The Purge

On the margins of the night, come hear the fireworks from the guns,

empty shells in the cold roads

warmed by the blood in the streets.
These are the nights of the purge,

A stranger clothe with darkness touches the open windows, the light posts and damp houses

Speeds through the alleys in the blaze of his hunger

His eyeballs, a hint of command and evil

His hands, heavy with ammunition,

Gigantic and calloused,

Ready for assault.
Dinner was served in a house with empty flowerpots, where

the wheels sleep on the roof

A lady dressed the table with dried fish

waiting with disconnection notice in one hand, distress in another

Her three little girls taking shelter under the safety of their camp

made of threadbare blankets, maybe it covers the pouring troubles
The watchman just finished his shift and walks past the corner of the street,

weary with his clabbered beard and wrinkled eyes,

past the shadows and silhouettes of bakeshops,

past the shoeless shoemakers,

across the lonely intersection,

To the alley of houses damped with sweat and tears of

pauperized folks,

He knocks on the door,

the lady stared long at his eyes

and his back that carries the weight of disappointment

Sighs when he saw the notice sitting in the table

Nine more moons before the next pay

The God sits next to the television, a Sampaguita hangs on His fingers

and the guard sat in the couch

His body mirrored in the window
The long night awakens the spirit of the stranger

He saw the prey across the open window

He raised his iron hands towards the target and bang, bang, bang

The silence shies away

The cartridge gave away three bullets

Two shots in the back, one in the head

and the moon cries

Bullet casings dropped on the dirt

The blood stains the couch where a body sat lifeless,

The sound of the lady mourning

And soon, hundreds of lips talking
“A drug suspect was slain” the man in the television says

“He is innocent,” the mourners wept

“Another man shot dead”

“In other news…”
His is a little death, nameless and forgotten,

His is just a number added to the names of the dead
a stone in a cemetery

a drug war’s sacrifice in this confused humanity

The country will lament him no longer and

In the morning, another cry will come but the evening will take it away

Just like that
Whatever took hold of the man will always be remembered by the air

And when the trumpets had all sounded, judgment will stand tall.

 

 

The stranger barrels past the trash bins,

past the road signs

and the dying plants held in the water containers.

In the dirt, a badge was recovered.

 

How can I love thee

Oh love with bright eyes, I come with hands empty — only eyelashes, cheeks, and arms brimming with hopes and dreams

Hopes like fluttering butterflies

and dreams like knights and horsemen, with courage but swords. 
Only with these little hands can I love you

with coffeepots and teacups

with rain-soaked skin 

And dusty floors with pawprints of  dogs
Only with songs of the stars can i love you

I paddled to the shores of the stellar

brought home a pocketful of Tinkerbell’s dust and a handful of Peter’s neverland

to give you
Fly with me

Across the clashing of thunderstorms, past lilies and roses, 

a flight inches from the sea,

Through countryroads,

And postcards,

and mails, 
Only with stones and flames can I love you

With the wet grass under your head and embers suspended in the air failing to reach the sky

Kiss me beneath the stars,

A kiss under the tunnels of stone
Only with the finger’s promise of staying can I love you

I am here in the morning 

And at night, 

to listen to your secrets and little deaths, 

solitudes and rain clouds

Watch your ebb and sinking ships only to rise again
For you come in the midst of my hurricane and cloudburst

To seed yourself in my heart

and grow unearthly special

and you make known to me what is light in the darkness, 

you, my beloved one.

My body is a walking museum

My body is a walking museum.

My bones heavy with hands running down my spine and when touched, it does not break

It is made up bricks and bricks of catcalling – “sluts” and “whore” – molded into walls that held my back.

These thighs are reviewed one, two, three, four, five stars

Like an open hotel, a service, a merchandise ready to be sold

on demand

in a market

And my eyes, a call for attention they say

It speaks ‘yes’ to passerby, to schemers, to the libido of men, to the sleepless sexual drive whenever and wherever

These breasts hide in plain sight that invites to be seek, to be fondled

Seduces the neighbors conclusively

without its knowing

And the beasts of the day openly sniff these shoulders like a bee

Like a mosquito ready to attack in a blood-smell
All you daylight bullies, slut-shamers, catcallers, and predators who accuse us provocative no matter what we do or wear,

Bury me.

Bury me and see how I dig myself out of the heap of soil

Bury me and watch as I crawl out of your verdict as an object of your egoistic desires

Bury me and look at me fly

Because these wings are too strong and too big for your shallow opinions to bring me down
The big breathing world encircles me in its grip,

but watch me break the clutches of your mouths and bodies
You hit like rain and it falls formless.

Watch me, a towering blossom of a tree, sip down these waters and grow into miraculous beauty
This woman is breathing

Evolving

Unfolding

And her artwork is not for your touching.

In Extremis

I’d leave my corpse in your hands and my name on your skin,

so you’ll never forget that I’d live there

I’ll house you in a graveyard and bury you like roots and coffins,

for you to feel how it’s like to be left alone

With frost and rain, I want to efface your memory

and I’ll teach you my name

it will be the only words your lips will kiss, the only tale you’ll tell

I hope you fall like rain, forced in its downfall, lonely and shapeless

with nowhere to go, nothing to do, but fall

Because when you leave, you used the windows and leave winter to sleep in my bed

and now sunlight is a stranger touching my skin

my body is a map of your lost expeditions but I’m the only one presumed lost and

you, the only surviving member

Now I dream, cloth with the memory of your face

enduring what remains of my withering self

DEAR YOU

Remember when I told you before that for me love is just a noise?

A disruption of the loveliness of silence. An unpleasant uproar.

That jet-black night, while I was sitting alone in a resto, you pulled the old chair in front of me.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor was audible. You talked continuously. Your feet tapped the wooden floor.

Your guttural voice was so deep that it filled the air.

And the beauty of silence was gone.

But never before that my ears heard such an enchanting melody. An entrancing tune.

In that instance I found noise.

And I clearly knew that I wanted to hear that noise forever.

Haiku of Today

(Love)

You can call me a song

I am made of the lyrics

You’re my melody

(Faith)

When I looked above

He shows me clear clouds, warm skies

During the thunder.

(Hope)

There is a mad man

While people see his ignorance,

He saw innocence.

(Friendship)

I choose you because

I do not know how to drive

But you ride with me

(Family)

I dreamed of flying

So you pushed me in the air

And gave me my wings.

Poem for a Mother

Perhaps I will never know

How you cradle me in your arms when I was little

Perhaps I won’t always remember

How your eyebrows crossed when I sometimes rebel

Perhaps I will not understand

Why you get into serious fights with a girl who just teases me

Perhaps I can never comprehend why

When I wanted to swim farther, you quickly reached for me.

But likewise, you’ll never know

That I constantly asked God to guide when you’re afar

Yes, you won’t always see

That I appreciate your settling for bread crumbs to buy me a nutella jar

Also, you’ll never hear

My loud mind singing you songs of adoration

And truly, you’ll never think

But I do sleep late at night waiting for you to come home from your Saturday devotion.

And Mom, I’m not good with words when they were spoken.

That’s why I settle for the best I can do — that’s why this one’s written.

I know you’ll try hard even if you’re lost in translation to understand my language

Every out-of-the-blue thing you do for me, for us, is a beautiful outrage.

This mushy, goofy things, some might call it lame.

But I’ll forever be proud I wrote this

For you I’ll take the blame.

And when my words fail me when I grow old,

Remember that you are my ‘Space Shuttle’ ride.

You’re crazy, insane, terrifying and bold.

And I’m awfully mad because I gladly tried.