palm against my shoulder. And I swear
that was when

I felt warmth
for the very first
time.

People use words
like pieces of letters to crumble
and pass on to the next person.

They use it
like a candy wrapper
to be thrown away to the trash bin they’ll see
or hid it inside their pockets.

Often times, they’ll use it
like an engagement gift
like a diamond ring that glimmers
from the light of a midnight moon.

Other times, they’ll use it
as feces to be thrown
to other people’s mud filled face.

I use words differently:

1.
I use them like blades
slitting wrist and carving chest
trying to get inside
of the heart of my victim.

I use them like I’m a surgeon
filled with mistake
and my words are my scalpel:
a dire reflection of every blood I’ve wasted.

2.
I use them like hands:
strangling thick necks
with throats craving the taste
of air to flow down.

They longed to scream;
but I feel no vibration.

3.
I use them like grenades
with each blast is a realization
to damage their face grave;

with each word, a fire
to burn down their insides
and they cannot escape.

4.
I use them like chains
heavy metal shackles
to trap them for eternity
of a never passing guilt
they knew they never had fault with.

5.
I use them like candy gemstones:
with each word from my mouth
a sugar filled field dream:

a sweet gift to a crying child
on his fifth birthday.

I am my own sculptor
I carve words into poems
that make people bleed
through the insides.

And I know, I have far too many miles
to walk on broken glass to even regret every syllable.

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 still hold these scars:
these smudged love letters you sent
for over a month.

or In One of the Bars in the City*

You remind me about the brightest
spots here in the city. The spots that used to be your
memory, lavishing into the thought of the moon,
how it chiseled itself for the night to claim
it as its smile. So, this night, perhaps,

is a freckled smiling face. Your face
to be exact. How the stars scatter
correctly to form your freckles because
of your genes. Beautiful, sparkling
on the clean sheet of your skin.

Yes, this is how you remind me
about the city that seen and told

our story. How each wall of each skyscraper is
a page to tell a chapter. The flashing headlights
of each vehicle, how they became our crayons.
We are merely children playing, drawing pictograms
on counter doors. I mentioned skyscrapers. I was wrong;

there were no skyscrapers in Manila. Only in Makati.

But that never changes the fact
of this city, an open book for all of those

muggy nights when you religiously
places your lips against mine and eventually
against my skin; when you first made friction
talk. And it spoke every language I knew so fluently

that even our moans are words fit
for a poem. Ridiculous, jaded, fading,

but still, this mug of beer sparkle against the spotlights
of this bar. And yes, you are

sparkling like a city so alive
at the dead of night.

A city landscape painting punctured my eyes:
cars flying, neon lights spreading across the
city like bruises. Yellow bound skyscrapers form
golden teeth for this mouth of a city—

a city—a melting ***

—where everything waits

to inhales air from midnight whispers, asks the stars
to fall tonight for people waiting for pixie

dusts to land on their palms. And tonight,

the city will grant that miracle. Tonight,

the stars will fall, and all
will be neon bruises

spreading across a limp body
of a city.

Monday morning gloom expresses
its chilling breath
onto my frozen numb skin.
Monday morning shot
of hot caffeine would not melt the frozen sun
hiding in the grey horizon.
Monday morning blur
from the piercing shards
of vague reality, entering–failing–the dense cranium.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(a new one I rebuild inside my head.)

A     g    h     a     s     t     l     y    voice whisper…

I opened my eyes and my world drops dead.
(reality’s rebuilt outside my head.)

Monday morning
stabbed me with a flickering smile
and broken stares
made of guilt and humiliation.

morning dew does not exist
nor does river-like tears crawling down my face—
they do not exist
on gray days that drizzles liquid gloom
over lively gardens
            (we hide)

The sky cries—
a million jabs to the ground
that lands with a thousand shards scattering
like fragile, brittle vase fallen to the cold concrete
            (morning dew does not exist.)

gray gloom shades whisper thoughts of melancholia
on dried eyes; we speak in visions—(dead language on the rise)

There is no difference between generous serving
of the rain to the abundance of my tears. (morning dew
does not exist.)

No sunlight peeks through gray blankets of matter—
the gloom of the clouds covered me.

The loudest crash I have ever heard was from a single drop
of water falling to the ground—(the crash of bones breaking and screaming mixed.)

(I never knew
if it was
just a piece of raindrop
or if it was already my tear
from my burning eyes—
I never learned
the difference—)

Morning dew does not exist.

His guts swirl to the beat
of the marching band.

His hands are nothing
but earthquake rumbles
that he tries to control

and his veins turn into fault lines
pouring sea water onto his palms.

His name hangs on
the screen like a ticking
time bomb ready to explode
into bits—into tiny grains to spread
around the world.

Every step to the stage
is one minute closer to

another day coming to a close—
like an old book that needed
to be returned to the shelf.

Pearl crusted croissants moons
greet him for a consolation—
a congressional medal of honor
he’ll be proud of to hang on his body.

Sugar filled tears fall
like river—one tear at a time.

And finally…
            he can smile with ease…

There was no them and there was no stage;

it’s just the broken
air-conditioners’ noisy hums
that need to be fixed;

it’s just the annoying squeaking
chair that has been too old to be sat at.

It’s just an empty paper
whispering that
                                    he will die today…

His dreams still
                                                            hang on,

*but today…
                                    he is just another
                                    selfish prayer
                                    that God forgot
                                    to hear…

I.
The problem is the wind: how it easily transports
from monsoons to monsoons, growling the heartaches
that smudged the letters all too easily. This is merely a reply.

II.
A flock of hummingbird escapes
the night I learned
how to sharpen a quill the way
I sharpen a scalpel. How it became sharp enough
to carve a meat. How it became good enough
for dissection.

This is the trouble with too much
skin. My skin had kissed yours so much
that it memorized how you twitch
each time we touch.

III.
This is merely a reply to reply.
Or how it should be.

Because a mound of papers filled with
poems describing how my heart yearns

to hear your voice is good enough
for silence to take over, for you

to sew your mouth and hold
your breath. This is good

enough.

IV.
I want to hear your voice,
an old song that makes my lips quiver
and sing the way you do.

V.
But you became a stifled mortuary
the way the winds came tonight.

And I’m sure, you were
Struck.

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.

You always carry that golden baseball bat every day,
(and my glass chest will always be unsecured.)
And every day, you would swing that bat gracefully
into a velocity crashing against the invisible wall
of the wind—
                       —crashing against my glass chest
                          (and the shards just drop like rain drops).

All of this—
     just so you can steal my gemstone heart…

(and my mouth will flutter like a butterfly’s wings
to my everyday response:

                                         again?)

It's been years since my skin was flood ravished
with red rust river, flowing through my body like God's tears.
I savored the taste of it all; they were my
only pills after all.

lengthwise slices dried up and connect
like constellations in space making paths I never knew existed.
(and they were patches with many hues
                                    that I love seeing every day.)

blanket of violet night  sky covered me
(like never ending net to grab and hold me.)

And tonight violent water drizzles over my limped body;
incoherent shards slides over—kissing
my tattered paper skin—once again.
                                                —Red river flows in the drain
                                                   along with everything.

this red fencing is the only remedy
            —a surgery I always *need.

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.

The sun glints on my mirror again,
and I wake up, make a cup of coffee,
wash myself, and eventually, I’d
wake up.

The door is locked again, and the key
is lost somewhere in the pockets of my
***** jeans in the laundry. Just a typical
Sunday morning. Today,
I am finding the center of my soul, but right
now, I’m in all the typicality of
myself.

Just typical to sit in the dining area,
arrange the set of knives on the table,
rearrange the plates, and clean
the table, erase the smudges of
the dried up spittle (or whatever
that liquid is) from last night. Look,
rise, go to the cupboard, and search
for things you don’t normally touch—
not like before—there’s the bottle of
pills, the framed pictures of your
beloveds, numbered them, dated them,
like arranged tombstones on a stifled cemetery.
Smile, gorge, bask on the images, memories
unfolding high and low; how they’d always
say you’re a sick person. Low and sick. Like the way
everything goes.

Now, look for the center of your soul,
find the sharpest knife on the set, and

prepare

dinner.

It’s a miracle again, to sleep
tonight.

Not another one of
this.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

By the time the sun’s rays would hit the pavement
to a shallow cemetery nearby, all of the flowers will wilt
and hide: the sunflower bed running in the meadows

of jade plastered glass are shattering like banged windshield.

(crystal ember paradise rises only after hours;
when the sheets are crumbled like love

notes hidden in the pocket and was never
given.)

Yesterday was oil. Today is rust. Tomorrow is ash.

(every day is a bullet strike though
the numb glass torso—

            bleeding insides to prove
            that God is dead
                        to prove existence lives
            on a ****** paper—a home.)

crimson locket hides under her breast
like past dusk sun, hiding in the bellows
                        of the hills.

*(we are always
                                    a                      misconception.)

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.

I love how I were
the little boy crying off
the second street—missing.
I love how your smiles are like
candy gemstones to feed me.

We talked about you in the office
a while ago under the cold hum of the air-conditioner. Laughter spilled
like coffee on the table;
like a river of tears falling to a waterfall beneath my eyes—
yes, your name spilled along the cloth crusted walls
of the office and my tears fall along my dirt filled face;
but I know I’m laughing and just throwing sunshine
and marble smile along the table—
Of course they knew I was laughing but they wonder
if I was biting ******* my lip and mix blood and saliva
and spill… just spill…
Spill the day when the headline liquidates to a moist
in my head to cover my skull with molds and fogs I know will stay
like old rusts which no one knows how to clean.
It became a new joke that we’re trapped in and we would just laugh.
I even told them that I remember
how your lips damp wet
and the words that you would spill would just flow like rivers I know
should be down below but instead were floating
along the skyline and I’m trying
to think about rainbows for
every corner the sun’s rays would pass by is just
another crystal shard to burst out a million spectrum
I did not know exist.
I even told how you painted my world anew
when you took that flight and went off
with your everything—yes, along with the memories
we buried in that broken ceramic time capsule
in your backyard—yes, I know—I remember—I told
them. And yet, I know I should not be spilling laughter along
the table, making myself believe of one final joke—one final blow—
a punchline that God missed to hit me with.

Here I am—trying
to chew your name and the memories into tiny shards and making it
incoherent as possible—
trying to dismantle and melt
what’s left of you inside of my throat;
I want everything to spill like pop rocks in my mouth.
Because all I want to do is swallow
you whole like a candy gemstone
given to me on my fifth birthday,
but I knew my throat is so small
and I never knew it wasn’t a candy;
it was all glass and everything that splinters.
Now, I know, I shouldn’t be spilling blood along the table,
but even wounds take time to heal.

Though summer is starting to fade, and we wait
for the first drop of rain to ripple our reflections,
here we are; still on hold of each other’s hand
like perfect jigsaw puzzle pieces, connecting to form
a picture. I see the sun over at the horizon, and
I am thinking of the day dying, how it burns
the horizon into an orange then eventually
a violet. I’m thinking about how this will all

to fade. By the time your eyes laid on this
poem, pupils dilated like the first time you saw
me, I’ll be off in another shore, waiting. But for
now, stand still. Fail to crumble. Grab a beer
if you had to.

There were more than tears forming rivers
on my cheeks on my mind when we consider
this trade. I think of that time when we took
a dive on the beach. How we enjoyed so much
that we let the water devour us. We did not mind
about it being our grave. We let ourselves
sink. And for whatever reasons, our souls
try to escape our body and be one
with the wind. I enjoyed it. I am also
thinking about how we sit at the shore. Waiting
for the sun to set, see how the horizon becomes
the ocean. Salt scattered stars and burned out.

I am thinking about those moments: on what to fill
the stubborn hinged photo album.

I am thinking about how many
of your hair had fallen out since we met. How many
people had you stared at despite being beside me. And if
you had kept the toothbrush I left at your house
for the entirety of our relationship. If you had swallowed
another man’s tongue. Or  if you had found
me as another tool to skin you good. I am just asking
you.

I am looking at the horizon again. The sun is setting,
burning back the light it once shared with this face
of the world, off to another so that others may know
him. As the orange turn to violet, the first drop of
rain lands on my palms. And I know, I’ve been with
the shore for far too long to see our reflections ripple
a thousand times than meant, fading
to oblivion that the ghost that you will become.

And then there’s this poem, if it’s a poem at all,
becoming the fragments we had become,

Incoherent

like everything, like our fingers now. Maybe this is
more than creeping you out. Maybe this is
more than enough to fill gaps of that stubborn
photo album. And maybe this will be a

ghost often you’ll find banging on the walls
of your mind and of your throat. Like the way

you do on me.

Somewhere between the points
of your smile—reaching ear to ear,
hides a coffin for a shallow grave man—
that you as a master of poker,
hides a dagger in your sleeves.
I pricked my fingers with every thorn
of the rose you gave to me,
and I know I should lie down
as if I’m a cold corpse to rot
down under a garden filled
with your perfume.
I slept…
I slept…
and slept…
and slept…
My body is paralyzed
and it could not feel anything
from the wounds you are carving to my skin;
I cannot even smell the rust imprinted on my blood.
My eyes blackened out;
my lips are dead pan pale;
and my skin has been long withering
just because it misses the regular
brush of your own skin.
My ears have far too long became
an empty cave, which used to be
a house for the echo of your name.
I have been long dead,
but you made me feel new
and now you shattered me
back to a useless cadaver
I was just your experiment after all…
When the hospital room is empty
on a six o’clock cold evening
and you happened to be there by my side,
I want you to ***** me one last time
with a needle, or with your dagger,
wound me once more and make me feel the most.
And if my heart does not beat
for another pound, I have only one wish:
In a bright Sunday burn dusk,
I want you to prepare a wake for me,
so that I may feel to be alive
one last time.