On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines

I stood across a fiery red

and ended up purple.

Greased thighs, dripping down and

rested on knee caps

too brittle.

“So this is how you fall apart.”

I say,

“this is how you fall apart.”

When it isn’t as glorious as others make it seem

and the only sound you make is an

inner monologue, where you berate yourself.

“This is you, you **** of a train wreck example.”

And then you stand and you cower

at the mere sight of a figure ahead.

You tug down the remains of your shirt

and you wipe your busted lip dry,

like it will hide the cut and bite.

You wince once sweat kisses your brow

and you hiss like someone hoisted you against a brick wall.

You never stand. You never stand

and you are excused for cursing.

All the *******, the dammits, the batshit *******, flow out

like breath – naturally, an incestuous inhale and exhale of

“someone give me that thingamajiggy for the pain!”

But it never comes.

And you are never cured.

And it never goes away,

when a quicksand of that stinky pile of unwritten brain farts start farting,

one by ******* one.

Blessed are the stoic ones, for they glorify aching.

****** are the loud ones, for the stoic ones are deaf.

Dance to the violin, twirl me and then run.
Tomorrow’s a different day. You have gone cold
and I remain burned.
There were candles of periwinkle skies and sunshine,
I remember,
I have lit them one by one.
I watched the wicker ember glow and fade black
and blew some. Candles are meant as wishes.
It was 11:11, a shooting star, or the first twinkle of
the night.
I left, cold sweat glistening under your touch
too humane for me.
Let’s keep the box wrapped in silk paper.
Put the sheets and that cologne I like
along with your candles.
Stop looking for that old silver Nokia phone.
The umbrella’s broken, and everything else that I have given
are with dust under my bed, where your monsters are hidden.

I am no longer yours
and you, never mine.
And I’m okay with that
like how you once held me in peace under
your Mother’s watchful eyes.

Mid day moonstruck cafe somewhere in the city
where hearts constantly swoon over brighter neon skies
and the brightest settled at the bottom of my glass,
I am madly intoxicated by the spirit of free speech.
I saw hips swaying with strawberry and kiwi atop
the mahogany brown by the kitchen sink.
They sold *** by trade for a dozen foes and fetish laden
throes of pink.
I heard someone singing Auld Land Syne at the height of
November fog.
There were cups made of porcelain blue; someone dropped a pair
right after the washroom saga.
She kept coming and going, and coming and going, and coming
until she sat on my lap; beet red, as I was, when she stood
and left a pitcher more than we could handle.
Did we eat? I remember eating and cursing because they forgot
our forks.
And spirits matched lone spirits; they tended to one another
as one performed the greatest story ever told; that of a tragedy
left undiscovered by three people, maybe more.
I fell for the bartender, as with the hostess and the
guard and that one glowing illusion made up of wishful thinkings
and mere repetitions of whatever you are for the day.
Do you remember? I counted one full mid year for the buzz to finally
kick in.
I learned a few things, spoonfed with it, that’s the truth.
Did I ever thank you?
Dogs never lie, as with kids, and we are neither.
So that one letter tied with a big plump red ribbon adorning
the bulky box of heat, with the sugary high impulse perfect for
an ADD bloke, and that monkey – he was hairy, and thus I named him Harry -
became a last-minute Thanksgiving that year.
Because friends don’t lie, and presents don’t always arrive.
Glasses break, phones give up, and people forget.
But I’m mafia like that, so I don’t.

I smell burning lights of neon and blue.
It's Christmas, they say. Inkblots have formed
their own sentences, helping me
write.
In the midst of this slow night,
I swear I am right.
And I pull Kafka from the shelf
because I want to hear him talk.
I am my own vermin, and we can be random
together.
I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I love you.
Shall we dance despite your limbs?
Samba's playing, I am left staring at you
then back at him,
and right back at you, right where you stood
tiptoeing as you reach the topmost corner of the
cupboard.
You know I never hide any can of insecticide, Kafka,
because I get it, you'll wither.
But I love you, Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I'm a bit colorful with a drag of dirt.
I'm a bit Spanish when I shake my hips.
I turn French right before midnight.
I lose sight and might when the clock chimes
two in the afternoon -
I become just by looking at you.
Because I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I.

When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.

(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)

I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.

I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
“**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”

I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.

Amidst this,
I find you sleeping,
Cuddled softly in your
Curls and sheets
of warm midnights
And moonbeams.
When all that’s left
Are miniature versions
Of yesterday,
Facing today.
I love you.

I love you
And I cannot stay put
Not even for a day
That I don’t see
Your eyes shut beautifully
As would one’s dreams
Come true.

I love you and
When I say it,
It cradles me into temptation
Of not waking up again
Without you
By my side.

I love you more
When you say instead of none,
That there is me in you,
And you in me.

I love you
And you are more
Than sleep,
Than a dream.

Right before I called,
I imagined ---
is there anything left other than
Pages?
Pages yellow in time
and red ink becomes wine stronger than
your average cooler
that settles.
When bottles clink
and drown bubbles endlessly,
when the fiz dilutes memory
always fondled with friends.

Is there anything left
other than pages?

I have your fingerprint and the
scent of your hair fading
like your name in my eyes.

Nothing's left when stubs have
burned the last of crumpled letters
into ashes,
and the ember consumes
what I remember the most.

I watch
you from afar.
Looming like
a shadow
when keys of
black and white seem
more red than a
Rose petal.
Faster than
the Wind
when chords
become the Wind
itself --
pray, I pray
on my knees
by the window,
just to hear your Voice.
Wooden figures talk.
Hooded mist and a
Curse
for every word sung;
can we dance and circle the Sun?
For I sink as I destroy,
and I create more than
I can enjoy.
Them tongues will not have
Words for watchers like
Us.

You are no more than
A cow’s foot
Up my mouth
Down my throat
You tread down roads
Long forgotten
Yet foreign
To an unknown being
Left standing
In the middle.
You are no more than
A lion’s paw
Landing on an antelope’s
Fury, yellow skin
But when it runs,
It sprints with the wind.
You plunge like a fish
And waters purge you.
You are no more than
A fly
On someone’s back,
Settled restlessly
Skin deep, pores open
For maggots of deceit.
You are no more than a thumb,
A peck of sand,
A bliss too distant to pursue.
I curse the hours you became
The mist of a Virtue.

When, but a time
of hours counting days
and minutes become seconds;
light-shining grace -
I gaze on my One,
Once.
Intrepid and dreamy,
wary of a cannonball
that is
You.

And somewhere,
somehow,
I remain unperturbed
while your gaze
befall in slumber.

There shall be
no dawn,
as Dawn itself
waits.
An hour in passing
is an hour
in vain.
Gentlest, most hallowed
like a song
of the night;
words are but words
spelled
in neon lights.
Mist,
let me greet you.
Let me say goodbye.
Let me bade you
farewell.
Let me kiss you.
Let me cry.
Let the fog,
finally,
as it thinly unveils,
shut you
blow sand
unto your cold, cold eyes.
Someone break
the ice.
Someone will.
Someone will.
In eternal slumber,
someone will;
someone,
most precious,
gifted
heart of summer.

Dumaan ako sa Nagtahan
at doo'y nanahan
aking diwang gising
at minulat,
pilit binulag
ng isang dakot
na Asin.
Rumampa sa Laong Laan,
pilit inabangan
ang pagtila,
tila Luha
ang tanging pakinabang.
Tumawid sa Lacson,
nadapa --
bumangon.
Sumakay ng traysikel
sa Ocampo,
pumara sa Crisostomo;
nangapitbahay sa Maria Clara
nagpalamig sa Ibarra
hanggang Simoun,
Quintos, Dapitan.
Hindi ka matagpuan.
Tila silyang marupok
na walang pakinabang;
Tila laway na muntik
masayang
ang paglalakad ng pusong
minsan nasagasaan
noong binagtas ang kahabaan ng Dimasalang.

Umuwi sa Sampaloc,
kumuha ng gamit.
Palihim na naglakad
papuntang Blumentritt.
Pinagpawisan sa pagsakay
sa Recto.
Anong ginagawa ko rito
sa Quiapo?
Isang makipot na sangandaan
kailangang mairaos daanan.
Isang hakbang palayo
sa maputik na Ocampo;
minsan nang bumagyo dito.
Meron pa bang tayo?

Stained pillow covers
Write their own
Story.
Mine said,
“pens are dearest
Yet most worldly.”
Half empty *****
Atop a wooden table
Unfinished meal
And a
Misty glass window.
And then,
Rain speaks once,
Twice,
Thrice –
Bed’s empty.
I am
Empty.
Perhaps,
Forever be.