Enamored

There he was,
In his vividly printed top and pressed trousers
Beaming like crazy
And minds have never been more visionary

There he smiles,
A breathing myth, a folklore
And hearts suddenly touched each other in places
where none has touched before

There he walks,
A knight with no sword, nor rose
But eyes, certainly, have never seen a star this close

And there he goes, he holds my hand
And time, for once, came to rest, instead of run

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Don’t tell my Father

Don’t tell my father that it was me who flat his tire.
I hid his keys under the couch.
I sneaked to buy liquor at 12am.
I didn’t use my allowance for lunch.
I stashed his old CD’s.
Don’t tell my Father, please.

Don’t tell my Father that his tires were flat, and his keys were gone
to prevent him from going outside.
So that he could stay home even just for a little while.
I sneaked out at midnight to buy him Cognac.
Instead of using my allowance for lunch, I saved it
to buy him a music player to play his prized CD’s.
Don’t. Tell my father, please.

Tounge-tied

Sometimes,
words I should be telling you
are suspended
at the tip of my tongue

So when you ask me
“what’s wrong?”
I can only make out
the easy
“nothing”

And the words
you didn’t hear
died in my lips
and aged with time

I have grown a forest
out of the things
I didn’t tell
and if you listen well
you’ll hear the rain
came from the
questions you never ask
and the weight
drags on every day
that you’ll find my smile
prepared to break
set to die

You see,
when words left
Silence knocked
and asked me
to pack my bags
and let go

but you said
“stay”
and
“please, let’s fix this”
and
“listen to me”

I knew I have to throw this away
I should let go
I knew I have to leave
but
Sometimes,
words
I should be telling you
are suspended
at the tip of
my tongue

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 clobbered 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.

 

Fever

The fever paces the streets,
blinding the corridors in its nocturnal sadness
looking for eyes wandering, lost,
still and burdened
in its own color

The wind plays with the cold
for months even in the warm seasons.

A body crosses the bridge
still wearing his mustache,
tangled with ice

His eyes, a black hole;
his lips, the shredding of a self
He’s suddenly whole, then suddenly empty

the fever builds a house out of a man
stores in it jars and jars of isolation,
rusty toolboxes,
dust heap of journals,
of photographs, letters unread

the floor is soiled and dirty
the walls stand in exhaustion
at night, he dances with the doom and torment,
with brooms and sticks and unusual

Distress plays a music ethereal in his ears
the fever took over
the bedposts, the pillows, the blanket,
and the darkness has a bright color
the cellular rings and rings until it stopped

The man is helled to bed and sorry
until he is no more
Until he is nothing
The fever finished the house
Steps into the chair like a master
Harried the depths of his heart
and found nothing
Soundlessly, the man hangs himself in the ceiling
And the deads sound the bells of forlorn

The fever smiles
and parades the street looking for sad eyes to feed.