You are the star
That I seek
Whenever I'm drowning
In the murky depths
Of a dark turbulent sea
When the pale moonlight
Fades between the stormy skies
And Im caught in the undertow
Desperately struggling
To find a way out
That's when I look up for you
With desperate eyes
And there you are
Wearing that same stoical smile
Shining like a diamond
Brighter than the sun
The divinity that you exude
Gives me  infinite strength
You illuminate my path
When shadows become bigger than before
With your radiant coruscations
You gently guide me ashore

A match strikes not for limbo
But for tepid coruscations to warm a soul.
By assumption she is not her own.

The quintessence of a life when received--
A curio to collect dust and fissure.

What will you do
with a heart that is not your own?

here, there is not much to look
at. in this 3 AM tapestry,
the moon cloaking itself
in profound dark, stark and unseen,
stars borrowing their coruscations
from their white mother
in choreographed intermissions.

only a swan-song undelivered
an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts
its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn
rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation
and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit
us through interstices of leaves,
forking these illuminations
without allegories nor travails,
just light and its lenient pedagogy.

there is not much to gaze at,
let alone speak to, in this
deepening spectacle. only
this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine.
the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own
saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me
through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.

smoke ascends
into a thin streak
hauled by wind's crane.
tacit coruscations peer through
the cityscape without lasso.

revealing
light's snickersnee
and then guts the silence
with it,
pares it back
to an ember's nascent form.
in the womb of death
is i,
lips puckering to blow
a nebula of a new world,
ingesting all its hell
and expires
a circumambulating heaven,
sealing all fates,
a sepulchral nativity.

/  rivers pulse this house as if activity, predictable.
  leave this body       just like that.
  and heave the emptiness from the thrum
  of the streets         just like that
            the stars delineate an axis tilted by my means
  to live under frail coruscations.
           take this house, take the rivers
           with you, all the more my body
           anything other than my blunder.
   take even, these tiny and immediate currents
   as i hear this is how it is to be delivered from
   grace and expanse.
             you are what this truancy is trying to undo
   as you were by mine before -- this is how
   it feels to be moved and sidled again and again
                     this river that you carry me across and left with details none can supply. there
            is resolve in this, even when I am taken aback,

which certain things are left crossed and wronged,
   and how you keep the place guarded, possessed
        by light -- how it wholly hurts, this invented
       life all mine /

1
What is to break if not another word for
       impossibility, or another phrase as palliative
    for suffering each other

2
What is so sure of it to arrive
     in the densest minute, say when if already
out of sight, I implore you to
     unlearn my body

3
This and the deep and hollow end of it.
      Visage voyeurs as if the past is just next door
      sleeping with my woman, laughs and then cuts
      open to free itself from a slammed door
      and mosey on.

4
As statement to refute my coming into,
   I am already accomplished. Turn this day opaque.
   Lens to the world my found
                    imperative of what was given, a knife
    to stalk a heart so difficult as if known to me
          as a path home, or unearthed bus tickets
    from Longos to Tabang. Say when it rains,
        forgive me. I remember still.

5
To believe in touch and its memory is
    obligation. The way I see this, a palimpsest.
  I attempt to discover something, witnessing myself
  pass mirrors, body found as if rivers do drift
      me to the brink of a high noon wishing
  to swing downstream the words I have
       no use for, if not documents of haloed hours.

6
I passed by your house.
Silence annuls azure skies.
Balustrades gone. They took everything down
    evenly to the last inch of paint,
balmy this oblivion only for me, catatonic is this
      peace as my hands lift a piece of the soul
   to shred. The day burns like a forest in my hand.

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.

Bound to my gurney by straps of lassitude, I lay immobile.

My limbs fruitlessly petition for strength.

Eyes so innervated even dark colored objects cause sunspots.

The brain, beaten and isolated from the body.

Obscure syntax and sentence structure circle fitfully and spasmically inside the skull, bouncing off its walls like a bullet from a crazed killer's pistol.

Hours of dormancy pass and pass again, as monotone as the ticking of the clock.

Recalling memories of these days produce nothing more than hazy coruscations of temporary consciousness, recording only the fading evolution of the day's light on the wall.

Blinding shades of titanium white,

falling victim to sun kissed ambers,

and bowing to the charcoal darkness of the still, empty night.

Insulated by seclusion,
comforted by wine,
my evenings of dormancy
are once again impelled
into the quiet seas of rumination.
When,
as randomly as my drifting thoughts
that weave in and through
my indiscriminate cognition,
a soft unbidden light
gently transudes through my
mind's curtain of lethe,
and lays a tame glow
on a forgotten young face.
Warm reminiscent coruscations
of your adoring touch,
bathe and soften my callous melancholy
into velvet, fluid tears of lamentation.

How i wish i would have told you.