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Aug 2016 · 1.3k
NEW WORKS UP FOR DOWNLOAD
Hello all. I have been pretty busy with projects I've been working on.

I have been putting my poems up in PDF format and all of the new poems are available for download here:

http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere

This website works best on a desktop. I tried accessing the website on my phone but some of the titles are buried within the other titles so I think it is best if you just access the website using a desktop. All you have to do is click the title that you want to read and it should automatically bring you directly to the PDF format of the works. You may also download them for free if you wish.

I am converting these works into PDF format with the intention to turn them into zines and chapbooks in the near future, given the right price and resource people to help me come up with the projects. Feel free and read away, all of the works are free and downloadable.

The website currently has 19 titles for you to read and download (if you want to, that is). Let me know if I could help you with anything!
once again, this is the website:

http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere
Jun 2016 · 1.1k
the default
Picture it when in a flash of a description, brought you the news
  it said was your derelict.

when    in becoming      we   ultimately   fail
   our   being   championed   by   our   unbecoming

seeking   the   real   scathed   by a sizeable   truth
    like a    persimmon    in  your   tender   hand.

                                   This is the default

sketched    over  a sagging   paper, plugged within the air
   the   motes  depart   and  is  as easy  as it is  explained:  an elusive

thing   that may never   be   captured.   Something   the   arriving
    betrays   then assuages     with   a   word   treated benignly:
                         a    transit.

let   gray  define  the  day:       let   the   file    describe   the   motive:
           let    presence    soil     where    we   stood   our   place
            like    a   monument:         let   it   seek   a   real  object
                or  a   found   language

a    wafting   presence     is    lost   somewhere    gliding   over   unnamed   territories
   commencing       a   displacement   said    was    our    undisputable     location

                     roads   becoming   roads     vehicles   becoming   salvage
                  birds   becoming   orchestra      shambles   becoming   complete
                                   thus      dearth    becoming      us   before     our  denied   image
        from    a    source   that      was     our    implacable    place   like  a   deadspot    discovered
Jun 2016 · 1.0k
Clay
They took you across the home
like an uncharted furniture as the walls lost
gait and stumbled.

       Before I could shatter a word without
compunction, they took you before my eyes laid
lattices – they faltered, officiating over space that
fails infinitely when turning you away before

I could understand, say the day again happens
and my grievous art flails like a ******* child.
a deep dream within
a shallow sleep occurring within sundries –  miscellanea
  collected together, put to question but no answer folded

to be sure in its destination other than where they took you:
  the air minting the world on your face wanting to move
  and remind a fate of decay: to be malleable within clay,

and hunger for a face they stole from me.
Jun 2016 · 996
Pulse
50:53

Strobe
   when  revealing  a  smile  variegated
your polychrome
   soul  within  sight
   does not know where to go but to pine away
from   the single light  to touch
   the innards  of your   button-down
    making intimate the body  contorts  dancing with another
                a minute past  a  gyratory

if   belief  is a  grave:   let   stasis be  metamorphosis.
   this rained-on house will not give way any minute

else  there is the  wreckage  springing from a singular
  hiding behind  the  music ballasting ground
                    and from a convinced consequence of being
   became fracture as if salacious to withdraw nothing but noise

   from the quiet or vice versa. If when  breaths were postponed,  inert – they will
  start    estimates  from  outside
      the   neon sign that  says Pulse and  reimagine the lives when divorced
     from  the daily, and is  then  summarized

  in a  fusillade.   When  on the  ground

    they  must  have been  dreaming   of  wings,  or  falling asleep
               constantly  with   a warm  body   stranger  tomorrow in  that  evening
   a  contingent

                   this   place   they  have   not   reached  yet against  their head
  said  it  was  the   most  sincere of  blankness at  any  given  rate,
               when   movements  statistical,  numbered, unwarranted like a metaphor
     or a glib downpour – the aftermath

                       becomes   sleep so tender with a dream which resonates
   They must  have been   dreaming  of  wings  but  by  the  time  when someone
   waiting  for  them
               inside  homes,   they have  already   flown into    days.
for Orlando.
Jun 2016 · 913
To Take Light: Notes On
1
There are more penetrating people if not the death of, as in living in this very livid moment of the unsure which is a surety.
Falsify me. Growing heavy with the absurd. To face you, me -- more mirror the blank end of a chamber, or if that you must **** me, do it at the plaza in front of my mother. That if you must lament me over the lapped up moment of some false life the invented and wrong, do it. Do it. ****** me the unassailable truth that is, I am capable to splinter this moment and that it still lives like a sprawled body spilled from the mouth in the bathroom -- it still lives: you have to be quick.

2
Once have you been startled by the form of absence as a letter slid underneath the soft and warm pocket of your mouth like it was the first time to have a naked body pointed at you, all with it trying to predict you in a sterile room, and is more shattering than an aggravated twilight.

   Who, at first thought, was there behind the trigger, and was he/she drunk with any other pretense apart from the face that he/she hates that common meeting within the day’s fine-tuned crosshair?

3
If you listen to it carefully, the music is a mosaic shifting the hypothesis into a pallor of a question back to it again with its basic agony of becoming so bent and so small on paper – which is to say, that we are, if to listen to a droning sound, becoming of it delving deep into the center, checking our own weight like our name after a fall from a high place, they said they would.

4
I have left something in Baguio that I cannot take back – a monochromatic caricature of my face shoved into a crevice waiting for a revision. What have I furthered into?
Jun 2016 · 702
So that you can touch me
through  the mirror a light-forsaken  world

     in a used    leather jacket, the  packed  scent of   cigarette
exacts   itself   in  the  calendar,

     hung     on  the  wall  it  discloses  a shadow compressing

an  answer    as   in  

   where     once  to  feel  gliding  into the  air  a figure on the ground
       is   song        of   color – that  it is the   truest  manuscript
   whenever   I    yield    into

             the inseparable  gesture   of   foolishness  as    entering

a  scene     and  coming

     back   only  to  be  an   uninterrupted   furniture   fixed  in the  finest  day.
Jun 2016 · 780
Days their frailest issues
Elsewhere it was     heard   and  then lingered

    if  not  felt the disappearance of:

for this to happen,    involve yourself.
   it is   the   natural order of things   not  even their truest selves
     but  when     unseen,   becomes.

  who   has  come   up   the vertical   but  has
    fallen,    who has  curved   into   the meeting
        and  has  gone  wilding.

today   you   were   surprised  by
     the    nothing   as    today

if   then  yesterday  was  once    a hand  clenched
    on  your  chest,   or  touching your face
a warmth   the frailest  issue,
    or         once    the   shape   of  the morning

   we   assume  freely.
Jun 2016 · 724
Forest
I fear    of becoming an animal to pin within the
       forest of your silence yet a manifest

   If I said once your accidental burden

       was my presence, which cage shall I occupy?
             To accept that  being   is   sure custody.,
To the inundated moon to a full that was only light
    when everything shook within the height of absence,
To have you a rumple on the thousand-fleeting foliage
     and have me wronged as the green is cut from the

throat of dew-soaked grass

                           a    mistake.  Now the fear of

you almost peering through the shaded hall like a fugitive
waiting for  an open space interfuses

                 with my burden. The geometry of our
   setting   has become the    shape of ruin:
      a descent. A path that arrows
                 to a consistent departure. A trajectory
    lost midway,     murdering        the forest.
Jun 2016 · 586
Song
Whose dreary face now becomes warmth – an ash turning
  into a single drop of water

I love and I have – and I know that when she looks
  she does not. Nothing moves the bird of her dawn but

her. Proletariats sing of steel in the night and I deaden
   within their homes. Whose dreary face now becomes

the steady light on the porch – a thigh, or a river, turning
   into a single gasp of song.

I love and I have – and I know that when she sings
   she does not. Her silence moves the moon deep within

its womb and annuls. Each moment in her shoes, she is absent,
   and I taste the pale death of her precise waist,

her sharp tongue having me curved when enough was said
  when empty was sure. I know whose face I am talking to,

but knows not what day has escaped me. The possible:
to bring her so small in my hand, and invent her this fate,

to be unclenching like water and virile like stone. I know
  the singular act of her likeness is born out of my lack:

there is a spring-clean image traipsing the water. I must chase
  where it streams, and its origins not my own.

The city borders us two as we are demanded by the daily:
  the smell of a home shoals me a satiny sob. Still the marvelous

sky, a knife, if not referring to me, the cut lily that is the Sun.
  Whose dreary face now becomes a store,

commerce, becomes the silver of hills, becomes the gray assault
  of an old cathedral, becomes the surety of a transaction

and then becomes wind chiming through cities. Becomes inquiry
  between I love and I have – becomes dearth and is proud.

   Nothing will stop the train arriving: when thirsty for a glimpse
  like mine a fountain or a singular wave from an opened window,

she passes – and does not look for me.
Jun 2016 · 549
Learning the
the   upcoming  word  for word
         learning    the  dissonance
         overemphasized –    the inventive   wrongness

to   settle   for   what has
   decomposed,    what has   nearly   drowned

a dream  with the  quickest  sense of   being

   obliterated   upon taking   it   to   the   shorelines

and now   to   materialize
      as   the   body   starved for,   following the   coil
of its   womb

       to   whatever place   it   has   strayed upon

in   the   world  that  is   a   cage
      where   breathing  are we of   clay.
Jun 2016 · 462
Your finest set yet
I want to hurt a known face: this imperative,
drab like old habits refusing to sway. The countenance is obscured:

   no longer does the face tell me to withdraw. All the more, the static of it,
from the outset, diminishes to movement and from there, swings by,

   an alternate setting: in all of this, faces were just as a swell sheen from
the borrowed. This is normal, you take it as    sound takes, assumes form or music

   of likened endings.  I want to hurt a known face.

I want to mount it from the nape and stab it sharp with this

     imperative. I want the hollow to echo the urgency of it,     I want the blood to ripple
and then wave-like, undulate to – as we have been caught, addled by

      the sea we call as:   for the finite yet deemed lasting.

             Or   when I see you as   drawn from a line – a truth
halved that  was your  finest set,  a reality   settled     in   its   terminal

    letting out the  longest breath  /  a   detritus   /  a quiet  fate we  call

      away   /   trying    to   locate

    else you     were just    a   flutter.   A thinning   gesture.
Jun 2016 · 2.9k
kay Maria
binuwag ng sariling bigat
uusal ng dasal na ang tanging hiling ay pumanaw.

Hindi ito ang buhay at hindi ito
ang pamumuhay.

Kung dito sa lupa ay aangat, anong wika
ang isasalin sa laman kung pagal na?

     Turuan mo akong dumaan nang walang
iniiwanang labi kundi misteryo na inimbak

sa pagtiwalag sa bawat sandali. Sa ilalim ng
bawat tulay na ginagawa ng winiwikang salita

ay isang kontrata: hindi nang luluha pa
  at kung pumikit ay panibagong mundo ang

tatambad. Sasalubungin ito sa pamamagitan ng
isang paanyaya at kung makitang muli ay pakakawalan

ang kapit sa sarili. Tatantusan ang bawat kinauupuan
at itatala ang mga natutunan. Paham ang liham ng pagtitipon

at kung hindi sinipot ay sadyang isang malaking kakulangan.
Walang ibang transaksyon kundi ang palitan ng salitang

maghuhugis-kamay, hahaplos sa bawat tigib na parte,
ililikas ang katawang hapo sa paulit-ulit na katanungan

nang pagiging mortal at lalakipan nang panibagong saysay.
Umigkas palayo at bagtasin ang bagong mundo:

ang tao kung ilalaan sa tao at pakikinggan ay bubuong muli
  ng katiyakang panandalian sa payak na panahon:

hanggat tayo’y naglalakad pasulong, tayo’y gagawa’t gagawa
     ng tulay.
Jun 2016 · 408
Respondent
You are at it again, pretty sure, this time, challenging a wave, or a tension in space when from a vertical, trying to reach ground safe. You always were.

In deep collision of structures, the agent here is something that stops you from stoppage. You go, lessening the trauma, impelled by a similar origin to overwhelm and afterwards leave famished. As long as there is enough moving ground for you in a subtle field effect, it is very sure you will last longer than any rain in this moderate climate. I can imagine all the broken twigs you stepped on, making a dull orchestra out of. Your day-tired wander-wearied jacket after, and all the dust that remained within the sole of your boot when the Earth trembled – kept you still within the splintering of finite objects.

You are at it again, heeding the call of the world, assuming a shape of a moment you said you had in your hands, small enough to fit a chamber of a gun, and when fired, cuts through, is deep, meeting an attempt to touch secret parts but didn’t, only scored, and when realized,

taken as document within conversations.
*******    y o u  lol not.
Jun 2016 · 471
Locale
How in that timed instant all was brown: I look at my hand, the world outside the lens, the river, town when after April then crossing May, how everything went brindled, cut, and broken – housed in that fragmentation are so many lives: I, awash in the many a breaking and passing of things. You remember her weight to doubt and begin she was not there, for whose security she was being filmed but my own sake, from all the appearances the distance switched to fog as I remain in immense debt to time from the then and now which made no difference, and how I associate all the hollow to a hue I fear not black, but brown in this setting – how to straighten when found in the orientation bent already to begin with and is deadened by a refusal, how once again, in the hollow of, are unexpected blurs of your own skin color echoing outside then in, in which all the trembling made you sure-footed, changed nothing in you, insult I took when I see your laughter or in lotus positions there is something you ought to give me, but didn’t.
*******
Jun 2016 · 555
Remember your duty
If then a departure demands instruction
and your body when in pace

as signal of movement – elocutionary when
asked, a sworn answer force-defined

take enough space from ocean
and anticipate a barbed wind

within the finest day.
remember: contest all, if not

then sever what is yearned for:
a love, or a misguided another

returning for but not twice-over
a field but the densest perfume only when

accounted for. Foresight is to pull
the      weight away and transliterate

judgment: it is raining and how all
piecemeal and dragged heavily

within a home without furniture
awakened by no touch but of search

enough a call – a chain operates when
it desires to launch you out of

every territory of sleep –
wordless beside every morning.
Jun 2016 · 542
Exctract from a nonspecific
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?

Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.

This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.

If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.

If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Plaridel

Plainclothes this Saturday under the brusque heat – trees burlesque from shedding,
ripping orchestra of motorcycle: this one – too blatant to perform, to shrunken to
notice. What if I never reach you?

1.1 Crossing

There is an unrelenting transaction of birds in the surest sky in the surest day.
I can hear the rumbling of thunder behind its natal. If when found, discard.
It is easier this way unless inclinations are definite: the trance is to come,
shorthanded. Consider this day your being spared from.

2. Toll

I remember the identical traverse. It was when I was unsure of my birth. My father
had recounted and numbered how many slopes and trundles along the way when homeward
is turbulent, angled at such pace which could have given me another face. I have always
found it impressive that a person can wait for too long and waste away in hours that seek
no relevance when the daily is diminished.

3. Balintawak

You said that behind the marketplace is a dense crowd scouring for loose change. You wanted to supply them all with your adequacy that was rife and deft for sure in the turn of your hand almost a finger-exercise: that is your skillset. It will rain soon but the heat refuses to decline. You thought of the cumbersome bodies washed away by flood, and how at times, you remember them being randomly stacked at your doorstep, eroded by some wave.

3.1 EDSA

Space we have no need for want under a terminal day fully etched like unwanted visage making you remember something that was your flagrant disregard when asked about how
your day went, about a miscarriage of justifications, at work when facing absurd hours wishing to break away from that was our common bond – the long and dreaded silence because it made us always question what are we doing? Who are you? What for? Knowing for sure when to being but to end, indeterminate.

4. Familiar curve underneath a vandalized lamppost

In the console you pressing, discarding gravity at some point, managing to draw your way into and submitting to not knowing how to get out of, sealing an immediate sepulcher. We borrowed minutes, ran like fugitives when asked. An external shadow an intrusion so we had to cease for a moment but in the depth of our silence, somehow continued.

5. Entry to your home

Perfumed your garage was with autumn, or vegetation you said was your aunt’s prized possession. That it was my fault I did not turn you off as a switch is meant to be killed from the moment of discovery to dislimn the image and leave everything to study as specimen is meant to be dissected.

6. To go backwards*

         The only way home to where you were and I, scattered
Jun 2016 · 425
Failures
Take wanting for, abandon – and then one will begin.
Who is approaching close enough to devise an entrapment
will not see image clearly: him, as he will offer you a face
and a hand to desolate – put a lacking so you can flinch,
and a hand to brace you from it. Prophesying that a body
and another body cannot be singular. To hypothesize
an effort as a sharp encounter. To be given the world
to know its limits when a border has been reached,
to slowly unravel a form and a shape from the scope
of its representative and bend a spoken dismissal precisely
to generate content. To take wanting for, abandon then,
so you can begin to reserve a function for the body to elope
with and thin into an arbitrary.
     So when you begin from an instruction, reshape a simulation
so your actual body could hold you in for your yearning –
to begin again, so you can abandon a want to remember how
slivering a house is when two cannot be one and does not admit
it so to be true – facing each morning delighted the walls
each moment when together  to untangle, meeting, surprised
that we have still become remainders.
Jun 2016 · 3.3k
Kung ang iyong katawan
I. Katunggali

Pauulanan ko ng tingga at pagkayari ay
magbubungkal ng lupa sa kaloob-looban
    ng katawan – iyong libingang yungib

at doon ay hahayaan kang mabulok

kaya ingatan mo ako at huwag
hayaang biglaang pumutok

II. Tanawin

dahan-dahan kong aalisin ang sumasaplot
na lamig ngayong Hunyo

sa iyong katawan at pupunuin
ka ng alaala ng Abril

itong pagmamalupit bilang talababa
matapos tuldukan ang nagdaang panahon

kaya ingatan mo ako at huwag
hayaang bumigwas sa kung anong
grabidad ang pumipigil sa iyong pagkawasak

III. Rosaryo

sa sukal ng dilim bago magpasalamat
at magbigay-pugay sa diyos-diyosan,

maingat kong kakapain ang kuwintas
ng iyong

    mga kamay. Dadagundong sa iyong paglapit
ang hungkag **** katawan

    paluluhurin ka sa altar ng pagtangis
at sabay lulunurin ka sa kasalanan

kaya ingatan mo hindi ako, kundi ang iyong sarili
at humingi ka ng paumanhin pagkatapos. Hindi na bago sakin
ang misteryo ng iyong katawang ibinubulong sa pigurang kahoy:

mahuhulog ka sa aking bibig bilang
    alinsunurang awit.

IV. Iyong katawan*

Hindi ipaaari sa sinuman.
Huwag **** idiin sa akin ang karumihan ng mundo.

walang ipalalasap kundi isang ordinaryong karanasan
lamang – malayo ito sa inaasahang tagpo

kundi pagnanais.

           Higit pa sa ingay ay ang salaulang katahimikan
  ng dalawang katawan na pumipiglas at nais lumaya

sa balintataw ng isa’t isa bilang piitan.

Kaya ingatan mo akong mabuti
at bigyan ng panuto kung paano ka hahagkan upang hindi
     mabasag kung malaglag man sa isang mataas na lugar

dahil   mayroon   pa tayong   bukas  na ilalaan para  sa pantasya.
****.
Jun 2016 · 381
How
How
[Amy Wright: Here too there are tears for things]

When asked how to be of use, clenched when the hand
yearns for consumption – nothing was happening and when
you look within the azure you will see the multitude
of sun’s tireless handkerchiefs bleating in the distance.
   Today is Saturday, and nothing else was happening.
   I used to lament over the cities you have turned over,
and within the same day, found they were susceptible
to consummate within a name – an arena for collision,
of all the crisscrosses and the winds that mark our places,
to all ships making their way, traversing into the lateral voyage,
the undertakings our sure fear: we do not know how to be involved.
Jun 2016 · 411
Testament
For days, waited on to complete a task that was a call from surrender. Waited for it to bloom and when
ready,           beheaded.

1 To be cut from and origamied into
2 Severed then placed on a tomb
3 Until left for days unanswered
4 Lasted the strict climate held in the air
5 Unafraid between the firmament and arid ground
6 Grew roots into what was held, what was spoken, what was asked from
7 Answered by the body, the severance, the fruition

When no sounded rescue,      perished,  held   like a statue.
Jun 2016 · 411
Aqueous Events
[Brecht: ice | water | steam]

I. To Thaw

     an uncompromising war against emotion
    and its content         is of  total

            concession

closer   to   the   body   in   fervid   heat

you are a patron of this commerce

       after  you a water-lasting event:

your fluidity that deflects an accepted mass  as if sacrificial
    on a  venue  or a passage  fitting  the body

II. To Consume

and when you cut through with infinite fatigue
you    are proximal      to an agape     jar    housed

  the  question   how   vast   and  accurate  the  detainment and  the   quench  thereafter

             how when   a   flood   renames

a   corner    and  turns    number   to   record   of  wreckage

     making a memory  innumerable

III. To Dissipate

   is initiative    when anterior and disparate

cannot be held and accounted   for   in

   an   erroneous         register          whelms  in   hems right shut

passing   through    an   interstice   your   affinity   to    console

         and  when   in   a flash   of  a  scene


   unfound
Jun 2016 · 1.8k
A journal of scenes
now the word is naked

                                      perched on stone naked

the door is naked
                                     the oncoming figure naked

        stored in space naked

   meant to    contain the naked

                            I try to pry open your  silence  naked

and   caught within the last magnitude of a noise so   naked

            conceived an   outlier    naked

with    an  exact   measurement   that   is distant from  a  scene so   fair  and naked

    
      once  again  uttered  when  ripe   a meaning   naked

     with  the  body   of  an  hourglass   naked

                  whose  residence   is    naked

and an    impedance  of   a futurity   made   naked

                      by a lit   indigo   sky   naked       there are   no   skies   naked

only    clothed     by    a  closed    sheen   when   provoked  turns    naked

              you    are    naked


in  this  performance   from   beginning,    midway,   and   then  finality    naked

      in   a  cavity   meant   for    one   as a womb you   once were   in   naked

     in  your   fetal,  your  styled    font   obscured   how  the   body   contorts      naked
Jun 2016 · 601
Predictions
Bones need not to be ashamed when under
florid light’s strict surveillance.

Take this as advantage. This means invitation.
Dragged you into a terrible work of a labyrinth,

anesthetizing your execution, your critical art
you had secretly loved and loathed –

Sensing out a pattern, your vision as tour:
we see nothing but wreckage, heed nothing but lassitude,

and when their faultless gravities fall
upon, let them interrupt us. When we are broken,

repair with beauty all who elude us everywhere:
introduce them kintsugi – all these years

of specious encounters: I have marks to prove,
telling like an alphabet, scattered like punctuation.

Bones need not their love for understanding.
When spread on a territory, virulent like a makeshift

field effect: necessary when transcribed what the utterer
resembles an intone of a blatant present: you too mirror

my figure. Shatter it when you are done with.
Jun 2016 · 467
This Night
has the land covered with banner;
I am not dead yet. Who, despite his exhaustion,

caught up with chance, was able to do so,
  an amend to frame a surrender.

Reimagining a spider gut whatever was available,
in the cornered stucco: obliteration was there, sexed

a hole. Clings to a ruined childhood taken
  as deification – finalizing a document.

Search the database: he is still alive. Put together
all the ruthless and the stalking and piece out

a material impossible to be cunning.

the evening collapsing on his shoulder, shrugged
an hour of betrayal. An hour, made up little seconds,

fathered by an assembly of minutes – an hour difficult
  to wake up from, with a dream of an infinite future

nothing else was known from but if and an end
unerringly spared by this night

reachable out of scarcity that was the limpid past,
cuts through, is like a knife, dividing disaster

to share within habit – a harbinger, an announcement.
Jun 2016 · 475
Cheapshots from the trite
Ad infinitum*

embroiled       in another
waking            moment with
a bated            breath nothing like
this day           inclined only to obfuscate
its meaningless      joy of seeing yourself

in a pond        swimmingly doubling the inertia
of the koi       the day constricting within the verdigris
ready to          seal shut in hermetic   this vermillion eye
to wake up     into a long-held confrontation

       of   what this system closes in a document
       why bother this validation when valedictory


Ad nauseam

why bother     this   confrontation
when disappearance     this  space much like a long-held performance
   if concert is hermetic     in front   of a nonchalant audience

laudable     with  no sound,  an untranslatable music
      unhinged from the inherent risk of felling

an    inert   day   struggling   like    koi   trapped
  in a    pond    seeking  what it is   to transcend
   or   the  multiplied   joy   of seeing  yourself  meaningless

   ready   for   an  eye to   be   caught in  a  monotonously
     claustrophobic      *****   of    a   tremulous   middleground
   with   no   possible  agreement   other   than:

   this    potentially   demands   an  end
       when  beginning   you   are   lionized

  to    a   fault,   repeated,    trite:    *what for?
Jun 2016 · 377
A.M.
When it   is past 2 A.M. we have no use for reason.

       compose the current of the body and listen to its    brunt

when  to  be X-ed for  falling,    hide within  its sallow coordinate.

         gun   the  engine.     Let the  smoke  brag   about   our
  distance   suchlike a probative   burden.

away     from  here      is  the  loveliest   day

     it’s   definitive    to   quit   a resolution:

no    more   of   waste  /    shelter    may   mean   a  contrast between

     most   days  alone      and     some  days   with

     a   dignifying   versus    ---   when  it  is  finally   done,

       see me   through   a jaundiced   eye|

  a   hand     labored  from,  exhausted  and besieged|

         no   longer   someone’s    your   conflicting   a   possible

afterlife  this  one,   and  another one  ---   else between a rock   and
   a  place   leaden
          your      heart     downed   by   its   tending   to    prove

what    object   you    have    no    use  for.

    *you   like  the   sound   of  this,  don’t  you?
Jun 2016 · 599
To leave the body
words fail me as rivers do this town,
the sound of everything breaking   with a sudden onset: bones crushed
   like twigs, the churchyard a mirror of this hollow

   the   resounding of   a bell a category of  prayer
filling a mouth   with    filament – the   inglorious  morning
tired    of   its     felicitation:  chorus   vacating  the  body

paying   homage   to  a  nearby grave:   sound  the  body   outlast   everything

      take        sweat    for   wine   turn    this   variable  into  a    satellite
    let     it    exult     without    a   name


and   I,   for  once,    without a  poem   even – let me,    this   death

     almost   a   blooming   someone    to   remember.
Jun 2016 · 416
When dreams a misconstrual
how when I have arrived at a distant place |
sleep beheads an animal when dreaming

           is in search for its body somewhere
        and lies over barbed coverts – I am that
        animal  again in, over and over, lost within

its hubris a dream forecasts with separate proof
near the end of this investigation.

what will they tell me when they see me
after all these years when it rained almost
every day? of what continued trace must I bear,
and may not be mistrusted yet? what evidence

is inflated, with nothing to report?
this long stumbling night
contorts its own version                 of being lost and again in,
                                      the same covetous body snared.

how   when   a selfishness manifests   itself   in complete   peace
    is when a dream, a piecemeal apparatus

you can feel even the resting tremor of it learn my structure
and are these now infinitely throbbing highlights  a  part

of  me  starting  small  convulsions   anywhere it goes
Jun 2016 · 403
from Bergschrund
Beneath   an expression

a       found     crevasse   that   was

    for your   body



Dear  ___,
   if by principle      you are to believe
                        the brevity of a word
   then should it be that

    there is much terror applied by your mind
    when this is being the reddest herring you can
   imagine strange and leading the body to
   traverse a line and get lost midway





and over it
    a    purpose    for    its   depth
  that is      for    my    body
Jun 2016 · 477
Cataloguing Triggers
1.
I am optimistic enough this day clings to the highest mast,
is now born out of prophecy.
                           I pass by the old mirror: see myself: blear myself:
is blot to canvas, slit from the wrist of this home:
   I witness how it is to sustain beatings.

2.
In the empty lot, age 9, we wrung frangipanis and ruined
   the pedicle somehow a map of a history where this ground
  shook that was once an old cathedral. We blew

               bubbles out in the haziest of days, pallid and droopy
    the clouds identify in their short collisions – the stream that was
   the sky
       the  face of  my mother when found news of my would-be death
    1996, Kawasaki my mother's clutch on the soiled linen
                 beginning an autopsy

3.
I conjure a frayed upon image of death in its colloquial.
       a fractal of mistakes taken as righting out. I sense prognostication
when potential for a satisfied framed encounter or out of luck that was
       a night making all of this less than total.

I     remember the discoloration of the many lights – the sky beginning an
  erratum: this could have been your last – what is exacted here
        like a tarot, the culprit a newfangled man in the rearview mirror.

4.
How can I forget you – all of you? You wear light like karsunsilyo.
You are all flowers I arrive at a contusion of gardens.
  Rinse me with light – abandon me after.

5.
  Made air staler. Dew my maiden when lit
  from the matutinal – in tow, a bedraggled kite soaring in the heat
  one distinct summer,
      wish it pure that was I, almost touching the vermillion,
my faintest image of freedom was a bird trapped in between
   the venetian.

6.
  In a dream, I am pursued by a train in an alley – in the next scene,
I am being forced to take a plunge
       into a chasm: the fall did not scare me – but my acquiescence
made me flinch: standing before space, anesthetizing
       the skin so it made me more than metal, the clangor

   suggests a tragedy. Awakened by violent nudges
from       my mother: it was the New Year. Pyrotechnics paint the sky
over and over an ephemera in the bleak behemoth of this:
       a makeshift home ruined by untranslatable music

the sound of rain at 11 in the afternoon and a nearby funeral.
To reach for the longest day was to drive next to
dithering the light of: is telling of a certain person
whose features memorized for performance in this
weather, this the climate again for some reason as if

would spin away – you for example, whom to me
meant half a tongue tied to some distinct secret
I cannot word it so for your own sake – in most days

I curse your fate done to me in another’s; to be touched
not by your reluctance to speak, but you in your plaintive
that was my domain you took from me – hesitant to tangle

or untangle the lapped-up shore that was our natal home
you take photographs of serious with its violent gasp, the
blue its own agenda – built from the lines of this hurried
translation: shape one's work now I have no use for you.

to reach for the longest day was to give rise to reason
a want that must be tried, must be let loose, sent back
to you that is its origin followed each day until you lost

your will to shape and start the end that could not be
that was nothing of your kind to be brought to acceptance:
as if fists clench to outsilence you whose face turned to clay
the next minute I held nothing more and wanted nothing out of,

almost prompted by saying who it was
I have no use for but I, freshly turned into you –
Jun 2016 · 480
To you who sat next to him
That was when          my body reached for, sensed its limit
then drowned    in careful trivia             of   you   who always sat

next to      him    in   your    denim jacket       |      just  before


this     is   a   poem    or   an   admission    of:

I now


understand


the           common     day

               shelved and      collected,    is  like   furniture,      organized


to      pattern    your       life    I   have     no    place      in



months    of    this    order
still     never    reaching    for.
Jun 2016 · 301
That was your river, body
I celebrate my burning you into. Celebrate this body, take it across the river. Today is unremarkable

because I now understand the common day – the finding, the threatened property of where



I once stood gazing stone-heavy     against   your   pavement   that   was    touch



a single    handful   of  your   meaning  was       it    lilted       and  is     now    delighted


surrendering in    the dizzying    way   home





shapes     one’s    work      now     I   have    no   use   for      you


when    occurred     one   day        it    whispered


a    world                opened   before     and    I          dug


for   what      was      your          body :                 lifeless      |     clinging    to

        return  
                               your   extant           river       now         *nostalgia
Jun 2016 · 420
Delicatessen
says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
Jun 2016 · 523
Caecus
Air left to
rust when we speak

it now is the time
to postpone

gladly over a shining,
retaliatory absence

in search of a space
to shape a volatile figure

that was
a bridge

how, humming our steps
a valedictory

making staccato.
hurry before it catches

us mid-flow, profuse
with sustained harbors

but they cannot
see us here when they slit

us from our canvas, how?
all that radiates

expels us out of this
when no more; absorbed their

breaths boldly stuck inside
a body: a cage: a meeting: an encounter

a path dollies in perfect capture
frame by frame almost an ellipsis

the world tonight blackened
a gutter squalled by an unseen figure

darting across,  eviscerating
the bargain: that in-between produced vastness.
Jun 2016 · 424
Kawasaki
1996

When news of his would-be death arrived,
his body sterile in white cloth,
serene his was, his finest stupor – clinging on to a drip
  of life, his tongue a strawberry his mother recounted,

forcing him into, his senses dulled,
  it was 1996: else there was understanding,
  there was a hand in a hand that is a latticed rose
  of beauty – or unbeauty, the high prayer of it,

they sat in front of the room facing a mute wall
  for days weeping or laughing. The rustling of the
  daily paper broke silence not news – his dearth was sure.

no more almost was when he went sharply
in a field of grass, his shredded amusement
received by an unfolding – it was his years sideswiping
  him later on, his indices of age revealing an undulant postscript

to which there were imaginary sky-portfolios and
  a particular representation of a smoothened end of a smoking gun
  he held now, years after, years later on

a portion of it his mouth pressed on a lover’s,
and a footnote hidden
    deep within his pelvis:     come back here when laden
Jun 2016 · 394
Directions
Impugn* shall if not your eyes are meager coruscations. Self-refuting, explanatory of its given berth.
              This is the unsolicited onus of addressing it: heart rears static splayed, intercepted by
                                    this question.

Stigmatize this if performance of, merely a concert. There is rigor stiffening the veins when ensanguined
                   from much gnawing of the uncontrolled sharpness of impressions. I think of ways to mend,
                           and when unable, means to bend.

Settle this once and for all and here is how. If perhaps an admission of something, let me see clearer
                      than this makeshift fog. Pave me a railroad somewhere, or house a station.
                        All of this waiting, all of this silence chastising what noise needs to be freed.

Pretend to be carrying a statue. Curse in a different language. Show what it means to be wronged
                           when the incompleteness of evidence merits a conjecture – this is your punishment,
                        to see me in false light and dislimn our quite fate:

                     it will be long  before there is the clearest answer, the apparatus to straighten,
                         to muffle the sound, and put light into this beating.
to Dani*

remember when, you do not:
you are a ground slicing the center of
    this home.

the long divide the furniture endures.
in front of the colossal tv
bodies spilled like water.
20 minutes was all it took – your name alone,
a potent hygroscopy.

when close enough:
dissipate. You took all the green the foliage could,
    soldered to your body a forest it manifests.

   repeated, if not a newer foundling:

    the   space   you  take  for  acquisition ,
    the faultless tenancy   you   mistake   as  counsel.

every saved for, and gleaming space
   aspires for venue – translates to an arena for snapshot.

[some mundane depiction ascribes for you to be known]
years later my portrait still hangs perpetually
on a modern furniture from a contemporary skillset.
  take this declaration.

years later, leapt to this day and forward:
the surgery of galvanized steel is reminiscent of a departure.
the tedious laborer smiling through bonsai pots
  carrying out lobotomies. The afternoon more sterile than
   your    face  as if operation.  This town knows you by practice
  
  and habit: all of it sepia, if not leaden.
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever,
  this is the leitmotif.

Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of
  water. You will wear the petrichor,

While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle
  whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk.

Here is the hearth that rears no fire:
   a mother, children in tow – a troika,
   on a cart not even close to ease of
   a hurtling thing.     Trees naked in vulnerable
   green – the verdigris carried by a
   miniscule Maya.

Here comes again, the neighbor peering through
   the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive,
   curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest
   object available that was my own hand.

Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many
  other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave
   that is almost an approximate oceanview in me.

Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by
    gin, passing out in front of our gated homes,
    singing whatever was available, close to our pitch.

Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by
  a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot.
   A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did.
Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants
  of as evidence, not to investigate if true.

The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia.
   A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather.

Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town
and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret
  encrypted lasting more than a life.

It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer.
   Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together,
    ready to fall, at last.
Jun 2016 · 452
How I will to be forgotten
Picture me this: not the arched brow
  but the body when night, curves like a moon
  accruing more weight.

Develop me this: not the body when curved like a moon
    but the white stucco of it,
    assuming its form.

Fold me like this: not the white stucco of it,
   but the space it takes for need,
   the occupancy it wastes for want.
     In this manner is how you will

And lay me flat against the river:
   not your memory of walls with fleur-de-lis,
   but with lilies. If this day were leaf when turned
   from the night when I took this collapse,
        let your hands be pedicle. My inflorescence you have
   mistaken as displacement yet not drown – meet this canopy

  at the end of this river that is your river – your static grace that
  is the music of your passing.

When met, disintegrate: not the lilies – they are anchors you have forgotten,
     not this day if it were a leaf, but the day dried from a washline
   of clouds. Let my inflorescence be a blunder of your recall.
         When you meet this canopy, pack all of its mileage,
               exact it in this distance. Take photographs of. Do not keep.
Jun 2016 · 455
Prayer
This is today’s calm headline: when the clout of a hammer
sings a would-be house the same way a dog’s howl fractures
an all-too-sudden image of a stranger. All of this having
to do with your body, that is when trying to insinuate a day

like a beast cautious behind a brushfire. Take your hand
and cross your body – paint a gesture, with your timid signatures

   a showcase of a blind transaction for something and take it
to the nearby cathedral. Fasten you would, a murmur veiled
and hidden in one of the pews and kowtow / this is your

   finest headline today / before them, make do your obeisance
   to / to fall like a downed tree after a surge / drift on a river /
             / repeats as if you do not forget /
May 2016 · 415
Dream Sequence
1
What do mornings regard but
  the night refusing to budge?

The Sun a progeny
there must be room for days in
   this revenge

2
I   fold   I
in this exquisite manner

I  dream of  my  fortune
    as  rash   before  this I  slid

underneath the cleft
like  an  epistle

   unopened,  stamped  by the dearth
of another

secured   in this  absence
  black like a cummerbund

3
The   bed shook.
     enough  to  toss me out of

but not  inherit me  into  a dull succession.

our  places  nominal.
we have   a sum  if  syndicate
  but  still  impotent

they   have  made  this a reportage
of  a miracle  read  from a  gauche script:

This is
the morning that
was becoming no
less than a champion
over you |  vacate your  body
      while you  are still  able  |

the body confesses
I am constantly awakened
  by  this  futility.
May 2016 · 466
Then there were rivers
June is dead-still
trees converse with other
language mocking the trilling
of birds. North of here
there is a visitation. Virgins
are being transferred
all Monday housed in foreign
homes. Oregano
perennial, ingrained on
roof beam the rise and fall of,
a languid mirage outside
much less than an inveterate superstition.
Past the bridge where I once laughed
as a child when my father
surged past ploughed fields.
this almost overtakeless summer
minting its blazing core
and now rivers cut this town.
The derelict nectar of youth,
how lovely it was the first time
to pierce through age, an arcade
  rising from the carrion that was
our birthright under the throbbing heat.
Who touched what
to turn room into bedlam – slowly, these
evincing hours paint me the
grandiloquent picture of all
when the moon a foolish assumption
under a rain-soaked grassland
moist enough for crickets, venue for
frog hidden somewhere, outlined by a cadenza,
us, humming along in our
cast-off night clothes, meagerly this
climate tumescent in this town.
May 2016 · 446
Your day that was
And then it was your necessary contradiction:
note your taxidermied narrative pale everything against,

not from – from the hip of your stature,
drawn to.  You will happen – the quick hands

and the quicker gestures the frailest meaning
exposed to warmth that was your becoming, now effloresce

and gain an optimum: your day you say it was
        in front of a sweating bottle, fondling your clothes
|   clawing  it  inside,  complaining of your salt.

   Here too are spaces for things you rule over
   the precision of a film shot from the horizon
  by  which I mean you persist   |
May 2016 · 429
You embody this
A.


  drone this    day empirical
  from where we were once  the we
  rained from,    a high excursion
   which savvy the drop, weighing in, a fault

  trying to convince   the day when Sun
  embellished from the   ravine  of your hand,
  a catacomb   secured   by the  rolling
     of your  body like   a boulder   keeping
  a minute   sacred, christened an evinced noon

   that    was  your  repetitive finding.   onto
  
    a netted    frame   caught,  dripping out of
   a felt   space in    need   for graphs  to measure
        from,   a well unnamed  which  presence
          resembling  your body,  resounding
   the     fluency of    what  the  physical  ascribes    
        an   iamb    of    a crowd  inverted,  diminishing
                 and inflected in   a day's livid sigh

     housed        in  a  jar that   is  a mouth
        words   assemble    an  ikebana willing
    a     delayed     color  that  was   a   lack.
                  held   a  device  that   was    a  sky
        or   a  gleaming  face with   a high price
    claiming       a  solstitial  --  when    I  went
                   to your   home  it was   Saturday all
   week   inside  my   ribcage  chiming  worship.

   plastered   to   a  sheen all is  equal  underneath
           equatorial   tracing    a   sphere    when
     I    found  stroking   the   innards   of   a calendar
               it   is   November.     it  is   Saturday.

B.

   he   comes  from
   low  wattage this  night's  post
   a wonderful polyp
   to   begin  a
   blight
   apparently  so from a cut blackest gutter
         carrying an ample   water  virulent
             when  taken  in  and   again   in

    a  savingslight  of     metamorphosis
       climbs   vertical   so  the winged moon
              
              is    a  black  bird   in   the   blackest
       cage /  baltic  a different  fraternity
       of    land    with   the    same   pictorial

     this   lovely  stillness   calling   it  work
   a  flood   could  mean pernicious   is  blood
              brewed   from  this climate
          it   is   here  past Mandaue hillsides   dreaming
                 if place were  rumored  as  same-silent.
May 2016 · 372
You can become a plaza
if    you sing a moment   of  transaction
   or  the sudden  influx  of  a face   conjured
    to so many an  enterprise offered  for

    protest.   A hand's  insisting  tremor
   an   emptying  from  over  and  over  an  indication
   of  askance.

   A  counterfeit  I  cannot   grieve over   and  over.
   Its   renown   a  nearest   position /
               a   silhouette   from a  smokestack
      about  to be   sensed    out from a   customary
                strangeness.

         stranded in    a   lilt   of  a  becoming  word
    or   question   subtitling  a  frantic    enemy

      you --  panicking  all   across, a retailed
          fugitive   thing. You can   become   a plaza

     if   not   sing  but   exist  in the   district
  from    a humdrum  projection   fated,  tagged
       with  a  purebred  amount.  You  can
 
   will   it   so  /unbecoming of/ a   plaza   minused from     and  adhered   to   as  cacophonic
           only   in   newsprint here is  your performance
    of    a numbered  caution. Permit  you  to  be

     nominal,   going   into   without  purpose

            you   can   become   a   plaza
     if        I     pose    need  from     (y)earning
May 2016 · 460
Today you / were /
Today you were

anguished, with what ordered sentence to fray
  into organization. Shimmering splendid thigh

of noon numbered, overtakeless I peering
   through a gray eye of storm. Ambulatory motors

whir double ballasting ground / AC Cortez was nothing like any other held captive loosely frolicking

the summer gone through a bat of an eye
   reimagined, engraved into / what for is this

inheritance but a dangling stucco of a home. Else
   the newfangled man will have skin ripe to borrow

denying  the  statement. I could no longer raise
   tomorrow and fall for, a form broken in

by a crossing of the river I smell turpentine
    bearing the casualty of paint because color when

seen as absence of something, a thing worth
    mooring to where we were and kept

for the next docile minute, mourning what but
    a closed preserve drowned by a hand

deep between what was once just once and
    a continuing strangeness, one's own rearview

but insatiable affront. Today you were
    spoken of, not to, once again this weather

is here heavy with debris, less than ash fit for
    return curious as perfume clinging to

soiled collar learning every breath a crevice the
   body seeks to fullness feeding on some sense

of abandon -- today's news gasp for clearing
    which you weighed in today as you were

        again and again and again just as sound is
   but a remainder of a tremendous leftover.
May 2016 · 385
Found lesson
Take cover underneath your derelict day
  inside the cage of this home

and thrive in canned laughter, delay my
  coming, commanding like youth that was

your ever place. The city stranded into a thick
   swell of rain, gush was stone flushed in corners,

distending a shore. It was your extension with
   what was given -- this climate. This weather

within the azure's finest crosshair. Take this salt
   and ***** fish in brine. Brightest day

a myth under your penance that was I, supine
   on the surface unmoving like hue or else

dumb like refusal -- the amount of what for,
   patented here a blink couldn't waste in:

a season so squalid you waged inside yourself
    contained in a terminal brow of a humdrum day

that was yours solely manufactured from
    stalling a refrain, which tide of song

rinsed the corners whole betrayed by access
    of us here emptied like a concave

this loss tallied  by  the  gravity effaced
     with a high price, take this to your disquiet

and be caught against a registered tragedy
      when parted, dearly remembered to a feigned

retrieval -- further your stasis, then after this
      a halt lesser than force when found who we

are when   we  find how things are done.
May 2016 · 478
Mundane
Sometimes I am in the center of all things intentional and accidental.
My conquest lies somewhere in between its execution. When this happens,
I am ready: I will wear a white shirt. Keep mum like a leaden chapel.
                              My eyes will be red like surgery. My precision of stasis,
                               impeccable – like mother gutting fish in the kitchen,
                               or a door unhinged by my father. Each exploit

drawn   out of the mundane. Hearing the sinking dreaded music of shovel excavating
   the Earth,
   taking the image blurred. Clarified like clearing of a throat is my reckoning
   of a dull Wednesday. Rain descending like a flower. Bathes the world like soiled
   linen where we are cut from uniformly. Sometimes I am two abysses in one place:
  the gap of the ground and the horizon, sometimes cut-rate like pothole.
                   I know a day exists and can neither be decent nor loutish. In this frame,
  I can be sepia. Whitewashed like wall, hewed like linoleum on floors.

   In this center   I can be the forever grass
    when all things expire by morning

  washing me with dew.
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