in here fires an obvious chore:
he says
it is
from Sagada

its appropriate turmoil
sinks in the sinus,
leaving a trace of bitter
in my tongue
encapsulating my world
in the cerebra now sweet
candid electric
feisty and almost psychic

there is this
instantaneous lightning
shaking my jungles loose
out of birds on tethers.

this is something real,
he says it is from Sagada.
my dreams there made
nailed in exiled silences
behind this lamp
drinking beer
cold
warm water music
in ear.