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6.3k · Sep 2015
Si Kristo Ay Nasa Sabungan
sa may dagliang liko
abot ng aking ligaw na sulyap ang
sabungan. matatas ang kanyang
ngalan.

"Cockfighter's Rendezvous" kaunting
lakad lamang pabalikwas sa
MERALCO kung saan isang mahabang
karagatan ng tao ang pilit
na inaalon ng bayarin, kaltas
sa sahod, bulag sa paroroonan.

ayon sa mga akda ay mayroong
Kristo sa sabungan. siya ang
nangangasiwa sa aliwan ng mga
drayber. ang matalas na tari
ng kanilang hagikgikan
ay lumulubog sa haba ng
pantimpalak

naroon daw si Kristo
habang
ang dagundong ng batingaw
ay tulog sa tore.
pitikan ng pitikan ng yosi
kung saan na lamang maisipan
ng pagod na kamay na may samyo
ng dala nitong lansa,
at matapos ay papasok ng muli
sa simbahan kung saan
kasabay ng pag-danak ng dugo
ang pag-kubra ng nag-wagi.

hawak ni Kristo ang patay
na manok,
nasusulat sa tari ang
linya ng dugo.
alam ko naroon si Kristo.

hawak ni Kristo
ang mga baryang kumakalansing.
ilang pirasong pag-asa
para sa pawisang drayber,
para sa parokyanong lasinggero,
para sa baguhan sa aliwan,
para sa llamado.

hawak ni Kristo ang lahat,
at siya ang panuto
sa pagsusulit ng ganid.

pauwi na ako. wala na ang
alingawngaw ng sigawan.
Lunes nanaman at ramdam
ng lahat ang bigat
ng parating na mga araw.
6.2k · Jun 2016
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.
****.
4.6k · Mar 2016
Dagat, Alaala
sa dagliang pangangalawang ng buto dala
ng bawat patak ng ulan.

ang pinapaling lakas ng hangin palihis
sa kurtina ng pag-iisa, itong kamay na palupot
ng pagkalugmok, hapung-hapo sa paghabol

sa pag-uumaga ng mga sandali.
napababalikwas sa tuwing banaag
   ang hinaharap.

hubad ang bughaw na katawan ng mundo
   ang kulay ng karagatan ay pula – dala ng silakbo
   ng damdamin;

magtatampisaw sa tubig
  hihiga at lulutang
      kasabay ng tagistis ng alaalang walang ibang hangad
                   kundi ang umusad.
4.5k · Nov 2015
Mindanao Rain
Mindanao rain

   drain a mind:

rain, mind an a, o (or lack of
      the voweled demarcation)
      
       a man rid
or
     a dim man in
   a man;
  
      Danao
sings something
   blood writes heavily
we have many cicatrices

    mind
the
      now

    arid mind
man rid of
a, o — vowels to
    fruition a total emphasis

     and man
in a drain, no strong aid
        in rain — in the
eyes  of
    god is the
true
   anon man
in the rain
    amid rain-moan
   or nomad in rain.

a **** I On,
  you
complete the atrocity.
4.1k · Oct 2015
One Filthy Day In Manila
superimposition of celestial ampersand:

a continuity of all things
  stars hanging loose in the pupil
of this deadbeat word.

typhoons in a swirl of tempestuous ballet,
dogs shivering in the blue cold,
biting their canine integument the way
scarabs would, sinking in a temporal flotsam-way within tectonic display
    of text

hectares of blank stares bringing
to life lysergic field of black birds.

and then some

equal number of evocativeness:

continuing on into the ground
are the bones warm in their compost.
the sudden fragrance of rat ****
appeals to the masses.
too much laughter in flooded thoroughfares pockmarked by
the vehement jam of staccato jackhammer.
choking us is today's headline
in supreme obbligato - its stench
reeks of libidinal perfume etched
in the flesh of the rigmarole.

one filthy day in Manila.
4.1k · Sep 2015
Whang Od
land's moniker
mulls utmost care

     Kalinga

branding the ox
      of men with glaringly

  immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
  reticence.

  chase angel-ward, the synopsis
  of meaningfulness,
    jagged, indelible accoutrement
    akin to the brand of
         chaste heritage,

   galvanizing this epitaph
     with aesthetic nativity,
  gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
   carve in me what the rippling
    shrill of air has toppled
      in the highlands

  you have us shaking the blood
    of this archipelago like boughs
   breaking free from water's ebb,
   frenzied by the river-warm
    serpentine embellishment
   the strike of the thorns
    mints in our untouched bodies!

   altogether in this numerous hike
   we go in pursuit, hunting the
   nibble from flesh to bone,
    revealing the rebel, body
       to soul.
To Whang Od, the mambabatok.
4.1k · Jun 2016
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.
4.0k · Sep 2015
Papalapit ng papalapit
ito ang siyang giit ng hangin.

ano mang tindig ng puno
ay kayang baluktutin ng
hampas ng latigo nito.

binabalinguyngoy na ang
mga bato sa
lalim ng dilim.

ito ang siyang giit ng buwan.

ano mang sagisag
ng dilim ay kaya nitong burahin.
hayaan lamang ang pag-bagsak nito
sa hubad na imahe ng lahat
ng bagay na lasing sa katahimikan.

bumubukadkad nanaman
ang bulaklak ng pag-iisa.

ito ang giit ng pag-ibig.

ano mang saplot ang suot
ng pag-tangis ay kaya nitong
hubarin -

hayaan nating bukas ang mga bintana,
at damhin ang lahat, abot-tanaw
  at papalapit ng papalapit,

tulad ng hangin,
tulad ng buwan,
tulad ng pag-iisa.
Para sa imoha.
4.0k · Apr 2016
Pagpapamudmod
para sa Kidapawan*

Diktador ang makinarya.
Maringal ang langit. Walang ulan para
sa pasasalamat. Ang ating tanging pagkakakilanlan
ay pumapaimbulog sa bawat sugat na nagsara.
Muli nila itong bubulatlatin.
Hindi paham ang gatilyo.

Mabilis na matutuyo ang pangako
kung pawawalan ito sa katanghaliang tapat.
Tanaw ng nakabiting ulo ng araw
ang lahat ng nangamatay. Kasabay ng hangin
ang pagpapaluka. Hudyat ng ulan galing
sa ibaba – gigibain ang makapal na barikada
  ng katawan atsaka muling uuwi sa asawa’t anak
na may bahid ng pula ang kamay. Dulo ng kuko’y
kapiraso ng mundo. Itim. Hugis buwan. Ang pagputok
    ay isang rekoridang laging gumagapang patungo sa tugatog
     ng isang alala.

Dadalhin nila sa bingit ng pagpaparam
ang babasaging boses – ang mga bubog ay
isasaboy na lamang sa lansangan.
Lumalaon ay dumidiin ang bulahaw. Inutil
lamang ang pagtatalik ng kamay at bakal.
   Umusal na lamang ng dasal sa likod
ng kakahuyan at baka dinggin ng bathala
ang panayam. Walang iisang dilang tumatabas
  sa dahas.

kung saan sisimulang hanapin
ng mga mata ang isang lugar kung saan ang lahat
ay iwinawasto ng nakaraan ay lingid
lamang sa kaalaman.

bago mangapal ang dilim ay nilusong ng mga kalalakihan
ang nalalapit na katedral. Naghahabol ang papauwing liwanag
na masaksihan ang kabalintunaan.

wala silang nakita,
katawan lamang sa lansangan,
tinutubos ng kasaysayan.
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight

outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.

i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.

let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
3.5k · Sep 2015
Barangay 187, 8th & 7th
it is like the many nights

sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,

just like any other night.
I am this this this close to a writer's block.
2.9k · Mar 2016
Haraya
ano pa nga ba ang tangan     ng haraya
kundi ang langitngit ng katahimikan,

na sa isang sulok lamang ay mahahawakan hindi
ang puso: sa isang iglap, pagsasatubig.

puspos ng liwanag ang lupa. Muling pagtatangkilik
sa sukal ng dilim.

hindi alam ng hangin ang pangako ng paghilom.
hindi banaag ng kahapon ang bukas.
pipikit na lamang ba’t walang pagtangis,

na sa dulo man ay marapatin, kung tayo’y papel,
     ay mapupunit na lamang
ba sa mga kuko ng marupok na sandali?
2.8k · Jan 2016
To Hold A Photograph
to hold a photograph in my hand
  and believe what is presented,
  take is at it already is – why not?

if I close my mind’s shuttering eye,
will you be as candid as before?
unrestricted, unsorted from the hullaballoo,

you, freer than what is imagined, closing
in like a bullet from yesterday shot out
of the sky’s contrived clearing –

to hold a photograph in my hand
and tug closer by the mouth of the fringe
as if to pour water on a broken glass,

slithering now, a shadow of moon
at the very dull end of my cup;
you are closer than any rehearsed moment

ready to catch the inner canthus of the eye:
this relentless picture-passing, tense and
fervent, avid like bankiva to air,

water to chrysanthemum: behind thick shrub
of crepuscular, an arboreal locomotion
shatters loose, your frantic figure.

to hold a photograph in my hand
and size it down to the dimensions
of this home – there is potential in this

comparison: flaring out like smoke from
where it infinitely burns, I seek an ache
and hence place a finger to shush,

to hold this photograph in my hand
and confabulate a soft blow to the gut
and feel it realer than any dagger or berretta

held at one’s life-edge: this delusory intimation,
a slipshod work of feeling. to feel it rejoin
me somewhere I ought to be back again.
but finality in all series of things
seriousness, or was it
lackadaisical thought offspring
blooms walls of drooping eye?

air-tight space, its coalition
with inward breaking penumbra
of shadow,

i write a poem so as not a poem
but an antagonism of sorts
to the end that does not smell of sandalwood but

the fixation of the word
as scent plays with memory,
a fragrance of spring in all that is winter
casting

a shadow upon me, you,
if not all.
My response to his challenge of looking for the shadow.
2.6k · Nov 2015
Gumamela
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.

ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
  it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
  only the children of the vandal.

iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
  of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
  blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
  to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
         we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
     to our locomotives.

iv.
  the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
   of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
   it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.

v.
  somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
   the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
   flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
    belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA

   and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
    yet i am

        not coming home.
2.5k · Mar 2016
Tupok
kung ikaw lamang ay iba sa iyong
   sarili at hindi itong anino
na may hawak na balaraw,
  mala-dagitab ang bilis ng iyong pagkabig
sa akin,   sana’y naririto
  ka pa ngunit

ikaw   at    ako
ay hindi   ikaw   at  ako at tila
  ikaw   at ikaw  lamang
na sana’y dalawa; waring kumpisal
  sa harap ng salamin,
kung mayroon lamang kasiguraduhan
at walang bahid ng alinlangan at itim
na katahimikan,

puspos ka ng pagdaramot
kaya naman
sa init ng paglisan at sa pagiimbot
  ng distansya,
ako’y tupok
    na
   tupok
2.4k · Sep 2015
Kafka
herein lies common fault - loosely hanging on a speculative conjecture
     than exact detail.

mind's prison- asylum.
you go in to see furtive showcases
of the many names walking without
faces. you went in without invitation. only or abstract solicitation.

there is something that sinks
deeper than marrow, blows colder than December winnow, something that burgeons beyond naked sense.

inside this lair,
conflated you are with bent question marks to their distinct, curved smallnesses. you peek into the window of my eyes and inside this airless vault, we are both
heavy with staring at each other
dripping and bare-all, yet
this rigmarole of eyes contain
their visceral silences still.

i stripped them all of their voices
and they only look at each other
with onerous eyes, pondering
about their places, answerless
and just whirling in capacitous space --
2.4k · Nov 2015
Past Neighborhoods
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
   jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;

on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,

like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
  shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,

   dreary men taking out *******, throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
   painted, grisly caravan of steel and
      worthless scraps —

past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
  to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
    a gap in between,

    because you need it,
    and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
    of afterthought.

   because you have to walk my side
    of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
   lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
      the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
                peak up to the very last
   traceable steps where i found you
      and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
    stills itself into all the mood of the     Earth:

    all moony and
                 fretting in the disquiet.
2.3k · Oct 2015
Night's Metonymy
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
  to no music - only acrid scruple
    of this being with and not being with,
     one is always alone.

  space occupies the potteries in
  the garden as a steady arm of light
  stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
  it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
   and the heat clambers the wall of
   the vacuously atrabilious moment
  of just plainly existing. the slender
  harlequin of moon, like an old lover
  having its own way with me, a child's
  yelp coming home — the hermetic
  air crushing the light, slivering it
  revealing all the ensconced phantasms
  too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
  that teems with a concatenation of roads
  and gutters bilious with the squall of day.

  a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
   receiving the star of aloneness,
    vacillating between
  place and         placelessness
   telling this originary of repossessing
       the moon with a hand in my hand,
   pressing a question of where
    have you been all the raging while.
2.3k · Oct 2015
Antipára
nariyan ka nanaman,
  naninibasib na tila

kahapon lamang ay bukas—

kapit-puso kitang pakakawalan
kasabay ng pagtila ng ulan,
pagbukadkad ng bulaklak,
pagtawid ng bulalakaw

at pagkatapos ay akin kang babalikan
  sa kung saan ay wala ka na,
  at ng sa gayon ay aking maramdamang
  muli ang itinatangi ng katahimikan:
ang maganda **** mukha,
  ang 'di maikubling init ng iyong bisig,
  ang mga araw na nalulunod sa lalim
   ng iyong dating pagtitig sa akin
   na ngayo'y isa na lamang panaginip
     ng antipára — ramdam ko ang lahat,
  at mayroong distansyang hindi kayang
     isara ng kahit anong pagwawakas

  ng katotohanang alam ko sa pag-iisa,
    na tila kahapon lamang ang bukas.
2.2k · May 2016
A sense of abandon as poem
now, I will try to abandon time and space
in this form of truancy.

what is this abandonment trying to measure?
  the abeyance of presence.

what is the measured variable trying
to dissect? the impossibility of absence.

a poem aspires to be something concrete. a poem
   is what is real and imagined in the same context.

I try to invoke Abad -- what is imagined is most
   real.  this shall be its leitmotif.

now, i imagine the horizon as a point

of origin, or a template to some familiar projection,
  or a tagebuch summarized into a fine line
of allegories and denouement.

what this line tries to prove is that

an enjambment is a mimesis.

acknowledge the sublimity of a
  creation. notice that the sequence that will
be promised is diegesis of absence as form
     but not a poem as in a poem that enshrines
lucidity -- but the lack of it.

there is only the photograph of horizon
   as hypothesis of perpetuality. this now

is a subject, a speculative undertaking rearing a
   poem -- writing as preparatory for absence,

finishing a line as pursuit of thesis, gravity of
    its heft as tabulation of emphasis, or
verbosity, which may be telling of meaning or chronology.

a poem that is not a poem,
  But poem as a form of absence

that aspires to be a poem.

what is transpiring now is that i am assuming
   an utterance: utterance as being here,

and perhaps voice as sound of becoming but not finality
   of presence, and sound as disappearance

post-peak. its point-source silence and formation
   of thought, and then a poem is written as

evidence of disappearance in deep and close
   contest with a vision coming from another

audience as an objective supposition or
   reaction that may propel an exchange

but only when silence is entertained does
  silence happen, and so this may be dismissed

as a monologue among dialogues insofar as
    only to pinpoint this arrogant feat:

i may be speaking glossolalia, or in tongues,
  and that i seek no reprieve nor vestige,

all the more response -- intone of voice
   stilling itself in the tense setting

of being gazed upon, glazed with coherence
  of senses from one identity to another say,

you hear me speak as in speaking
as baring sound.
   but now that i have spoken, i have already undone

  the quiet to stir volumes and amplitudes
to attest sound-fade as vital component of absence,

whereas this poem produces ample sound
  if you pay close attention to yourself reading

in the lull form of reading (your
breathing will have intensified here,

your reasoning will have made so much
  noise here) as i continue to whittle

away in form of verse, verse not as poem,
  verseliteration not as occupancy of space,

but all in all, a body of work
that is a visage of movement - or a trace of absence, physics of space and kinesis of departure.

a delineation of a thing that was once
   thriving in threshold accompanied

by its tendency to wane: sound may be an
     analogue of unheard, as sound is impervious
to quietude but quietude conscious of sound
     and its potential,

that quiet coheres to its inclination to consummation,

this completeness so emphatic,
this allegory as
  absence the somatic, axiomatic,

indefatigable machinery of a presage,
   or continuity -- this poem that is not a poem,

but an excess of sound, a body that
   deserves end,  a punctuation.
     verity of this argument in basest form.

this body of work as absence
  and its completeness, volition

of its enigma: is this the end
  of sound or your silence summoned?

to drag it back, its recalcitrant body,
   is form of revision, then possession

of an absence, a recollection that will have granted
   seamless entry and translation

which passes on from its origin to
  a new clause -- to end it here, now and pass

over as readable only in the background that is
   an embellishment of absence amongst

things in exclusive continuity, to have this produced
   in space as empirical of absence,

and to punctuate this, a mystification,
or say, acceptable fabrication,

to read and extricate as acceptance of an absence
   as form: this poem that is not a poem but

only a physicality delimited -- to speculate
and study
as disbelief, and to have done such simply

demystification of its transition.
A deconstruction as evidence.
2.2k · Nov 2015
Plaridelius
so it begins when it begins
    blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
  of the day's toil;

the countryman stilts through
   mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******* clad women
    and women who are (really ******* clad) ready for bathing work,
    collections of red days and even
    tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —

  the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
    up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
   kennels and makeshift asylums

   there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
            that only rises when bellows
  of festivities harangue the many streets
             bending in them, the curve)
  men moving from neck to neck
    of bottles — (in the north there
      is only four corners of bottle: gin,
   pristine brook; in the Visayas is
      the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
   potency) plucked out of the vermilion
   and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
     gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
     upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
    out of this?
    
      carabaos, equines, hens line up
   the slaughterhouse behind the
      TODA; you know a fine day when
         it happens — breaking eggs
  against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
    archaic sensurround, barrage of
      simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
          our mothers, faster than repose
  of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
      to silent radios, leaving windows
   open revisited by the eve of cold.
2.2k · Jan 2016
Tantusan Mo
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song

here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
  the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
   such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
  scattered and at long last, never collected

deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.

what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
   still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
   now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,

swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
             “Tantusan mo!” to remember
where     we last    took  off,  like a heron,
   or a  bird, wary of distances.
"Tantusan mo!" is a tagalog phrase which means "put a mark on it".
2.1k · Mar 2016
Isang Kalsada
Kalakip ka ng dagundong ng hangin ngayong tanghali:
    Bago ang lahat, kakapahin ko ang natitirang
    init sa upuan. Iyon ang aking galit. Inukit ng iyong bigat
ang paglubog ng buwan, dito sa aking gabi,
tumatambad sa silid na walang durungawan,
  isang batang namumugad,
gumagapang sa walang-malay na gulugod
  ng pagdaralita. Bulahaw ng radyo at ang binulatlat
  na pagkakataon – matapos ang lahat ng ito,

ang tulog ay may angkop na bigat,
panaginip ay kulata, dala ng hangin ang bukas
  na walang pagkakaiba: Dinaanan mo na rin ito

kahapon ng hindi man lamang dumungaw
para kumaway.
2.1k · Sep 2015
Black Revolver 1998
i have held with
fascination, when i was young,
  all of my toys.

a parallel universe of
  marvels. imperial is the mood
of these ecstasies!

i remember my cheap svelte revolver
  back in 1998 bought from
  the festive bazaar in the marketplace at the dreary heart of Bocaue when i was
consumed by the thought of brutal force and how swiftly, in the hands of men meant for twisting open
   the doors, welcome death
or the metallurgy of it.

i used to run off into the sunset
  toting my gun high with pride
   shunning the Sun, and the
reprise of my carousals is my mother
    soldering in her white hands
a "walis tambo" and summoning me
     homeward with a churlish grin
on my face, triumphantly ecstatic
   over my rendezvous.

now my gun has withstood the
   tatterdemalion of dog days
and in one corner i felt its
  brokenness as it yearns to
  be retired early in the peak
    of my youth. happiness wears down like a chip on the old linoleumed floor and i tinker with
  it to unsheathe the grime
  of the unspoken stucco concrete.

  i placed it in a box, my black revolver, together with the toys
   that i once laughed with
when only bliss is as simple as a juvenile love, or the easy picking
    of a santan over the fields
      where i ran off into
the viridian laughing with the verdure of the world that i once knew as something so beautiful
   and intricate.

i heard my black revolver went
   somewhere behind the macadamized wall where i dreamt of having a basketball ring nailed to.
   only i knew how to play
my revolver, and now that i am
   caught within the heaviness
  of all things that mean greater
  than all other joys,
   no other days could ever
surpass how
  i made
    a hero in myself
mighty with the tales
     that i keep.

good ole black revolver, 1998.
A poem I wrote as a tribute to the simpler forms of happiness and how unmistakably I have made a hero within myself when I was young.
2.1k · Nov 2015
'Neath The Guava Tree
pulling hair, mounting the scathed creature — feelingfulness straddles
the lovelorn fringe of shadows coming
to a feint.

under the canopy of the guava tree
i reminisce dissonance of claims

drunken recall or some ill fortitude
and borderless as it seems,
capturing the eye.

mirage dazzled, writhing on the
darling loam, fisticuff of birds
swarming ecliptic passages
finding a hidden codex somewhere
in archaea — women pulled from ribs
and men wrought out of tears.
2.1k · Mar 2016
You'll Bloom, You'll Bloom
Insouciance     first   fall
   we    took    the   night      half-illuminated
   dreamy     stereo     sketchy   static
   through     ear’s  round   bell

smile  we    owe   it  
      slanted,     bendable   light  moon
  becomes    another    genre

   to    listen     lilt
  even     before     methods   of   lip
   procure     shaded    meaning   cohered
  on     a    closed    door –  opened
finding    a    semblance    of Sun
     there,     veiling
a     traffic   of     cirrus
    in     the       elongated    road
   of          blue     skies

it    was    time
   to     point-source   a   home
taller    than    grass    in  Summer
     pinpointing   scenes    to     exact
a    long   divide    and    make    it
     by      punishing    it    post-peak,
let    it       drift    with    unrelenting
     quickness
       past     mouthed    rivers     and   from
the       lessening   fog
           of       the     same     morning
i
     will     puncture
it   true,      eyes     set   forth
    into     your   absence

*you’ll
bloom
you’ll
bloom.
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.

Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.

This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
2.0k · Mar 2016
Iilang Mga Parte
Kamay

Heto, kung mararapatin lamang.
Ipagkakatiwala ang sandali
tungo sa laman ng salita.
Heto, kung ipagdaramot lamang,
at ipagsasawalang bahala ang dambana
ng iyong katawan.

2. Kurba

Kung abot-kamay lamang din naman
ang buwan ay ipagdaramot na lamang
ang natitirang liwanag.
Sa palad ko nakahimlay
ang talim ng iyong buto.
Hindi na mangingiming pang ibalik pa
sa tahimik na daluyong ng oras
ang mga kamay na ito na walang pagpapatawad.

3. Mata*

May tupok na anghel na bagong hirang
sa loob ng malaking puwang.
Walang paglalagyan ng ligalig,
marahang pagiingat lamang,
kung tatanaw sa kabilang kuwarto ng halinghingan
na para bang nagtatalik ang nais
sa hindi maangkin

nangungusap nang walang karampatang pagmamalabis.
all i see now are the silent ruin
of words teeming with wisdom
in every trail. you are gleaming
in the moony boondocks,
Ibabá remembers you as you were -
timeless and ruminative,
pursuing the source of rivers.

our sublime versifier,
the crucifixes now tremble without
the fullness of your flesh.
each page is turned without
the hover of your voice yet
stills its resonant message in my mind's premises like redolent graffiti.
striding river-pace,
once in moonlit Orfeo
graced by your sibilant being,
leaving only the strongest of impression
on the surly couch, a toppled glass
of Shiraz remembering your attendance
leaving the clamor of the audiences
real to touch, elusive in thought.

before the war was the ever-present word, and after the fray was
the armistice of the Sun where in
humdrum Sampiro, your fire's genealogy
is in the hands of the muse!

idly go the hours, wading everlong past
Calle Herrán - the bells of Paco Church
tell in this imperfect hour
the roads where you once traversed,
travailed and perhaps beer-maddened,
putting a face in the metaphysical!

in your banquet i partake
the wisdom of your wine
and the reason of your flesh -
the gods delight in you,
  o, Manila of all Manila.
For Nick Joaquin, one of the greatest literary fellows in his own time.
2.0k · Mar 2016
Sukal
mata ang may bitbit ng
dagitab ng bawat sandali

at waring mga kamay na aba,
ang karagatan na may kalong na katahimikan;
sinusuri ng ilaw ang lahat,
mga palad na nagdadaop.
ang halakhak sa sukal ng gabi.
ang batong binabalinguyngoy sa lalim
ng bawat pag-tingin

itong mga kamay
tanaw ng mata


ang alaala
2.0k · Mar 2016
Halaw Sa Gabi
marahil ay tulog ang diwa ng binigkas ang salitang
tiyak na ikahuhulog ng buwan mula sa mataas nitong upuan;

ang kamay ay entropiya – ang iyong mukha, ang aking daigdig.
lagablab ng mata, halaw sa init ng pagkakataon.

may taglay na lamig ang hangin, lumalatay sa balat,
at sa nagbabalat-kayong anino sa bakanteng silid.

ang mga umaandap na ilaw – ang tahimik na ugong ng iyong pag-hinga

sa aking tabi, ng aking bigkasin
ang hindi kayang wakasan ng katahimikan lamang.
1.9k · Oct 2015
Hazy Manila Headline
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.

magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance

something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."

maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.

rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.

a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -

catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.

today's paper reads:

"Palace hits hiring
   of **** dancers"

fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
  prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.

   we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
  rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.

squinting to look at
  no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
  in the depth of loose pockets,
    desperate for home.
**** the Philippine government.
1.9k · Oct 2015
Levitations
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.

this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.

we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.

the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.

    it's all levitation and transcendence.

the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the   thud
      of the senseless head of metal
     on the body

the   clackety-clack
       of hours thereafter!

ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
  appendage. the solstice is lost
    in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
    our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of    
    thunder — the steady phoenix of
       that night! this is learning
  to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
     this river flowing into our throats,
  jamming our souls to compelling music.

   remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
For Marc Ocampo.
past wavering lights
  B. Serrano and Bagong Ilog
love struck us down — sees no votive
clearing of the fog or a word sharper than any blade wrought from frays.

i have a photograph of you
somewhere in the ken of my silence
  and on it paints lightsome hue
and sometimes pale when it rains.
KM 24 on a blue alloy and underneath,
   a Baguio — some memories we keep
almost left by the last carriage homeward
   from too much fire in our hands
  only tremors could extinguish both
striking a balance and counterbalance;
the frequency of the electric and the
immense decibel of lions drowning
    the disquiet. some places or some
looking back makes you want
   to lose yourself in slight wonder and when

a memory comes back with the dreary
   weight of its forgetfulness,
we fall asleep traipsing the steeples
   of our dreams of each other
all-telling, still dizzy with the pirouette
  of some distant longing bracing
the fall, triggering our darkness
  and shooting out

   ourselves, small,
love striking us down. arraying a triplicate
    of hazy trails forking all roads
and we cannot find each other again;
  throwing stones rippling
multiplied waves by the sea arriving
  at separate mornings beneath
our feet,

   bends on the bludgeoned curves
of love and hate ascertaining something
   so unsure as a door agape and swiveling
  in tense wind, tender is the night

  and love continues
to smite us down, locking in, predatory precision,
            running away, and away, and away
   from the ache of it all.
1.9k · Nov 2015
Carwash
suds fall on black like endless snow.
tarnished paint to spry—
engine's diminutive breath
clout of metal coil, ballasts of portent...

defacing the fog and giving
it a brand new meaning. beside the rice fields in sullen Bulacan,
i ache for the frog defecating
on this tortured piece of land.

birds in migratory V-positions cleave
the azure, vanishing behind the tough ornate. to whence they flee
   and to where they shall land
on their poised talons, i do not know.

   underneath the dermis and over
    it, a long stillness of waiting,
  trapped is this
     man of Earth.
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?

the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.

i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.

there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.

all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.

we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Traffic in Manila, Philippines in absolute worst.
1.8k · Sep 2015
Lumad
blood now is the accoutrement.
night's tenure is the morning's
leasing: what will continue to
  light like a beacon in this
    vicissitude is the flash
    of a *****-nosed nozzle.

no sound is heard.
no bones were felt
trembling.
all the voices were muffled,
thrown into a makeshift exodus.

the pains will be etched away
like moss unraveling the secret
of wall upon wounds like old scarves.

but the ground,
which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget:
death's squadron enters. harbingers.
what has hidden them in the lull
has now sung severances:
a distance closed
by a fusillade
of bullets.
A tribute to the Lumads of the Philippines.
1.7k · Dec 2015
Bagan
It should’ve been Bagan –
she always loved Bagan,
Myanmar.

look, woman.
I am a dog outside your home,
overwrought and disarmed,
hunting for bones.

inverse moon over Pasig
tonight and I am on
my 4th bottle of beer already,

barking without teeth.
raged behind the typewriter
with nothing but a visibly

veiled waiting
this stance so
obscure,
so absurd
like the abrupt life
of candle-flame.

I was the lover
and you cared for flame:
now the fire is dead
and there is nothing left
for the sea to lambast,
erased by the shores of feel.

symphonies out on the streets
like leprous children scrunched deep in
the mire of the streets for alms.

it is now my 5th bottle
and I **** on the stone-gnome
in my mother’s lawn
and she will know of the reek
of this pungent disbelief – scorn me for
my heavy drinking

but what is a man to do
when he
is as destroyed
as

the morning

outside?
1.7k · Jan 2016
For The Kindred
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.
1.7k · Nov 2015
Baso
dinggin ang lagaslas ng tubig
na pumapalupot sa bisig.

handa na ang bukana.
kasabay ng pag-alon ng damdamin
ang
     p
     a
     g
     b
     a
     g
     s
     a
     k

ng lamig na dala ng pag-lisan
o ang init na lulan ng pag-dating

papalapit ng papalapit
sa nagngungusap na mga mata,
sinasalamin nang iyong banta
ang aking bibig.

bilugan, hubad,
   tahimik.
1.7k · Jan 2016
Anthem
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
   as they    pick up a mound of the Earth and  throw at genuflected  roses.
these battered men   in parks   searching  for light
   and   my woman   is no longer with  me.

it’s all  vaudeville:  this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant  flutings,   these  unprecedented fluctuations.

opening  the yellow gates  to death
as the  automobile churns the  last of its exhausted snarl.
   we    are children   peering through   glass cases
as   death laughs at his   hopeless  clientele,
    sad,   desolate   progenies   in   working-classes,
in   parks,  in factories,   somewhere along Mendiola,
  or  just treading the waist-high  hellish   froths   of   Dapitan,
    there’s   always   death in   the nooks   of the quiet
and from   where birds    stir in  sidereal circles,   death
  with his hands    resting   on the   cage,   chases us  back to  our homes.

death   the changing of the   gatekeeper.
death  the   telling machine.
death   the dentist.
death   my next door neighbor.
death,   this boorish broken-winged   Maya twitching in  front
   of my dog’s shadow  shot out of the Sun’s  shameful recoil.
death,   my loud and loutish muse,
death    the   truant,
death,   the   copious  fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
   death,   in my   hands through   darkness    and  light,
death   through troves   of enigma,
      death   through   undisputed clearings,
death    the   long line  of red beads   in EDSA,
  death  the gates   of Plaridel,

     it’s the moon   following you,   trailing your measure,
i hold   my woman’s used   shirt,  pick up her photographs
    and there’s no tender movement left but  the still-seeking   lion
prowling   the jungles   of my  heart,   seared by  lovelorn undoing.
  
through   the  bottom of  the sky and the  unchanging roof-beam,
  the weathervane ceases to  a sojourn  and the  wind is  trapped
    in   a place  where we   cannot   utter any word  between the  gnashing
  of   our teeth – through the wasted   years,  through  the sleeping in  and out
  of   homes filled  with beatings,  to cathedrals swollen with  tribulations,
      and to   the vineyards     wrung   out   of wine,    my  lover,   walking  through  fire,
        sound     silence.
1.6k · Feb 2016
What I Saw That Night
times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.
After Baguio.
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
  wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
   a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
  to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
   feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
  The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
  collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
  itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
      available for the world to break once again.
1.6k · Aug 2016
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
1.6k · Dec 2015
Gates Opened: Nightfall
because love when cut,
lets loose
an empire of blood:

i have in my lips,
a treaty of oblivion—
releasing an embittered lemon.

in the throne of the sea,
waves repeat the crash
of perfidy.
by the mountains they ride,
the thick air of strobe.

rocks receive the genital fire
of lighthouses
exposing intones of shadow
one by one.

the beast maimed
behind the zither of trees
makes no sound like
  an aleph.

i herald the collusion of night
   and children
and weep at the solicitude of mothers,

because pines swoon in the dark
and with its hand, the gentlest war
   threshes the flesh and blood,
raining on us forever.

hostile eyes bypass the silence of things
  and lovers closing doors repeatedly,
disrupting the vale from its slumber.

   it is because when love is let loose,
it releases both of us — weary, inescapably ripe with the wind, looking
   for each other as doves do in flight,
  separate and obscured, opening gates;

                                           nightfall:
   the savage aroma of wood
       on the leaves that sway fervently
          tippling away from boughs.
drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
                                  all
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
  displaced
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
    
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
  
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
                  
                                               breathless—
For Tacloban, the derelict of Typhoon Yolanda.

2 years ago, typhoon Haiyan pummeled and ravished the Philippines, leaving Tacloban in complete disarray.
1.5k · Sep 2015
Padalos-dalos
dagliang sampay ng kamay sa balikat
na wala man lamang konsepto ng
pag-iingat.

itong bulalakaw ng halik
at ang haba ng tarima.
ang sikhay ng dagat ng
pag-agos ay hindi mapapagod kailanman, sapagkat
ang daluyong ng bawat sandali
ay mistulang hangin sa bukas
na mga bintana. inaalis ang bigat
ng panaginip at ikinikintal
ang gaan ng
pag-gising nang muli

sa iyong

piling.
Para sa imoha.
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.
snaking through a modal-jazz fine-tuned evening
      this soft huddle of sweat and tender bodies
     it was purely girls strobed, fired upon by the oncoming *****

of a maddened hand;

     slowly becoming inured to this droning of the blameful balm
of evening, always when    ennui   starts
    to   wane I will     start    the   car
and take myself to the   edge of   everything

and all the  suddenness becomes    inept
  and I myself

a   shot   in the  total  dark
making    it   final

            somewhere in Quezon City
given a   levitation and    you
  
      are     somewhat veined to my wall of disgust
the same as
     finding    an   old,   forgotten   thing
you
     have no    use    for.
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