inside the ribcage

Here, at this time of the year, the sky flatten 
the hours. It becomes almost impossible to tell,
sometimes, the time unless you press your pulse

to know you are still among the living. Here,
where every thing has become so efficient and
then not. The selvedges are ripped, if one cares

to notice. Such small things like the seeing
through an opened window the lovers, now kissing,
have forgotten to close. Most of the time

every one has learned to move with flat-line
hearts that have become so civil, so tirelessly
euphemistic that at times I am beginning to feel

this calamity, incredibly scripted, un-human.

the space between cities

The space between cities is a body of distance
hardly translatable into a map we can pretend
able to transverse by way of roads and rails,
ports and piers cohering so-called boundaries

of what is there and here and then and now as
east and west and north and south referring to
sun and wind and seasons, the way we attempt
landmarking passages if only to remember all 

places we've been, also those never been to 
except heard by name or gestured at in story.
The space between is body of distance, tunnel
lighted dimly: memory and dream, both palpable

to skin, real enough to hear the laugh from
a mind's photograph of one's own ageless self 
in a moment everlasting. Who else is there?
an entire library of snapshots handwritten in

cursive with names, some clearer than others, 
invoked often as bridges over which one's own 
mind and body travels, loop of a map a place
only in river-spaces crossing between cities.

nearly midnight

It seems to you there is a consistent hunger
In you somewhere you can neither point nor name.
Everything else appears alright.
Action movie on the cable, some mutated turtles

The kind you could have loved lifetimes ago
Now you place on mute and sleep through.
Its only redeeming quality, a young woman
Too beautiful only the young can believe

To be real. You would have preferred bio pics, 
Political conspiracies, the end of the world 
As is known, at least; these are familiar.
Closer to what you have come to believe.

And what do you believe? At eight, you had 
Your last faith in Santa Claus; at fourteen,
Fools' love. You wonder how some can go on
Dreaming of romance. Or world peace.

You remember someone saying to look at
Inevitable failure in the eye, exchanging
Blows with it anyway. A hopeless kind of talk,
Pessimism you do not subscribe to but

Remember anyway. The hero suffers in the movie.
You feel yourself pointing out refugees dying
In the next channel. And at the street, 
the stray dog scrawny and sick with open woods.

The three candles you lighted at the church
Of Saint Teresa saying god alone suffices.
You still believe. And you feel it--although
What it is, you no longer know. 

All news by the day growing more and more
Disturbing. Stranger than any tall story
About mutants or aliens. These kinds of movies.
This world. Growing more complicated to resolve.

The TV goes on without sound.
Your dog shifts at your feet. 
It, too, cannot sleep. Ever shameless
In trusting you, waiting for you again.

the motorcycle broke

and i am ill-tempered
over so many trifles

the many things hungry
constantly entitled 

to attention: annual
registrations monthly

bills daily upkeep
such as the yard

weeds who regularly
misunderstand such as

dust overstaying its
welcome the mouse

i saw in the corner
and the by-hour count

of batteries such as
the watch the mobile

phone is it possible 
to leave and be away?

i have half the mind
tell Gloria i am not

appearing anytime soon
but am sure she will

ask for the numbers
when what will she say

do to keep what at bay
until my return

what will not leave
will wait insensitively

the things to do 
in this world

the motorcycle broke
chapters to translate

manuscript to write
events and weeds

i take the dogs out
for a walk and miss

running

Some days there is the heat

undeniable, seeping its way
into skin and deeper still
through the eyes to be 

itself: a drum throbbing 
in the middle of temples
and behind brows

making everything else too
bright, too humid, too
loud--the temper too short.

Some nights there is the heat
undeniable, seeping its way
past reason and deeper still

into body that throbs into
becoming an animal heaving
groping, finding a latch

in the darkness for release.

the kitten under the rain

a boy was keeping a kitten
away from the corner of their yard

the kitten squeezed between potted plant
and garbage bin

soaked because it had been raining 
two days and the streets still wet

my dog tried to sniff the kitten
the kitten tried to defend itself

tiny claws tiny fangs all ferociousness
in a tiny life in a tiny body

i showed the boy how to hold 
the kitten by its ear

it will remember its mother
and stop being fierce

so the boy held the kitten
the way its mother did

the kitten remembered its mother
and trusted the boy

and the boy threw the kitten away

the last and first days

It is 1:27 AM, January 2nd. The last thing I did
on the first day of the year was coax and bring
one of the dogs, the oldest, 
to the bedroom where not too long ago she had  
dared to break the rule by choosing to follow.
Sleep on the bedroom rug, by the bedroom sleepers.
And be the first sun to wake in the morning. 

I had arrived home late from a massage,
had forgotten to bring a sweater, was in midst
of threatening flu in midst of December 
night wind under stars, 
was on the last stretch of patience knowing 
the dogs still need their day-end walk.
Had ran out of patience when, expecting much,
let her go without leash and she took too long. 

Maybe she didn't need to go and I didn't listen.
Had been bullheaded about it. So
she refused--when I did--to climb the stairs 
to bed. She refused to follow when called.
Refused when, feeling sorry,I coaxed.
I returned to the living room and found her
at the foot of the couch. And calling her again

asked she follow. 
She did (resentfully?)
Staying several feet away from me

where now I sit, now neither angry nor sleepy
typing the first hours away.

what comes in the end

what comes in the end after beer.
we talk about multi-modality
how so many different things mean
different on their own and different
when happening simultaneously.
the mind always attempts to mean.
platforms can change. so are worlds.
even though they essentially remain
the same. what comes in the end
after beer. i take the slow walk home. 
feeling the lightness of the new
walking boots she gave me. dark blue 
the colour of deep sea. and quiet.
some forms of serenity. a thought
came over talk asking is this the way
it feels before dying? ha ha ha.
about half a year left before leaving.
we did not toast. he is leaving too.
scotland. i name two states, where
the wind blows i go. the cosmos.
she remains to wait. i am already
thinking of coming home to her.
where really home is. we did not
toast. i come home walking slow
the sky is november too clear.
beautiful women so beautiful it hurts
the way one feels the loss of many
things. time and other lives.
this one now being what is had. 
my dogs call out from feet away
sensing my return. some loves
are perfect that way no matter
how unperfect the receiver.
what comes in the end after
beer. a sweet kind of sadness.
the kind also known as gratitude.

because a young artist wrote about and i remember you at dusk at sea with dogs

1
Young men leapt over bonfires
while beginning

2
                           artists pass naked for art.
                           There is a difference

3
in the quiet of solace
against empty.

4
I saw a vision of rain forest
green and leaves wet

5
                            falling back from heights
                            spent finally 
                           
6
on the sheets. You on top
head on my chest.

7
Young girls in this country dream snow
as in any other beginning

8
                            except perhaps when told
                            about such cold, such cold.

9
I spent time in quiet
un-counting moments

                            before the leaving. This warm
                            country of people, sun and storm.








                            
               

Corinthian verse

I have stopped defining love, because I can't.
I am resigned to some things impossible, because
Mere I am. Words are as large as universes
Capable of holding entireties I cannot even
Imagine, even though I try volunteering 
As writer, mere puppet of voices.

How can anyone be so certain of things?
Even this body may not be real, real only
Because I cannot see so many other
Things. My awareness, so limited. Dogs know
More than I ever would, the unseen, smells
Of worlds. They also know about love

Unconditional.
















after a line from Mary Oliver

conversation without bodies

What the vodka does is ease
boundaries we see called bodies.
The fields: height, colour, hair
style, demeanour etcetera

minds, by habit, label for survival.
Such identification necessary
caution for anyone in bodies

born, breathing, working, living
as we do; how naturally 
equipped we are to know

threats. Every person
a field to survey.
Which must be why hard

drinks are necessary for real
conversations, and darkness
for making love. For when

completely sober, bodies talk
in the language of gauging
petty things made important

such as "there is something wrong
the pipe under sink; the water
bill is erroneous; the doghouse

needs cover from the rain."

the number of lives

How many lives do we need
to be (come) what

we always wanted to
be 
with whom we dreamed 

Do cats have
what
they will have eventually?
                    photo by S. Kho Nervez

The Poor

Who are the poor? It depends
who is defining the abstruse lot
that continually grows
no end, all children
of an absentee god.

Two Days Away

It is always possible to write 
about seemingly random things.
The way the mind a pastiche.

At the moment I think about where
are my glasses? The light is harsh.
Also, the motorcycle key.

The beach wonderful today. 
The humidity and heat in this country.
Yesterday I dropped by at Ozee's 

met the new woman, the fifth one 
I've known since meeting the Pole 
eight years ago. Who says 

the house is empty. At the moment
she is gone for a week; and not
one of us talks about the possibility.

Although sometimes she says
"before you leave." 

I am afraid, sometimes, to even think
about it: leaving or staying.
Although the two Germans are marking

each day that takes them closer,
fostered local dogs in tow, 
to finally returning home.

Friday Rain

...and I came home midnight 
after a long meeting and a few
rounds of drinks, in an attempt to
salvage the remains of Friday night.
The both of us laughed over rocks

in glasses, over cigarettes, a band
played in the background and we
watched the lead singer. Young
woman cooing in a husky voice,
wearing elbow length sleeves.

Nice voice, but a virgin. We laughed
swapping stories how we knew
early on it is something to rid of.
To become.
                   I arrived home,

dogs, lamp lights, shower. Three 
things: collage of photos she printed 
from our recent out-of-town trips together; 
a handmade bookmark between 
Szymborska by my bed; she, asleep...

Rain arrived at two in the morning,
seeping through my sleep. I awake
to let in the new dog at the front yard. 
It yelped and raced to shelter itself in.

new dog

Centollella is dead.  The poor poet reduced into shreds
the mutilated book under the couch.  I should have but did not
have heart to punish the guilty, the dog
who also tore limb of bag, face of slippers 
belly of the couch.  Such threat this canine

having survived a world unimaginable at the downtown parking lot
given to me by two German women, foster parents themselves
of local street dogs, breed I've never had before.

A different how in loving I am yet to know
this little dog who bites in play and affection
who eats her meals with the lived memory of starvation
who curls herself in sleep, little feral in fetal position.

watching in the dark

It is Friday and it is raining and I do not want to begin 
a line about the weather, but the drops are heavy
the TV repeats news from last night about the forty-four 
dead young men, soldiers 
no older than any son in M'danao.  Mothers weep 
fathers trying to close as many doors as possible
from the inside, no country.  No one
understands deaths of young ones

of children, of dogs.  The neighbour who
padlocked his house and never returned for his 
Lab in a kennel all of us could hear baying silently
patient even in dying, thirst and hunger none of us could help. 

sometimes bolder

after a number of drinks
and right before
a single bed

a conversation with
half-meant debate
about the matter

of it all: art
and change
to what

extents

can men go on 
and on ignoring
libido 

loneliness
and the liveable
change

Raymund wants to know

and asks us questions beginning with "I am curious"

to this circle of men necessarily no longer young
only pretending to be
half a world wiser, over not a few
drinks each to each.  One

advertiser, filmmaker, critique,
poet, painter, sculptor with
meanderings
well into the timelessness of a windy night

where a gecko listens to the wind
cold made warm with drinks
and conversation going round and round.
"I am curious" he begins

as the circle of men go on pretending
to know.  And later have 
a good temporal
laugh about it.

a passing away before midnight

The first thing I did was to give her an instruction.  In a voice
collected, not unlike the last time I heard myself doing 
the same when an entire block was burning and she 
had refused to leave the room where we were, seated

hands on her lap, eyes there and not there saying the fire 
will burn itself away.  I heard myself say yes you are right

but let's anyway bring outside a few things like this see?

And so when it happened when the dog, after three hours 
nestling on my arms, gasped for air finally letting go itself
to become warm and limp on my lap, she broke crying 
and the first thing I did was keep still 

to keep myself, quietly closing a number of doors from 
feeling.  It was not yet time.  A bag, a phone call, 
an arrangement and a truck driven under the first of January stars

outside a few things like this see?