Mr. Life

Mr. Life’s a fool

He makes you feel you’re a lost soul

in this universe

that knows not you nor I

but somehow, we still survive

and forge ahead

relationships and people

who never go out of style

and yet still feel old all the time

and Time

we never learned from time

I ask certain people

and all they said were unedited excuses

with the same cover

perhaps, they’ve made a multi-million record

out of the ideas that left their heads and lived in their mouths

even if ideas came from different colors and eyes

still, they weren’t free to climb

Mr. Life and his mischievous plots

for us and them.

A river flows in you

 

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In case you miss the fragments of your childhood

Don’t tell your mom.

Eat.

Eat beside your notebook.

Sit next to a piano for hours, or days

And create–

the river that flows within you

until you get drunk with words and die a natural death.

Maybe in springtime,

When the trees are plump

And the rabbits have played among the

Lavender fields with the squirrels,

You can run on the grass with much ease

Let your feet fulfill their promise

To the earth that held your

Tiny voice and knee-wounds

At 6 years old.

Allow this gentle river to sink your wounds;

And the scars reminiscent to the days

That came but long forgotten.

Tell your friends how you wished the leaves

To swirl onto a clay pot

That had most of your secrets in the afternoon hidden.

When the sky kissed your back farewell

and the river sang an ode

to a passer-by

that spoke to you all this time.

 

 

 

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Tune me up, perhaps, the night star would glance back at me

To single out the hymn now imbued in this body

All colors may articulate what a painting would not want to display

When the music gathered the piece of me every day.

Heavy bricks may rain duly to this kaleidoscopic Poppies

And this mood could trickle down to its terminal censure

Owing to your hands painting the song

scribbling with regards to my temperamental hues.

You could get these hands to clap in unison

Seconds may pass but the tune would still want to be rough

Such a character isolating caress, it would allow

Brimming with desire blasting off calumny.

To that one person, the love for music is all.

I sent out letters cascading through outer space

While you gloated the stardom

And painted new planets, I wondered what my role was in this

Alluring universe. Through which I saw

Dimly lit parallel lines that never would elucidate—

We’d bypass each other’s brass rings

And will be left out gawking.

Will this remain a storybook of our indelicate suffering,

Or would this remain an ethereal world of my own?

where were you?

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Where were you when the river murmured to me and the elf told a history?

Where were you when I hanged mostly for words, words that hanged you for someone else?

Where were you when the grass flipped to the other side to show me nicely how it was like to come back to life?

Where were you when the trees point at a distance towards a sky so distant but free?

Where were you when the irresistible grasp time and time again held the ropes of a peculiar heart?

Where were you when the light divided the iris of my eyes spending damnation from a swift serving hand of ignorance?

Where were you when the wall echoed to me the sound made by the self which created it?

Where were you among us and thorns?

Where were you when words convened to build a silent shelter for a hopeless invitation towards a mountain far above the clouds so much louder than the parade of constant goodbyes?

Where were you in this postmodern time you, godly man?

Where were you when God only knew what you would choose to chew to make me blue?

Where were you when the wild horses and the screaming voices wrote to me in my memory?

Where were you when the frog grew more of his limbs dragging behind you more of his noisy reproach?

Where were you among the sheets, white paper, and fallen bugs?

Where were you when the frightened ones fell over and over a thousand times?

Where were you headed towards when you said you would come back before dinner time?

Where were you when all the dogs went to heaven?

Where were you when the poem rolled back with the toothbrush, elastic band, and the power of observation?

Where were you when the rain whispered to meet me another sunny day?

Where were you when the light receded miles away feeling endless impressive shocks from a backseat?

Where were you when you had easy money and I had to call you out for your own protein pills?

Where were you partying when we parted over the phone?

Where were you when 90% of the adolescents were trying to be deep and the other 10% were just pouring all sweetened compliments?

Where were you when the night became simplified?

Where were you making a hole out of a dangerous soul?

 

 

search

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Search for the traces, search for evidence or for witnesses

Lest the yearning departs the chest

Search for an image in every photograph

Where all symbolic charms are faded in the background

Search it dearly, search it well

For if this bear any fruit

Let it be in tranquil seas afloat

Search it everywhere from books or magazines

That was left on the workspace

Perhaps the dust could tell if your face

Settled in his consciousness

And if time reveals the hour for which

your language bespoke

Let this be the sign for which the heart awaits

For its groom.

All the memories will once again

Cross the heart and crush the spirit in half

But my love, if all is not taken care of

What glory shall prepare you

For a journey anew

If the ships have been released from the ropes

Of its grip, and the anchor has been raised to sleep

What cloth shall you hoist to gather all the birds from afar?

Is it not your desire to meet the hopes of your heart?

Search well, search

For dreams mirror the dark side

Completely different to imagine

For this reality renders you to sit and outside

A good stare of the world where tears drift

And wound your spine.

blue funk#1

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Recently, I’ve been spending so much time watching the view from afar. From where I sat, everything looked right in place. Time moves slowly when I stare outside from a glass window. The weather hasn’t been good lately. I heard typhoons come and go in some parts of my country, and so I get the same sky almost every day. I looked outside, past the new buildings to the sea covered by the inseparable clouds. I think I have become obsessed with the clouds. It almost always blocks my view of the other side. But why am I so concerned of this other side? Have I become so discontent of my place that I want to escape from it? Perhaps, the other side can have that answer? I seem to have full of doubts. And I wonder if I have spent my time on unnecessary things. What has become of my vision? I guess it shows me the wrong distance. My eyes can see from my house to a neighbor’s greengrocer’s. And yet, I still wonder if I have stretched it enough or overstretched it already, what must I do? Everything in my sight becomes seemingly monochromatic… if one is the artist where should she look for this inspiration? In this story, where is that place? I guess I have gradually taken this dark character. I do not see anything at all. Beauty has fled, gone, enclosed somewhere I couldn’t open. I have become obsessed with the birds and the rock. Everything transforms into clouds, birds and the rock. Oh, I could not have been more creative if not frustrating. I have cut my hair the shortest. I feel I can do something bad in this body. I looked for something to break and I found my hair, and yet I asked if there were still some things I could tear or break. I do not like to stare the abyss I know it’s pulling me in, but this path has led me to it. I wonder just when did this void grow this big?

Birds

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Thoughts about birds are fascinating

Though I can only count as many

This world is fascinating

Because it gives us birds

Birds like the Albatross, pigeons, canaries, and doves

How they live and find their mate

How they adapt and survive

They are fascinating as with the eyes of a child.

The Albatross of Galapagos Island…

Is that how I envision paradise?

The albatross isn’t it from the lyrics of a song by the Little River Band ‘Cool Change?’

Wow! Time for a cool change…cool change…cool change…

Sailing on a cool and bright clear water…staring at a full moon like a lover…

At the moment, I’d love to freshly smell this little world

Where words can only paint this picture beautifully

And music carries them to our ears

And they live to tell the tale

Of people who dream their greatest dreams.

But the albatross flies and swims in this beautifully huge ocean

And can remain flying in years…

The albatross has everything under his long and strong wings

If not happy for what the world gives it then, is it lonely?

Those birds that flock around the city

sitting on a wire

do they whisper, a dream they desire? Or are they like us—

trying to observe the world without a permanent address and live only for the time?

Little birds in my city sit on a wire like armies of birds they wait for the time

When jeepneys honk their loudest sound, the birds jump off the wire and  fly

I thought they’d leave and say goodbye

instead, they go back and sit one more time…again…and again…

until it rains heavy and the air feels cold without the sun in the sky

this repetition takes the melancholic view of my city

and the people of the city can’t seem to notice how the birds have whispered

over the roofs of their luxurious cars

And I wonder if only we use the sky with only the moon and the stars at night

and forget the rest that reside?

I wonder if birds stare at the same sky to throw a question for people, how so beautiful is the night without them, birds dancing under the moonlight?

 

 

 

 

 

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I’d like to be attuned to myself.

I’d like to feel more of my self.

I’d like to get accustomed to my own habits, my dreams, my pain, and my strength, just me and nothing else.

I’m a fire.

I burn with desire, it’s wild and extreme.

Being boastful is just one of the many things to describe me and yet even with people’s words, I try not to lean on them.

At least not anymore.

Because I am boastful I want to write about the self, myself, after all, I speak better when I talk about my own rather than others.

So, apology to this body where cells are now bathing with a cesspool of radical aspiration that harms its form.

Apology to the brain which now delivers the message of an inquiring self

Apology to my heart that keeps pumping out the pain and joy in words and has saturated the body with sentimentality or enough vitality

Apology to the tissues that keep spreading itself and creating a pain-proof shield to my wounded ego

I’d like to give myself a balm for my classic antics.

I’d like to be free from the scratches of those who thought of limiting their art

I’d like to believe that I’m free to practice what I believe to be true without the threat of being linguistically short, standard-driven and music-free… I prefer the softbound, not the hard one…

I’m waiting for the bus ride

Down to the yellow landscape

Where a garden blooms in vagrancy

Together with the shoes, I got for a poem

And my feet fueled by my heart’s song

People thought I’m in search of a priest or therapy—-

On my walk, a priest brightly bowed in excellence

Thus, my journey begins with greetings to the wonderful few

I have come to a slope

Where children run with their arms stretched

They are the children of the slope

The ones who inherit the future of gold

I run to the open field with gestures full of radiant smiles

But a rope is tied around my hands

and thought that the past has suffered too.

It’s whispering every hunting…

Breathe…breathe…breathe

Now we have reached the pond

Where calloused feet are washed

And the pond shows a being

Different and the same

Not a fiction of a flourishing tale—

Between what’s around me and within that pond

I can no longer say

Neither the truth or lie would tell

Perhaps that’s my faith in a dream

Manifested in this beautifully heralded place within.

I had this idea in mind.

It may be silly or bright

But I had this thought in sight

Water and oil don’t mix

but if you add in soy sauce or some fresh veggies then you have my country’s stir-fried dish.

It’s delicious and a staple food on our table.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

There are things that mix instantly or not

but there are also alternatives or add-ons made available

for two different things to mix and taste even better

This is insanely a bad analogy, but hear what I have to say–

the self can be an enemy or a friend

it does not matter. It does not have to matter—

Everything would still be you.

Always derive from You.

I guess the world will just have to come to terms with that—

not the stir-fried dish but with the

practical fact. (?)

 

 

 

 

 

The thoughts that we have

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What thoughts do I have of you tonight?

Weird dreams appeared to me wild and vain

Walking down the path to good health

I could not be much more self-aware

That under the Narra trees in summer

A sea of scent perfumes the air

And into the vortex a new aspire began

Profoundly spiraling a world that I didn’t see

And the flaws of a woman weren’t a diamond in his chest

That it may bore glitters of a sailing memory

So that you wouldn’t have to preach

Such a woman who bore her soul upon

The navy-blue rocks of her dreams.

What thoughts of me do you have tonight?

A well-furnished room for immaturity

Dangling chandeliers of jealousy

Lighting the room where putrid foals lay scattered on the floor

To the kitchen where boundless memories of a sick language

Engulfed. You could not

Even be more self-unconscious

How non-nourishing our lives have been

Stepping on sharp wet glasses and making

It a beautiful slumber.

Indeed. Beneath the pillows we let out a spell

That fairies of the future may wake us up one day

From this endless chant where no one knows

Even the cries of the ants on the mountain

Ridges hails the cry for help that echoes echoing

Down the ocean of fog and into this

Dominating self-realization

That our lives have consistently

Made a fall as we keep bouncing back to

The wooden plank we had set up for our own safety

Thus, it’s almost as if we fostered a dream

Where doves and butterflies we could

never see resting…and nesting…cocooning…

under the nurturing Narra tree.

What thoughts of a future do we have for one another?

Perhaps, a dream none of us can foretell.

 

 

 

Unless you heard me…

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Who does not have a dark past?

Who does not have a story to tell about an old fear?

Who does not have to remember an ugly scar?

Who wants any of it?

Who does not want to forget all that transpired that day?

Who does not get hurt of a past being ridiculed?

Who does not want a chance to feel again?

Who does not want a peaceful now?

Who does not want a happy life?

 

Can you hear my story?

Your back has fled the minute the mouth took its first breath.

Can you bear my story?

Your hand has said ‘no’ what the tongue would not like to bite.

Can you please put away your things and read my story?

Your eyes wanted to sleep buried in your own fantasy.

Can you smell my story at least?

You wrapped yourself with a fur blanket.

Can you stay and never look away perhaps?

You remained silent and silence became a cold corpse lying beside a peculiar frame.

 

Please don’t tell me I didn’t tell you.

Please don’t say I didn’t have nightmares like you do.

Please don’t make me say things I didn’t want to hear myself.

Please don’t tell me it’s my fault again.

 

Unless you listen to my story, please don’t tell me things that kill me.

, and

please don’t judge me unless you’ve slept with my sorrow and history.

 

I don’t want to be just a dream you visit when you are asleep at night and forget when the morning light peeks through your eyes.