Growing Old


Before, when the scorpion
in my blood still

ached to sting, the rain of your hair
on my cheek, or the mere flicking

of your hip, or even just the tiny
triangle carved on your breast could

grub thirst in my throat; and, oh, how
many times did we paint Malacañang

wall red? Now that the scorpion
in my blood has already lain

limp, I just want to sit and listen
to your voice, I’m contented taking

a sip of nectar from your meta-
phors of love and revolution.


blots of blood

Blots of blood clot and cling
Upon the leaves of gray grass –
A sea of gun powder scent assaults
My dreams like mad soldiers
Trembling fingers trigger thunders
That burst skulls and splinter hearts
And crush dreams dreams dreams
Of silent seas, of green hills, of kites
Kissing rainbows arching over the hills.

Each morning I awake
The scent of gray grass
And blood tails my nostrils
Breathe deeply says my monk friend
And I do and bullets crisscross
in my chest. Come to me

Taste my blood come
Be with me in my dreams dreams dreams
Kites kiss clouds over the hills
O hills embrace me with your foggy green grain
O sea sing sing sing me a lullaby.

06feb2007/ 2:30pm