The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha!  Spring is
gone down in purple,
weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow
is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under
the heavy mass of the leaves—
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back—
it is a woman also—
he regards his former
majesty and
round the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays— a little
and the wind is among them
to grow cool there!

One turns the thing over
in his hand and looks
at it from the rear:  brownedged,
green and pointed scales
armor his yellow.

But turn and turn,
the crisp petals remain
brief, translucent, greenfastened,
barely touching at the edges:
blades of limpid seashell.

Manila    is  fray

Tough enough to die,
    Brave enough to see ****** against
        the billboards

   ***** on the marketplace
   ***** men haggling for prices
   the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions   of men take  their places    in
    the esteros

   a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
      I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.

     My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
         in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
    comes with a cheap price
          a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
     i sit on marble benches and dream
        of artilleries, garlands on *****-nosed
            barrels, nuns   grieving  dust
     in    the ground.    communal bathrooms
         drunk in foolish caricatures,
   the tabloids     displaying  flowerheads --
        the democracy in the streets a ****
    for      kings,  no    love to   lull
        me    to infantile    sleep

         tortured are   the   bulls 
   matadors    hiding  behind    faces red   like
       faces    of    statesmen   flushed with
          the   spirit   of   bourbon
   whereas we are    here   river-facing
       northern tip of its  undying source
  like    wives    on  balustrades   waiting
      to catch   the fragrance   of   inamoratas,
   light  reenters
          interstice   of   chary webs of  dull heads   hemmed in like   canopies   in the throat      of     overthrown ponds,   scraps
     of metal    sold    for a  night's  worth
        of    gin   and   Sinatra,

  Deep within   the   grave, the dead   laughing
       at the dead living. Atop   waters,
   yachts peering   into   drowning  fish,
       in   the middle, a   jam   of buses
         belching    lassitudes that    strangle
    the console,    the man    in all  of us
       the same,   cursing behind   the wheel
   and everybody    else    different
              dancing    at   the   top   of our   heads.

You are the pioneer
after the fire,
with silver-grey and
blue-green leaves,
pods filled with seeds,
and brilliant yellow
flowerheads.
When you lived in the
mountains, you were
dressed in white-
lichen and snow.

darkness excites. caliginous walls
    flounder. deepening are the blue grievances.

i should have killed you
  in the stale air of nothing; when it was said
that it takes less courage to love.

a hoarse cry in the obstinate woodland
  insolvent, pressed against the foot of hills.

the quietus in spite of artillery
over and over the deep, droning sound of it.

tirelessly the flowerheads swing forth
newfangled skin and engravings of pious woodwork

tremble in the maladroit wind. the indefatigable purple
   of the very twilight – its slow onset, flays from the air

once it gets into the vertical; I will not speak
  in front of mirrors and curse the fragrance
of camphor and its foretold departure –

everything that is not much of its communion
   living at the small altitude of my feet;

blood rises clean, emerging
  from the earthen womb as I am not hers yet,

I should have assaulted you as a marauder
   arrives in the deep, blackening night

                        of total surrender.

No longer will sadness set the tone,
Despair won't define my waking hours;
Never will the sun hear me bemoan
Lonely tears that cascade like Spring showers

To solitude's woes I'll not be bound
As long as the sun saunters the sky;
Like vile weeds I'll pluck them from the ground,
Laughing as their flowerheads droop and die

Love's silent voice will be disavowed
Since it will not speak the words I crave;
In defeat my head will not be bowed,
To Love I'll not be a faithful slave

I'll mimic the music box dancer,
Twirling 'round and 'round in silent glee,
While secretly begging the answer
To why Love withholds its melody

All throughout the day I'll wear a smile,
Every tortured longing will take wing;
I'll defy Fate's decree all the while,
But when night falls ..... well,  that's another thing!

The closer you get to the truth,
The more lost you will become.
Search for answers, there's a chance your
Entity within yourself will be undone.
Following this rope where it may go
Learning later it led to a noose.
Still follow those animalistic instincts
Until you're in too deep,
Wondering what that path would show.

Pay attention as you walk this way,
The sunflowers all turn their flowerheads.
Don't dismiss them, instead listen,
heliotropism shows you've gone astray.
Like oysters following a carpenter until dead
To a Walrus they had been fed.
Look around, the trees all look the same
Look around, walking in circles again.

Ensnared in what you had to know
Each limb entangled, being pulled
Every secret revealed in a flash.
Curiosity took a knife to ****** the cat
But satisfaction brought him back,
Keep walking until you find your home.

very beautiful
daytime flowerheads stay closed
Nicotiana