the sun is a gentle hand whirling
  softly past the opened windows

and I am a lonely furniture
sitting still beside restless shadows.

shall I give you my silence and
  come back with fledgling beat?

or be fastened with the riot of the masses
  pummeling the iron and striking blindly

like a palaver hurled in the middle
  of the midnight riddled by stars and

   nothing else? stones enisled conspicuously
like the hands of a mother have well-placed

   pavilions into their order, the careful crunch
of trees in Summer, filling the brim of ornate eyes

  with such redness hazily festooning the avenues
with the lissomeness of the Earth

little girls dressed  quaintly on Sundays
   the fragrance of mildew everywhere

     you against all the surrounding scenes
that break vases, pound the halls and leave doors

                      opened, yourself crawling away
dragging along the weight of your own shadow.

this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
     my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
   left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away

       in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.

    the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.

    I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
   and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
    bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
    a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
           drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.

                 each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
     staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
      of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
  it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
        and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
  of two people   starting to fall in love:  all chaotic and unmoving,
             fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
                                         wishing to be somewhere else but there.

I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.

inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.

                   choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
           an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
        raised higher than the maladroit sky.

I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
                                   filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
    whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
    than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
             whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
                                  falling madly in love with everything that glints.

we have and have not,
   loved well, milbirghtlions septembering;
it is all for myself to reach deep within
   like white measure of kisses – the girth of such
world in turn, passes on a wily shadow of beforeness,

when all such loveliness before me was
but  a blatant chiaroscuro and not of mausoleums visited by
     territorial hands.

surely, such warmth
   you carry on, ferrying against unfettered waves of
remembering loosely against   the voice   crossing this  side of  the Earth

I can hear it like a flower,
I can feel it like the strove of warmth from the prickly music
   of an unraveled Sun,
I can touch it like the fringes of keen blackness of hair
  that demands silence.
I can bend to its call,  like a bamboo  in the wind
   or the   curve   of a rose,

     the downed flight of a heron  deep in  the twilight.

the world (with its stupendous body)
      timidly pirouettes,
 all by all and little by little
     deep by deep everyone in the Earth
  reveals the reaping of the sow
     and the girls and boys loutishly sing
 as daisies tremble within the verdigris;

    i know Spring like the palm
 of my hand, the virulent string of birds
     that strangles the daylight.
 this motion-filled plenitude where forgetfulness turned like a parting wave
   back to the sea where we all find ourselves
 afloat, unburied, vainly pressed in the sand
    lifting fish close to laughter; with such keen disappearances the mothering moon swarms our fate   and tossing dreamers
      out of diminutive sleep at her  festive  sight   close to  coruscating here:

    the smallest of voices quite like the  tiny bursting truths  from the  fountain of our lives
           unsaying why    we continually  breathe and bayonet  through the  air like leafless boughs   quivering within  the arms of stillness: life's but a  peculiar  form of  dance
      and  death i think is no  larger  than ourselves.

if love's the gaze of stone and hate
       the water drifting hands to their
   undreams of dreams, then it shall be
     with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
        sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
    they will not dare speak the ineffable.

  if love's touch homing back to cities as
     spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
        can be, these flowerings drone
           exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
    of the roots to the Earth

                  and i will sing these delightful bursts called    days in 
    April have not the touch of frolicking birds
  and the quibble  of the masses half-opening
        and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
      of their aqueous variations

       it    is   April,  sing gently, as now all the
    leaves have fingers and  the ferruginous  rivers    have   feet   and   my love
            a   flower at   last!