Hope/Wish
Mumbling,
probably fuming,
in your workplace
Nodding your head
to some singing,
from those electronic
little mouths that fit
both your big ears
Sitting,
most probably drawing
little people, little things
with a heated blue pencil
Humming to a tune,
both you and I
used to sing to.
Hoping,
mostly wishing
my face would sometimes
come to shed some red
in your dead head,
for even just a while
and somehow bring you
to smile.
-----------------
Cold Memory
Naked, I stand
on the mountain peak
baring my soul
to the gods of the wind
Rain comes
and sprays your memory
onto my disheveled hair
seeping into my brain-
I think of you.
The blistering cold
clothes me with your absence
and I am frozen.
------------------
Squinting for crystals
Muddle of feathered snow,
vast static blue,
fat and thin greens,
black wood and red steel
loom before these crystal eyes
just born to a new day
A face flashes in the foreground,
a hero’s-
burned by a ruthless passion,
exhausted by a convoluted love
Saliva polishing lips
that streak a priceless smile
upon ragged cheeks,
infinitely mellow
Crystal eyes squint
to see this morose glory
on wrecked beauty
and recognizes the tireless
and the faultless
lover of my reeking skin
with squinting burned eyes
piercing through
my illusory resilience,
seeking the genuine
and the evincing,
crystal within.
---------------------------
Thumb thump
Tense. Tired.
Cold blood swiftly runs
to and from
the streets and corners
of my wasted system.
A thousand futile attempts
to sleephood
and one million sparks
of brain matter,
with harmful cardio-effects
culminate
to a desperate wishing
for a piece of peace
in my bones that yelp
of pain and toil.
Tense. Tired.
Invoking narcolepsy
or perhaps
perpetual tranquility
in twelve hours
of unconsciousness
for a chance to breathe
the limitless pure oxygen
in dreamland
Tense. Tired
With eyes peering
for a better home,
squeezing out
while joints shout
in pleasure
at every push
of these thumbs
that say I’m okay.
-------------------
In retrospect
I can’t’s
I’m sorry’s
maybe’s
I’m sleeping’s
next time’s
I’m working’s
I miss you’s
and I love you’s
All in cyclic playbacks
at specific AM’s and PM’s
and sometimes
unclassifiable hours,
slaying expectations,
feeding frustrations,
switching moods,
razing days.
In retrospect
to too much icing's
and too much cake’s,
I’d rather be
fat and diabetic
than this
emaciated,
fatigued,
and almost
amnesiac
to you.
-------------------
Stolen scene
Steel dragonflies
and mechanical voices
in my ears
at early cock-crows
Mom’s sewing machine
like a rusted train
on new tracks
stops and goes
at feet’s command,
takes the air
No speaking lines for me
in today’s morning act
No place in this stage
of the actual
and the final.
My fingers force words
on the screen
stealing scenes left
for the gods to trust
on some other actor’s tongue
or some other writer’s pen
Belly mumbles
wake my head
to hunger and tells me
to leave this stolen scene
and return it
to the unknown
and the unseen.
--------------
Singing desperate
Is this
what they sing about
in songs that seem more
like worship and mendicancy?
Should I bother
pushing buttons and keys
sending messages and pleas
to be of the singing desperate?
I did not pass through hell
to spend this fetus time
with you
and be birthed
in one contraction.
So let me be
of the singing desperate
Let me beg for your return,
let me in all decency,
holler your name
to the clouds that judge me
and let me receive
my full due.
------------------
Heart on the run
Ever seeking, ever wanting,
ever searching, ever yearning heart,
awakened by the calling
of the gods of the morning,
surrender your wishes, your pleas
for glimpses of that face of his
to the rising, ever glowing,
ever blinding sun.
And with your eyes,
take your granted request
from the jeepney on the run.
---------------------------
Blue shirt on the dance floor
Yellows and greens and reds and whites
Blue shirt dancing under disco lights
Beating, thumping musical score,
I watch pure beauty steal the floor
