burador (rough draft)

somewhere along the way
you know there's a ride that you missed
the one that had a destination
stamped on it, the one that would
simplify things
and you'd have less to think about

somewhere along the way
there was a right turn that you didn't take
and unaided, you would stumble
in the dark
feeling friendless
and aloof

somewhere along the way
someone may have told you that there is path
that you should be on, and out of everyone else
you're the only who seems to have missed
the footfalls before you

somewhere along the way
you wonder about what is meaningful and
what is truly important
but these questions eventually lose their fire
and peter out
until they re-emerge
to lull you
briefly,
out of inertia
neither awake nor dreaming

somewhere along the way
you will hate other people for telling you
you will hate yourself for not knowing
who you are

somewhere along the way
there are days and moments and seconds
in between, and the time that it takes
between missed stops and
second chances
repeats itself ceaselessly

those are the times
you feel ageless
and unmoved

Diary (draft)

[Written 11 April 2009]

The ink has not faded,
I recognize the handwriting,
i know it is mine, determined,
i can mimic how I held the pen,
my words
still cry out with
Childish anguish
I wrote perfect poetry for you –
Sublime, fatal and unreal,
You, darkened by the sun,
Unspoiled and unrealized, poems
on a page – unsung,
Laugh lines now wound
your eyes – I presume,
I presume too much
from these memories I exhumed,
The years have gone up
In smoke, written
And re-written by my girlish hand,
Grasping at nothing:
A stubbed out cigarette
Reeks of my mistakes
– I pause, lose
the cockiness
of habit
Feeling love and hate again
In equal measure –
Unadulterated,
Uncompromised, I am
Basking in my shining idealism
Transported here, pressed
Between these pages
Unscathed and free of charge,
A decade has passed, but it does not
Resonate. I am spinning,
Tumbling down the rabbit hole,
But -

- there is a voice
on the other line, I am
in the present
again, hearing the voice
that I love – now,
I know I love,
I know love now
In this inescapable present
Where I have taken root,
With the one I love,
in this inescapable
present, I would know
him, seek him
anywhere, blind,
in the dark,

I would offer him
my imperfect poetry.

Third World Snow

third world snow

the tyranny of the sun
lasted for days,
bleeding the earth
dry
the trees rose up in revolt
arms flailing upward
in desperate prayer
to summon rain and
unleashing a madness
of cotton,
swarming like bees
the frail tufts of white
raining down

angry streaks of cotton,
leaves and dust
spur a frenzy to seek refuge
in concrete enclosures
shielding the eyes, nose and mouth
from the veritable blizzard
eclipsing the familiarity of rain

amid the gaggle of voices
a motorist plunges headlong
into the madness, gleefully shouts

snow! we have snow
in the philippines!

can we have our snow angels now?
our snow men with the crooked nose
and eyes for buttons?
would santa and his reindeer park their
sleigh this christmas?
and can we put nutmeg in apple cider,
sing chestnuts roasting on an open fire?

wanting the white picket fences and the small town quirks
wanting the small town quirks and a roast turkey on thanksgiving
wanting thanksgiving and the mayflower and the pilgrims
wanting the pilgrims and the natives feast like the pictures in the glossy books
wanting the glossy books where the dog’s name is spot and not bantay
wanting the pure-blood pride not the mongrel shame
wanting the blue-collar pride and the american dream
wanting the american dream with that genuwine twang and american slang
wanting the american slang not the call center twang

we can huddle together
for some warmth
pretend we're eskimos
building an igloo
and dream of spring..

the cotton puffs
defiant and white
descend quietly
to the earth,
fallen snow
angels
cradled by
the unseeing
streets

On Remembering

[Written April 2007]

you will remember it differently
than i, you and your discrete units of time,
marked by the traffic of people
that arrive, and stay, and sometimes
stop to talk, or perhaps you remember
geographically, what is fixed
and what moves, where it moves,
what is comfortably still,
or perhaps you remember
in color, the absence of shadow,
the tables and chairs laid out
and remain constant like set pieces
in some theatrical play, day
after day without aging,
and all else is peripheral to you,
or perhaps you remember none of it at all,
while i brush away the images
of chairs and tables and people like annoying cobwebs,
leaving only a few knickknacks of memory,
and you've never noticed how
i try to sound more interesting, and
when i talk to you, i am part
nervousness, and all illusion
of confidence, and if i asked you,
"what color and shade
are my eyes," you would stammer
slightly and make a foolish
guess, but i, i can tell you
that sometimes when your eyes widen
just so, they are a luminosity in the darkness,
and then perhaps you would ask "how can light
penetrate black on black?" but i will tell you
that black has nuances too,
not just the paradox of absence, and
that sometimes when you're terribly excited,
the color is startlingly clear
and transparent like a mirror: these fragments
are important to me. i remember well.

A Former Lover Remembers

[Written April 2007]

he remembers her body well
even though it was mostly obscured
by darkness,
fully clothed in daylight
he would still recognize her
anywhere

the casual hellos they exchange now
do not betray them
the occasional pleasantries
do not hint at secrets
neither do they suggest
at some future opportune time

he realizes that he never saw her
twist in her sleep
most nights were just nights,
sinking in, marked by the riot
of clothing on the floor

after the awkwardness
of consummation
- or perhaps,
the assumption of it,

they dress
and part

The Poet

[Written April 2007]

He scratches out lines
On whatever his hands chance upon:
His weather-beaten, hopelessly outdated laptop,
A page in an abandoned notebook,
A receipt from yesterday’s coffee break,
Or the back of his hand, even
Words scamper away from him otherwise
Skittish and imprecise,
It is a game and of utmost necessity
To hold them down,
And force them to take shape

Minute things trigger the impulse:
Perhaps it is a conversation between strangers
In the jeepney he rode today
Where, fascinated by the idle talk, he randomly tuned in
Like twiddling the radio to capture a stray frequency,
Or running into a scavenger child, whooping and running
As he passes, a straw bag for his treasures
Hitched on a bony shoulder, tapping on the sidewalk with his scavenging stick,
Stooping slightly to snatch up an empty plastic bottle before anyone else does:
It is worth P50 per kilo at the nearest junkyard

The city speaks to him when it does,
When the fading strains of the videoke session next door
Signal that it must be early morning,
And people do have to retire to bed,
If only to have enough strength for the next day’s
Drinking marathon
He listens for the retreating footsteps,
The cheerful farewells and the too-loud ribbing,
The dying whirr of engines as they pass
And settle on some uneven and unpaved sidewalk

At night, sans the sound of crickets
And cooing birds
He lies awake: prophet and lover,
Arrested by the dirt and the grit and the beauty
Of this overcrowded, overpopulated city
Uncompromising and unapologetic as it is
He longs for the lull of forest and sea
But knows they have no place here
Knows they could not cleanse this forsaken place,
Where people have learned to bury their lives
With dignity, with humor and with peace,
The way they mourn their dead.