the flock, the flock

I no longer say "Bless me, Father
For I have sinned." I have left
A long time ago. Not anymore
The same child who read the bible
Every afternoon, cover to cover
For the stories of unbelievable
Faith for a beyond admirable man

Or god; in my life there 
Are stories in middle of stories
The ones I do not dare have light
Or air on them--for what use?
They are the silence between
My god and me. 

I have keep my peace with 
Men and women claiming closeness
To god whom they seem to know
Up close: we are entitled to
Our own brand of delusions. But
I do not say this, let them be.
My own is that god and I 

Are this: cosmos letting me be;
My own weakness leading me--
From time to time--to becoming
That same child again who
Has nothing but faith and fear

And faith: all to be good again.

To whom are we writing for

Possibly the sense is the same: all of these--
Us writing on a wall: millennials and those 
Past who scribbled their names on slates 
If only to say "I was here". Or "Joni was here".
Some form of validation knowing our own passing.
Finite, are we not
Deliberate to leave a trace of ourselves here?
Evidence of existence; fossil of memories...

(I have only sung alone in public once:
holding a guitar borrowed from Music Majors;
in the middle of a kiosk, love then had audacity
to call everyone's attention as introduction:
"Hi everyone, listen"--did I say it that way
I can no longer remember--"I have a song for..."
The girl blushed but remained on her seat--
I think now, it was probably out of confusion
or public embarrassment--to endure

Such shameless proclamation. THEN a string 
Strummed SNAPPED.) Who can remember that 
On their own? Recall names, retell the story,
Laugh at appropriate moments in the telling?
It has been years before this: This
Writing on the wall about it.

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.

from a hut overlooking part of the ocean

After all, we share a common journey.
When traveling together, it's normal to talk,
exchanging remarks, say, about the weather,
or about the stations flashing past.

We wouldn't run out of topics for so much connects us.
The same star keeps us in reach.
We cast shadows according to the same laws.
Both of us at least try to know something, each in our own way,
and in even in what we don't know there lies a resemblance.

Just ask and I will explain as best I can
what it is to see through eyes,
why my heart beats,
and how come my body is unrooted.

From Wislawa Symborzka, "The silence of plants" pp 76-77

when i will meet you

When finally I will meet you, 
I imagine there will be 
nothing to utter and many
distances to cross. 
Each of us a world
too long alone on its own,
making and conversing
with bird shadows on walls.
We will be right across
each other on the table,
wondering how it all
has come to this, singular
moment of meeting.
To begin the real knowing
is to begin the crossing 
from whichever previously
we know as real or unreal.
How will I say the first word.
How will we begin

Anger

is something i have 
in bursts i try to understand
where it is coming from
some remote place
insisting to remain
unnamed---
is something turned
from inside out---
roger does muay thai
to reciprocate 
violence into the cosmos
a channeling out
of fury
a welcoming of pain
we had a good laugh
about his broken heart
how his body wants
to be broken in turn---
three months he says
honeymoon stage i say---
who has the capacity
to take in 
my negative when it hurls
itself dark and unforgiving
angry

Return to Sta. Rosa

The port is no longer the same.  What do you remember now of what used to be clear
her full name and the story your arriving at twelve with an aunt 

who gave away crayons to children who never had.  An exchange
letters long before the first shy hello what else to say you both looked at your shoes 

hers polished and special for the occasion, yours taken for granted.
Did the letters continue after that Christmas, you no longer remember 

she had come to Opon City with a story about a factory but truly the story 
was lost long before that.  The pump boat comes as close as it could get 

someone has to push you on a pram the rest of the way.  Your lady love
holds your hand and marvels even after hearing the same story again and again 

the port was never mentioned, long and beautiful with white outrigger boats
in the morning, locals brown and beautiful with pails of mussels and sea urchin.  

The lady love points a marker in your repeated story, you find you do not remember
except a full name and a greeting in the local language so you say hello.

why i write poetry

because i do not want to 
explain in many words 
what words cannot explain.

the many, many kinds of
this

because i am always 
at a loss in the middle 
of nuances, even though.

because a poem is always
both obscure and clear.
because when i am alone... 

remains of the beginning of day

3 slices of toast
3 slices of ripe papaya
2 kinds of cheese
half a bottle of lemon concentrate
coffee, dregs
some thin slices of carrots
half a glass of water
two dogs, pretending to go back to sleep
the quiet of the morning
faint imaginary sounds of birds
sound of a leaving plane
occasional sound of rain drop on some roof
a faraway dog bark
















 
 

early morning run

when you run, are you running to? or running from?
or running, changed, to come back again?





 

tell me about your self in darkness

tell me about your self in darkness.  it is better.  truth in its self-depreciating version, easier between strangers.  this, as much a confession.  in a room, turn off the lights.  and let the shadows play.  the outlines of leaves and silhouettes of dim slanted light from the window.  in darkness, we are strangers without faces without names.  and the walls that is our body collapse without restraints.  in darkness, we merely are psyches.  with wear and tear.  closed in the seen eternal space.  reminiscent of eternity.  no matter how illusory.  there is no line, there is no body.  only voice and breathing.  and a small lock, with its tentative key, from a deluge of eidetic remembering.  

self-introduction

introduce yourself in a bottle, the email instructed.  no more than two paragraphs please.  de-tail all the titles and dates, of your publications.  include the categories of your prizes, and recognitions. 

is it possible--the appeal--to keep out the public?

the email attempts at understanding.  gives a day.  it knows:  you will yield to (the impossible).  because you had previously taken hermit months, weather permitting and stars aligning, to say how the lines had been cut in the now that previous work.  how the narratives of breathing silences were decided.

fill in the bottle between today and tomorrow.

easier to put pebbles from this morning's run.  or someone's lost coin found.  nobody is interested at navel gazing.

yes.  and please include a digital file of a recent photograph.  also say: how is this new predilection for the grocery list, and your claim to be a list of a list.  the public will be here-ing.

but this new--- the line a simultaneous foreground and background of space; the line as and as not the interstice;  the line as an illusion of division; the line as a strip of palimpsest; the line as both inclusion and exclusion; the line that both directs and misdirects, tells and does not tell, shows and withholds, implicit and explicit; the line that is a semicolon in between consciousness of the revealed and the hidden.  all these strangeness.  take for example, the comic book.

and the grocery list you mentioned.  the catalog and the catalogue.  you have today and tomorrow.  to fill in the bottle.