Upon her return from desert Vegas,
Like lizards kissing in the heat,
The rain drops poured so hard, how lovely again to hear each other’s heart’s beat
Upon our meet, and washed away the agony of the everlasting wait.

Upon her voyage from earthly east,
Within the beast between Pacific and Atlantic feast.
Flowers crying, in a vase soaking on the table,
For they did not meet,
The sunshine hidden behind clouds of darkness.

So vague the feeling from one’s love departure,
on voyage resumed by time ahead 3 hours.
The dreams came quickly, and time more distant,
if to the moment of her departure,
Yet I still could not touch her.

The carcass harking for a crow to feast,
of my safety I’m concerned the least.
For by her voyage I am not,
My mind does rigorous of thinking and succumbs to plot,
What is there, and what is not.

Through I grieve to think me lonely,
Even as much her look gazes in my heart, stonily,
The sudden energy passing through the wireless speaker,
Her voice traveling over to mine much meeker.

My mind compels me to the image,
Of what other’s gave to me by words,
That this time I have to fight with swords,
This sad place they never speak of ruled by lords.

How relentlessly I tried.
My heart for her safety cried,
Until my mind gave in to show,
a point in back of my head I fried.

The eagerness of her time next to mine.

My selfish understanding sublime.

Like tea was seasoned with thyme.
Instead of lemon,
Who’s there to blame on?
Then action of mind of mine.

The girl
looks at the stars and moon
Wondering if they could take her away
But the moon stares stonily, not seeing
And the stars fall out of the sky

They sparkle in her hands
And mix with the teardrops
Until the moon cracks and cries too
Cries for the girl with the lonely smile

She hides the night
Under a smile
Perfect on the surface
But cracking underneath

bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
    with me.

live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
  these things pulse with strength
      in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
   reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
      no sight or hindsight.

i'll run to where the sunlight is
   and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
   trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
   trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
        scarred, sundered.

clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
    and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
     bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
   give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
     with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
    and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
   as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.

living alone
    yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
  the well-placed gnome of stone outside
      stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
  through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
   as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
   is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
      right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
    money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
     it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.

tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
   and crawl towards the ajar door of
  my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
    crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
   all books dissipated, some naked
  in relished pages, others abeyant.

the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
    — all is broken.

I don’t think,
I even know what I want anymore?
I am no longer in sync,
And I am burnt out at my core,

Any possibility that comes my way,
I throw my hands up in defence,
And warn them to rather stay away,
Nothing will the pain I’ve felt recompense,

It’s hard not to act on ones inhibitions,
The need to feel in yourself homely,
And not to act on past intuitions,
So just crown me miss lonely,

Avoiding emotional availability has become a stealth,
As I remain my own one and only,
Just coherent to myself,
So just crown me miss lonely.

I am the singular that can appease just me,
My heart of which now avoids love stonily,
In love? ha! There are many a other things I’d rather be,
So just crown me miss lonely,

your home filled with vines does not know
it is alone — it seeks to become a diaphanous fold of trees, a violent vermilion of skies crushed to clay.

its arms hold refuge, a delicate heart.
the formless shadow there and the unguessed sensorium of furniture —
they do not know the touch of ruin.

underneath you, i am.
soil crumbled by the hundredfold of your
weight. in the air singes the burning of days, punching a hole onto me like
a globule of diminutive fire rife to
cull the vineyard of my body.

your home does not know
the dream of its weight. the anchor of its pillars gnash the acidulous trifle of hours.
doors, windows, cupboards still — every aperture gorges itself with the water
of your footsteps.

your home does not know
that it stomps stonily against an earthen fruitage: my body beaten to a pulp.

This September katydid has found home on shelves in our dining room.

His roommates are books,
a rock stolen from the drystone walls of Yorkshire
fossil fish,
and whatever the trilobites left
    when their passing seemed almost as negligible as their presence.  
Someone should tell him,
as he chirps his nights away
calling,
begging,
wanting.
Love can’t be found among heady books and artifacts
hard and enveloped
Stonily paralyzed by time

Wings may strike against eachother,
legs rub till they’re raw with heat
And that’s not what we call for either
It’s always the afterward
All of our singing in the night is for naught
When we are inevitably left
Alone and transformed into some relic of the past,
or some words someone may have spoken
then thought memorable enough to pen

A memory of melody
As a turning bird song travelling on air
spring to summer to fall
Even the birds stop their call
   only the cricket is left

All of us lying down
singing until our hearts are no longer our hearts.  

The song changes
The desire always remains the same.

A poet (quite familiar with yours truly)
sat at his computer
trying his darnedest to craft a rhyme
imagining when both parents
of mine lived during their prime,
when me creative father acted out mime
though an amateur
his visible talent throwback
when Vaudevillian actors/actresses
(during silent film era),
whereby the spectators
(filling up an entire auditorium)
could hear kerplunk of a dime
versus the bajillion dollar contracts
showcasing stories about
punishment and crime.

Comeuppance eventually served
as just desserts
for those who
cunningly, knowingly, willingly...
commit a knowing wrong
criminal minded on the loose
hustling thru throng
courtesy butterfly effect
rifling back thru time
amid dynastic rule
during reign re: Qianlong.

Millennia ago - indigenous roam ming
contra bands that barely left their so called
"foot print," although live back thousand
of years ago rather brutish, nasty and short
(according to Thomas Hobbes - a British
political philosopher during enlightenment),
they cobbled flint stones in tandem with
crude implements to fell animals, which
fauna felled with purposefulness.

Now or ever since dawn of modern civilization,
we as collective human race appear to be on
war path of extinction, yet weapons of mass
destruction (seeping into popular culture)
pitch future of life on the brink of self-
annihilation, a reassuring thought to help
this bloke retire his weary bones and attempt
to become comfortably numb while dreaming
his forebears (no lion), tigers in the woods and
other creatures lumbering across terra
firmae without threat of extinction.

Progression of intellectual powers gave rise to
greater disparity between means to perform
beneficial versus destructive acts subsequently
fostering my morbid fascination with military
warfare from advent when simians stood *****
and could peer into distant horizon as like they
looked ahead when major lurches forward
allowed means to wipe out greater masses
of people with more precision.

Thus, a homage to those whose blood, sweat
and tears unwittingly delivered hair e beastie
boys into Daytona 500 speed demons (while
Barenaked ladies such as Madonna, Katy Perry,
and Taylor Swift showed indigo girl lush *******)
raced across finish line, while somewhere else
in time, the genesis of beatle browed kink e
dumpster diving dudes in dreadlocks for Snoop
Doggy Dog, Iced T, and Alice in Chains never
surpassing classical Greek drama longevity.

On a church, Mother Mary gazes up high
with her saving babe on her stone arm.
On her alabaster face: a cryptic smile
that has its own fine chiseled charm.

While I stand in the old town’s cobblestone street,
my mind sees me in a far distant place.
The visions I see speak of defeat,
a void that devours all grace.

I see myself floating in a brittle wood boat
with sails torn to shreds by the storms.
Frantically I toil to stay afloat,
tossed by black waves which ebb and reform.

Her disk halo of gold shines out in the dark,
glinting to those who sail by.
I ask her: tell me what can give me a spark
to let me soar up into the sky.

She offers no answer in so many words
and just smiles on, stonily serene.
In her silence is where her answer is heard,
a quiet reply — I know just what she means.

The rock of her tells me what I must hear:
No need to soar nor fly nor flee.
Let black tides flow past me ‘til they clear.
Like this old pale statue, just simply be.