gaze into me not with the eyes that fortress
a lie, just like the glint of dew that conceals
the tinge of dark in a dying petal;
gaze into me with the heart that bares
every faltering breath, just like the bud that bursts
into a flower in the silence of dawn.
there is no other choice, as long
as we long for an everbloom
of love.
The man gobbled up a plate of latik-laden
kalamay; while his dog nibbled in its paw
a bunch of garapata – those blood-
suckers that kept on thriving, despite the tons of anti-
flea powder and lotion the man had poured all
over the dog’s fur. The man and his dog, together
they bit, they chewed with a clack and a click
from their bleeding teeth. When the man sneered
and its gums the dog bared, a passing geek as if
bewitched, couldn’t tell which was
the beast.The man, with his tongue raked up
the crumbs of latik that fell from his mouth; the dog
scoured its back for another bunch of grape-
colored bugs. And they bit and chewed with
the clack and the click of garapata and latik.
How many swiddens must we scrounge before
we could find signs of water? The sun
seared my nape and sent sneering waves beneath
my gaze; sweat and dust turned my slippers into
a rain-soaked ricefield. Just below us,
the reservoir that has devoured our town lay
placid – an abundance, our thirst! Move fast
we must; the dusk never tarried nor rested. Soon
our neighboring towns would blast
with light; in our huts, atop the mountain overlooking
the lake, candles and kingke would flicker through
the night; I saw the turbines reeling light for Subic
and Clark. I saw the spillway sending every grass
abloom in the plains of Central Luzon. My lips and soles
cracked as we traversed hills upon hills in search
of waterwomb. My heart seethed with rage
as we tried to revive moribund brooks gradually
breaking into million mudcakes.
Assure your child she is
safe within the confines
of your embrace; tell her she is
free from fright within the bounds
of your sight. Convince her that
a voice as sweet as hers deserves
no other ears than yours; let her
feel that to be free, safe, and sweet she
needs no noise, she needs not
speak. Make her believe that
silence is the air she must
breathe; then show her your candor –
cut her tongue.
A sudden hiss on the grass
and there she was – her eyes
plumbing the pit of my fear,
her tongue — like jealousy — licking
the distance between us. My fingers gripped
the hoe’s handle, and a whiz whipped
through the air; then, a thud muted
whatever she wanted to portend; not
even a faint moan seeped
from her mouth. My knees trembled
as my eyes cast a final kiss on her
broken skull.
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Everytime our family comes
together, he who gathers us drops
from our roll — he can’t sit and chat
with us anymore. From the weight of nights
without sleep, his eyes are saved; from
the toll of vigil and funeral, his shoulders
are freed. Once again, we are united
by absence; and just like when our other kindred
died, our wallets wail, our guts grieve. Do we need
to mention? Everyone of us is mired in the abyss
of debt; especially that we now atone for what
we failed to give to the one we lament. His casket
must bear our pride; as seamless as our keening,
biscuits, coffee, and cigarettes should stream;
on funeral’s eve, the karaoke must croon from dusk
to dawn. Do we need to mention? We mourn not
because we’ve lost a kin. Death is trite. What rouses
our tears is the loss we shall live with back home
when we part. Luckily, it’s not a disgrace to cry
in public — our brother dear is resting
in peace. But deep is the wound his death has
left in our pockets. So let us all sorrow — let us sob, let us
weep; well, who can feel the real fount of
our grief? We are mourning for our beloved dead.
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of the universe
to lure a dreamer into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of limbs and fingers,
he entrapped his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked: “How
can I walk through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear: “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”
And to the tremor of his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper into
the night. Soon his lips dripped with her
muffled sobs, the stench of his slobber
drifted into her pristine dream; and he
confessed: “She came to me; I’m innocent.”
Salvador devotes the rest of his life
praying to save the world from hunger and war
and pestilence. He preaches to the beggars: ignore
hunger. Thank God for the beauty of this smog-
infested sky where the moon and the stars
and the fireflies succumb to the blasts of neon
lights and flares of profit. He preaches
to the beggars: endure life as you sleep
in pavements among blots of bubble gum and dirt
and spit and morsels of pity. This hell tempers
your faith. He preaches to the beggars: learn
the ways of gadflies — know with pinpoint precision
where to look for carcass to feast on. But the beggars
gather away from Salvador’s prayers. Cradled by
their pus and grime and lice and love of life;
with their hard-bitten fingers and sermon-
broken eardrums and bleeding hearts, they
heave the birthing of their own salvation.
I will miss the blackboard
and the chalk,
the faces
and the eyes
and the hands
and the voices
of my students
who always talk
to each other
while I talk about poetry and
revolution.
1.
A sudden thud hit my groin –
a nameless force so strong
that I lost the light.
And I lay there on the street,
baring my breast to the beast
roaming around in my dreams.
Why can’t I slay her? Why,
with all the powers of silence
and sighs, can’t I slay her?
The moment I think of defeating her,
she lurks with the fangs
that glitter under the wounded moon.
2.
No one needs death. Dying
is just a trickery of sorrow,
pretending to maim, to numb the senses.
But even in death, metaphors hover
and haunt the poet. Death,
therefore, never settles anything;
it only sharpens whatever dreams have blurred.
Symbols strike their targets so shortly
that they fade the moment they assume
meaning.
3.
Cotton candies taste like wine.
Try them with your eyes closed
and feel the clouds swirl into your throat.
Extend your hands sideways
and you’ll know how birds learn to fly.
Flap your arms and your face will bathe in fog –
so pure, so blue, bleeding like a bloodless corpse.
Imagination is not fond of mimicry;
it conjures only what is real but yet unrevealed.
4.
‘Why should your body lie on this forlorn street my child?’
God asked me. And I felt that my skin is of earth and on it
crisscross spiky beliefs and ideologies of self-righteousness
of bigotry, of maiming, of killing.
5.
Survive! you who fit this wretched world the most;
but bear the brunt of the scourge of impotency.
Emmanuel, your god is in you. Summon the demon,
let it prostrate before you, but bear in mind the bareness
and barrenness of this truth: prostate gland
can never desecrate what is sacred.
6.
Scared of scars and scarcity,
the economists hurl holy rocks
against the howling wilderness of hunger.
Why can’t they turn these stones into bread?
Why can’t they turn these wastes into waving
waistlines of wisemen who visited Jesus in the manger?
7.
I can no longer dream of a white christmas,
my measled toe is burning with love
of Africa. Mandela, how many prisons
does a man need to gain the world market of ideas
and orgasms? Why can’t we eject our souls like a cd?
8.
Spring sprouts like tubers, but plumbing needs tubes
and plastic straw through which the public trust
will be sucked and pubic hairs
will be hot oiled and groomed.
9.
Some of the giants are really gigantic,
like the tsunamis braved by muro ami’s.
But even then, the vase of roses still tantalize
the eyes of a lion. And the sea shells,
the sea shells just lie there like my body,
waiting but not expecting anyone.
Just there, ready to offer the songs of the sea
for those who understand why do an abandoned corpse
decompose while a moribund composition uplift the soul.
10.
Enlighten me my friend: is life really just a wink?
31 january/ 13 february 2007
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