Today, a storm

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:

Stay still

Stay still





A rewriting of the only non-danger

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



Rain is sometimes for poetry, sometimes for defecation



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that is out of date and out of tune.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.

Lovers in the morning*

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

Exchange gift before December

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

–with stillness,

No fear at all.

No shock or surprise.

But poems are gifts.

And for the moon,

Here, a poem.

Why “if” and “would” are weak words

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,

Only images,

and only born in your mind.

Not living in our foggy Novembers,

nor forming as the morning mists.