"navels" poems
I was on bed then clueless about my life.
I remember three years ago, it was a strife.
I was made to realize by pain of being alive.
The procedure of tracheotomy was done.
The other nose was cut into my windpipe.
The lower end of my throat was bandaged.
The two navels are located on my stomach.
The second navel was gained at the hospital.
The upper navel is not always here to be seen.
Blankly I stared at the world in front of me.
Bluntly I stared at a big wall in front of me.
Bleakly I stared at people coming to see me.
They would come few in numbers initially.
That time is something I can't recall clearly.
Then I was home worriedly waiting for him.
The eternal-seeming torture period started then.
The dreaded physiotherapist used to come then.
The kind man was renamed ***physio the ******
He caused me great pain, I was like a 3-year old.
He saw me writhe in pain & I begged for mercy.
He continued coming & I remained terrorized.
I used to ask my parents if they're actually mine.
I was made to disbelieve in them as my parents.
I took numbing pills directly into my stomach.
I used to remain in sheer terror all day long.
I took offence at the sound of the doorbell itself.
I was asking my parents if someone would come.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
*This dream is a sloppy forest
and you are the bird
who broods in a labyrinth of trees.
Time revolts,
the cage of sleep fractures
with the flutters of my eyelids.
I feel mortified
for uprooting trees one by one
from navels of the earth
only to see you safe at home.
Now the greens lay under my feet
and the sun looks blue
with your screaming feathers
scattered across the sky.*
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:13 PM UTC
And here you are
Child, come to me.
This. What it used to be.
The entrance to your
Marble home.
The pillars.
the four corners that held
your baby clothes, old toys.
Like a wicker basket
In flames, now blackened
And covered
With the thick vines
And mired in green.
Nothing withstanded
The once and Great war.
The nights lit up
like fire-flowers blooming
in summer. Every thing
Burned away. Nothing
sacred was left. Doors and
Walls no longer stand.
You touch what is left
Grazing your fingers
On the roughness of
This old, old skin. Tired.
Now.
Only the stairway
Is left.
The only portion left
Clothed with marble
Not carved away
by scavengers.
It looks sad
now that it leads
nowhere.
It led only to sadness
If you try to remember
What is no longer there.
With finality
You pick up your things
And go.
Content with the past
That it once held you
In its brown,
But now white and bony arms.
For Nick Joaquin
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / Augsut 12, 2014 – Bulacan)
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Every single drop of beauty.. falling from the hair till the toe .. even on ur shadows .. that flood over flows .. lucky fishes, swimming in the lashes ..
Happy sea shells,
Named as navels ..
Singing waves,
Floating hairs ..
The glaciers stands,
Just like your wonderful hands..
Sailing ship,
Holds your hip ..
A lovely trip, from your toe to tip..
My eyes enjoyed the ocean of beauty! The beauty of you ! The beauty of You !
I love you
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
We are the bearded men in union halls
grown tired of the world as it seems.
Until our demands are met,
there can be no more search for truth.
We’ve grown tired of the world as it seems
from folding chairs in union halls.
There will be no search for truth—
we’ll gaze at our navels and curse.
From folding chairs in union halls
we shall pontificate our malcontent.
We shall gaze at our navels and curse
these indelible holes in the Real.
We shall pontificate our malcontent
at the crack in the wood-paneled wall
that indelible hole in the Real—
it must be filled!
The electric moon in the wall
streams in seductions of blue shadows.
It must be filled!
we cry.
The seductions of electric moonlight
make thinking difficult.
We cry,
but the tears only make un-forgetting harder.
Thinking has become more difficult
with each failed arbitration.
Un-forgetting’s so much harder
when forgetting pays the bills.
All arbitration has failed and
our demands remain unmet.
So long as forgetting pays the bills,
we shall be the tired beards in union halls.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
With rain covered kisses, transforming my placid wishes
I can't pretend
I'm ready to **** you like space and time is about to end
So as I transcend my byzantine brain beyond the bend
My heart starts beating like a gong,
Both, high above the throng
You in that turquoise thong
The crescendo in my gaze,
A potent phase coalescing our ****** rage
My tongue sinks into your supple skin
No longer can we play this subtle game,
A salacious urge pulsates through our veins
Bare our bodies blossom raw, hypnotized in lucid awe
We connect like naked puzzle pieces
Our navels entrenched in a holy bliss
Arranged as mirror images
Our corresponding parts catalyze the chemical kiss
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
Caught hold of a cloud
Wandering in the sky
Mixed, kneaded
Under feet...
With a large piece
Made huge *******
With one piece
Made navels, deep
With a piece, buttocks
From memory
Thighs
Arm pits
Feet
Fingers
******
******
Deep,
deep,
deep......
While lying exhausted
It started raining on me
Un ceasing....
Pregnant with rain babies
In womb
It was indeed a female cloud
Raining...with out a pause!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
Who doesn't remember Tony Lama
& those flashy pearl buttons,
cruisin' down the streets in torn jeans,
shirts unbuttoned to flat-navels
revealing sprouting chest hairs.
The disco ball twirled dance-magic,
along with the beach sounds
of sweet soothing melodies,
the ones that made you want
to sunbath covered
in Banana Boat oil.
A little bit of grease
went a long ways,
while warring with stars,
we got drunk in the bars,
sometimes got lucky in our cars
dreaming of better days
that weren't too great after all.
I miss those simple dates,
the ones without
immediate gratification
based on
the grand designs of
computer-aged
mobility.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
They mean it with lingerie
or almost **** hanging *****
almost strolling out from within
as if they deny the prison there
that beholds and preserves conspiracy.
Chiffon bits glued to buttered butts
that dwindles either ways without
any declaration of war from each side
and only sensitive enough to react upon
high pencil edged sharp heels point touched.
They mean deep well navels crowned with
meaningless metal caps in place of ear rings
and their shameless faces dressed with colors
so much difficult to understand the brands
they represent each such pastel that robs them.
To further de-glamourise their stupid animosity
sudden malfunctioning of their bra-straps
or accidental slippage of intended tight gowns
making foolish gays popular and millionaires-
these models evidenced their killers via sharp nails.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:39 AM UTC
What we're gonna do
if the lion wakes up?
Soften the flesh
or sharpen our nails?
What we're gonna do
if his female wakes up?
Kiss her womb
or lick her ****
What we're gonna do?
The milk gets sour,
Oh, sad tigers,
in your navels.
What we're gonna do?
The wheat withers,
Oh, sad tigers,
you better rest with me
and let's watch the rain
It is better if we rehearse God's dream,
now that his vigil,
so much, it shakes us.
Oh, Sad Tigers,
I was also born in dry savannah
to wait,
to save my l a s t b r e a t h
and to watch the rain,
to watch, I watch.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
~
*Ladies-in-waiting
reflecting on
a fragile state of mind
precarious creatures, these
hunters of coal
that outlines both
eyes and words
black paint for blue girls,
they pray in a circle
for their queen's wedding night
to be one of celebratory rapture
deep into the looking glass
they peer for a sign,
a soul, a stigma,
but cannot see
beyond their own glib faces
a universe ago they
caparisoned as pixies
in sunflower corsets,
twirling in a centrifugal forest
tonight in eclipse,
in their all-together,
they merely wear masks
of their former selves
the firelight dramatically shifts
in bacchanalia pratfall
--the oblong menace
of their smiles, fingers and navels
dancing to the age of Sideria*
~
May 24, 2024
May 24, 2024 at 2:28 PM UTC
He was
an arterial
driver where
he'd flee
his schlep
to accompany
wires but
hire them
and direly
with an
accordance that
oppression dearly
their navels
in latter
times of
inca summers
love begotten
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
Digeridoos are back in stock
Said the notice in the bric-a-brac shop
Are the West of Scotland Numpties
On their own Dreamtime quest?
Are they contemplating their navels
Through the holes in their stringvest?
Could they realize their chip-papers
Hold the answer to their havers
And the Buckfast in the Hand gripped
Tight is causing calluses in the brain.
Corks dangling from their hats
Swinging like disorientated bats
In ryhthm to the dance of delirious tremor
The adrenaline is pumping.
Mossies no, but midgies, aye,
A stark contrast to the Kappa motifs;
Are the natives going walkabout,
In the local run-down mall?
Calling everyone mate,
In an accent you love to hate
Walkabout, lost in the wilderness
Wandering through the bush.
Outback here there ain’t no
Crocodiles, only quilted, padded cells.
Hand to wall a red imprint,
Not paint, my boy, but blood.
This lot would embarrass any Aborigine
Because they havnae got
An original thought.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
This summer was missing school, feeling it ache in your chest,
and feeling like a nerd
but also sad.
It was staying up late, your face lit by your phone screen, blue.
It was skype calls at 11, hearing things you know you would never hear in daylight.
It was a bolt of lightning curling down your spine at the notification noise
hoping it's
someone
in
particular.
It's not getting texted back.
It was your mom's friend yelling at you,
when you ran from the playground,
bare feet on the dusty road,
after a cop car pulled in.
It was bubble tea and fuzzy navels at the local fair,
pulling hair and carving our names into the ferris wheel seat
with the broken end of my glasses.
It's sleeping on the floor for a few minutes, but then
crawling into bed with your friend and giving up there.
It's long showers when I sing the way I wish I could
out from under the water.
It was walking down my road, so paranoid
I think a car is a giant man,
to the starbucks, and then the movie theatre,
and then the curb, where I wait in the warm dark.
It was jumping into brown water, screaming.
It's the hum of my computer.
It was feeling the bass of a song ricochet through your feet,
vibrating the floor,
and traveling down the street.
It's downing a cup of hot sauce.
It was Portland, Maine,
walking to record stores in your lunch break,
a bagel sandwich cooling in your backpack.
Seeing a girl hold another girl's head to the ground, and screaming at a man with dreadlocks,
"That's the father of my ******* baby,"
while a woman with a cat on her shoulder
films it.
It's sitting in the library in ripped pantyhose reading comics for an hour
while your dad's at work.
It was Ben and Jerry's, and Chinese food,
walking in between dumpsters to get there.
It was waking up at noon and missing church.
It was eating cereal at 12 am,
6 pm,
11 pm.
It was blinding, white-hot sadness,
blinking and confused,
wondering why I felt so rainy inside,
while outside was sunshine filtering through green leaves.
This summer was
long, and lonely, and sometimes rainy,
and dark,
and sunny, and loud, and hazy.
This summer
is almost
over
and I think I'm okay with that.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Navels peel great, but Valencias make more delicious juice, and more and more comparisons come up. On the morning dog walk, as we venture closer to the highway overpass, that whether-or-not feeling comes over. Do we go under? Sure, there is often creepy things there, but the dog seems locked-in, so onward under. I'm not as mulish as the dog and I can tell he smells something. Usually, it is dead, whatever it might be, but sometimes it's not, and that can be worse. It's an orange cloud morning however, and dawn breaks more nicely on the other side, so for the good grace of catching a better glimpse, I'll brave it. Then, of course, there it is, an irksome tableau, morbidly funny though. Next to the airport miniature bottle of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky, is a turned over pigeon with his claws looking as if that bottle had dropped there from his little birdies' ***** feet. I had to giggle, as my stomach turned. Poor dead bird. Things are really bad when pigeon's are offing themselves this way. Debating to take a quick snapshot or not, time lapses, and I see the blood orange sky dripping by.
So, oh well, I'll just turn about, and not allow the dog to indulge. He's a tough tug on the leash at this point, fearless little fellow. When I return home, I peel one of those Navels. Its skin and pith roll off nicely, and as I split open the sections with my front teeth, I notice the complexity of it all. Though there are juicy parts of the pulp, around the end, it can get a bit dry and putrid. Tomorrow, I shall have to wake the dog just a bit earlier to get that glimpse of a more red to yellow moment. Something tangerine may tempt.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
Change seems inevitable.
Old sentences carry
different purposes.
Mold forms in old coffee cups
like modern paintings.
Tubas boom like thunderstorms.
Your age appears first
on the back of your hands.
A clock talks by ticking
or not at all.
The knot is not the rope.
Poets write only white lines.
Medications are altered.
The brain forgets itself.
Impatience scribbles nonsense.
We become heavier,
weighted and slower.
Playing the Sitar
becomes easy as whistling.
Tamed ostriches preen
in toy cowboy hats.
Lint tells secrets of navels.
Words float in bubbles.
The wicked become tender.
Voices ebb and echo
devoid of throats and tongues.
Speech nailed to walls
becomes the new poetry.
We burn the news
to warm ourselves.
Each dawn forms
a unique conclusion.
A moth destroys Chicago.
Vandalism is elevated
to curated folk art.
How can I be sure
these syllables are real
when everything changes
except the desire for coffee?
Please don't wake me up.
I want to remember this dream.
~mce
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
please!
i want to grasp it
between my fingers without nails
(i bite them off in my neurosis)
and dig my dull digits into it!
please! the truth -- what color is its blood?
i want to hatefuck socrates while
he moans about the mixolydian mode
being drunken and sad.
we tried, that day, to find it
but looking up at the stars
is just a fancy way of looking down,
into our mineral navels
into our vegetable innards!
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 7:03 PM UTC
No nettles within the gardens,
No ¹needles within the haystacks.
Who made for them new navels
And showered with salted-wine what would not leave us.
Who thrushed through every grain of every chaff,
Picking out & crushing that which was rotten.
We who made the meadows free!
Who liberated they who were encased in ²amber;
Rain, Lightning, Thunder.
Who slayed the ³Fearsome Hydra.
Slew the ⁴Slithering Gorgon.
They who silenced the speaking weeds
And the whispering flagons.
Companions of the ⁵Dragon.
Who caused the Titans to bleed.
Who stitched the wound,
Who cauterized it,
Who bandaged it.
The first of us to understand,
What was the seed.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 1:30 PM UTC
Butterflies are guides
Where trees cheer and air is fresh.
Our navels point there.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
_Impressions of Philadelphia: May 20-8, 2023_
A masked saint dressed in dollar bills. Stuffed rice ***** Cannolli. Italian street festival
Bentley and Porsche. Bright sequins everywhere. Side-slit, backless, plunging. Metal detectors. Prom night downtown.
On the median, a barber and a man. Haircuts for the homeless.
Black tattoos, ankle to cheek. Dark lips. Green and blonde hair. Who needs a bra? City girl, Philly girl.
Bike paths everywhere downtown. Few bikes but lots of scooters. Lancaster county too.
Belly button here, belly button there, here a navel, there a navel, everywhere navel-navels. Philadelphia Innies ‘n outies.
Bright colors, weathered colors. Loving, nurturing, and plain strange. Gayborhood murals.
1st post master, mapped the gulf stream, lightening catcher, 9 Atlantic crossings. “I never discovered anything, I just made it useful”. Ben Franklin.
Overnight parking $300. At the Delaware, across from Camden.
The Rocky statue outside the art museum, golden Diana within.
Statues hanging from every other building. Avenue of the Arts.
Drexel, Temple, U-Penn. Unsolved murders. The campuses.
ATV rodeo every night. Rrrumm, rummm! Broad Street after 6.
Phillies 12 - Cubs 3. $8 hotdogs. Citizens Bank Field.
“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. W.C. Fields
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 10:54 AM UTC