Tripartite is how a storm convulses us from sleep
One, it annotates the walls of bed:
a slight powder of mist here,
a cologne of cold there.
The yakking feet mutter to
the mouths of head:
stay still, stay still.
Two, it anecdotes a weather report.
A chocolate milk coffee at bedside
A blooming hope for electricity
and blanket as your favorite tv show.
Sleep has the blood of storm.
Storm has none of the impurity of sleep.
There was an arrangement of the three parts
of how a storm convulses us from sleep:
a talking head,
a paralyzed prance,
staying still – and more:
a weather report we lick in bed,
electricity salvaging itself,
a necessary bond between
storm and sleep.
A fruitful melody screams in the head:
What is most dangerous about verses?
the most dangerous about verses is ink in paper,
something like: acrylic on canvas, finger on skin.
a whole world can be transposed in paper, transformed
from a vague cloud to a verbal clout in paper
still, darling of the universe and poets and penwomen
whose fervency lies at the potency of paper and pen,
the world is not a sheaf of paper, however thick, however unbreakable
the world is rock and grass and wood and streets and smelly rooms or cozy offices
the world is first, the word is second.
or sometimes vice versa.
provisionality is everything. wittgenstien was partly wrong.
marx was not entirely right
hegel coined the dialectics. but he does not own it.
nietzsche’s statement on god was eventually his own faith —
ultimately, where all of us could agree
See, a palm, a map
A territory, a navigation made through sweat, through subtle unevenness
You are cold inside even though
the sun outside is brimming with
One says, irony is a modernist favorite.
We can say, irony is what fuels us everyday.
The way we travel does not always suit with our destination.
Often, the more we speed up, the more we reach nowhere.
I hanker, I long, I want your tongue doing affirmations
Your bare skin shines with sweat.
A cat licks a skin
A hand surveys the sweat in another
I know, my intercourse with the rain is limited to these:
I watch cylinders of fruit dance in the evening table
and we clutch hands as a rain intervenes,
Roofs patter on our heads
As angels blast these lines as a losing romantic
that is out of date and out of tune.
We in the archipelago is distinguished by the beers we drink
and the shapes of our comfort rooms.
In another land, I could imagine a dug hole in the soil
and everything improvised.
Stench must be forgiven.
Rain must be welcomed as it follows the
model of the flushed water.
Or one can think vice versa:
Technology is the toiled bowl; natural bounty is the rain.
Everything is embraced in nature.
And while I forego the mushy bluntness in rains,
others jubilate as it washes all the stink not meant for flushing.
In some places, this is alien.
It was you, same lover
Stretching past 6ams with me
The hiccups of the clouds
witnessing the tango of our arms
above my little head, there was
your breath, the soundtrack of
my first hallucinations
your smell, the movie to begin
this weekend’s marathon
below the soles of your feet
are the cream-colored walls of my room
what a pleasant breakfast
your kiss on my forehead
and all the way below.
*This is inspired by “Umiihip ng pulang hangin ang langit” from Pedantic Pedestrians II
At this time of the day
I would be glancing at the moon
Like it only existed then.
There would be no awe or surprise,
Or shock. I would look at the moon
Like I would look at an uninteresting stranger.
We say coincidences bring us close
To people, and strangers cease to be
When fate is playful and complicit.
Is the moon a matter of chance?
Coincidence and fate,
Or is it conjured by my will,
My longing for beauty,
My search for poetry?
I know you and know your
Fiddling with sand,
Your penchance for cherries and grapes,
Your fear of strangers.
Like the way I know the moon
And its arrival during this time
And my willing engagement with it
While I exhale smoke, and it exudes light.
I look at the moon, like the way you look at me
No fear at all.
No shock or surprise.
But poems are gifts.
And for the moon,
Here, a poem.
If I were you, I would love to smell the morning mists
In Baguio, in foggy Novembers.
The rain prevents me from waking to the
light of the day just as the fog
prevents me from seeing you
sniffing scentless vapors.
If I were you, I would stop practicing futility
For instance, sniffing scentless things.
Or feeling no feeling at all.
Or conjuring images in your mind
That are at the end,
and only born in your mind.
Not living in our foggy Novembers,
nor forming as the morning mists.