Even lousy writing is terrific practice
Or so they say
I have been practicing
Painting ink on a page

All I can produce
Is sketchy scribble
Illegible and unintelligible
Words that I let dribble

Leaving the canvas blotched and stained
Maybe some will appreciate my thoughts
It is my medicine
From going insane.

The circle of life:
Rays of the sun
burnt the santol leaves that were
Dried, red, brown, in a mound
Acrid, pungent.
Jumping crustaceans play with
Sige-sige, puyo, fishes;
Screeching of kikik, on the background
That winged insect, luminous wings before
Trapped that kitten on Alaska can, 370 mL
I see the abandoned casing with a hacked back:
Red, brown, dried, clasping
the bark of that old mahogany tree,
Or santol, leaves
A mark on that childhood memory:

Mother screams
“Go home!”
Arms akimbo
You boil that tower of beer crowns and eat you will!, later
Sweats, sweltering sky
She’s towering.
***'s rim, circled, I opened.
Ah, the circle of life!