If fortune is real

Staring

At the somehow 7 inches fortune tree

In an ancient ceramic white cup

In the naked midnight table:

I wanna get laid

And we are the night

And we are the night,

No jeepney no buses no tricycles
Just us on the gutter
We are the night,
Spending time that we all just have.

Behind us is a bank,
The concert has stop,
And we just lay on the cold streets.

Early Blues Early Tabaco Pier Morning

An old man behind the sun behind a Japanese ship, darkened illuminated arms stretching in the early morning
Toddlers knees running non-stop, mothers sitting on the breakwater laughing
Fathers bending knees, push ups, sit ups, yoga
Bean curd juice vendor selling searching for breakfast 
Kids in bicycle rolling in the wind, laughter merged with the thin air
Sailors tailoring throwing smiles to the fascinating simplicity of the native teenage girls
People in gigantic rucksacks, sitting in the gutter devouring rice sardines coffee, waiting Catanduanes ship to sail
Old women and children selling cigarettes mineral water candies
Passengers ignoring everybody, sweat in their foreheads, eyes deep as the ocean blues
Fishermen in the sea’s nucleus, shrouded by mystery sweet silhouette
Nomad Birds gave birth to a sense as they bite my chipped biscuits on the cold ground
In the back of a hamburger stand, my legs temporarily void of power, chumping packed veggie hotdog bun.

Milk It

Sleepyhead, false alarms to wake up to pee time wee hours makes me a madman.

Madness in the dark kitchen knives the only luminance in the house. 

Sharp little shrill voice came out:

I want to sleep. I want to sleep. I want to…

Milk hot and creamy, the pop-up solution,

So I make a glass and stay awake tappita tapp tappita

In the keyboard who doesn’t sleep.


The empty aluminum cup shining smiling in my workaholic wooden desk,
Empty metal of white protein adrenalin push tired already but,
I love it I love it to not sleep,
Feelings change in an instant,
My sanity downpours on the amnesiac keybord,
Tappita tapp tappita as the orange glow crawl into the distant window.

A date before twilight

Ephemeral orange afternoon

Unlike your hand in mine I know,
We sat beside the perpetual sea,
The dusk is hungry to eat the remaining light,
In this one violet violent internal twilight,
The voice of Lord Buddha
Reverberates innumerable echoes:
Attachment is the root cause of all suffering,
Attachment…

Only the breaking of the water cut my thoughts,
You press my hand.
As you pointed the silhouette bird,
Slowly entering the waning sun,
My heartbeat breaks the crying sonata of the big blue.

So I don’t know what’s waiting but I want you to know

Drink is the night light coming down that cast shadows on the windy ground,

Road long narrowing my hope to reach home,
Home that I want to forget till twilight,

Ahh, to be with the one I love with the dying love in between our bed,
Like the sweetest beer I known for years,
Sweet when its still in my mouth but smothering me inside,
Like my withering veins because of the lack of sleep that I need
I need to be awake to fetch medicines for that illness in my bed.

So come down to me light, and also you wind,
Walk with me as I stream the unknown road that I known for years.

If ever I failed to come home before twilight or after the light,
Just want you to know that I made effort to think,
To find the illness in between our bed that never ever I adore.

Because you refused to kiss me on my lips

Because you refused to kiss me on my lips before you go,

time is arthritis to my bones,

can’t move,

only clock is moving

but very slow,

unlike my heartbeat,

 

it isn’t nice to kiss in public, you told me

with your insincere narrow eyes,

I refused to acknowledged the fact,

loneliness is a fact,

a timeless wound all lonely souls knew,

 

could kiss you on your forehead or your cheek

in front of the forlorn bus passengers,

but like wine, longing ness rushed to my head

from my heart, that moment,

weakened by the fact that everything is a comma,

 

so if ever, love,

that the bus you’re in hits a dike,

or on my way home, cardiac arrested me,

no despair please to whomever be left alone,

if ever, love,

that kiss will be a lonely bird in the wide sky,

 

so please kiss me on my lips before you go

if there will be next time,

you could tell that my kiss on your cheek or the forehead’s the same,

but your kiss on my lips

heals the unripe wounds of my heart,

forgive this child,

his folly,

 

yesterday when we were young,

we’re mad,

crazy about the moon and his tears; the ocean,

untamed about our impulsive actions and trips to unknown lands,

with mercurial feet we defy time,

now we have a child and we have answers to all questions 

as we want to believed,

we’ve lost something I think, so

lets take away the breath of those travelelling incognitos

if ever they catch a glimpse of us doing it,

take away my heart with you,

please please let my lips bloom before you go,

if there will be next time.

 

Sunset's setting

In a wheelchair

just beside the door

behind the windows

a gray haired father

stoned to the radio --

disc jiockey discussing death

of innumerable journalists

in the Philippines

 

In the kitchen

ab old woman

grating garlic for the heart

a healthey soup ---

sotanghon, pechay, and potato against the cold Bicol

aftetnoon howling wind.

Because im use to be with you

Death comes to mind,

O empty cup of golden eternity,

What now I professed silently

In the sewer of my intelligence,

What could kept me awake,

In this night

where visions of solitude

scratch my ceramic chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A scar of broken fidelity

Night stars behind the window light

Twinkling tea under the fluorescent,

Statues under the artificial light,

Sipping golden eternity,

Lips a swamp,

Two rivers merged,

Breeze out from the nostrils,

Heavy breathing dark clouds,

Sweat cold separation,

Knowledge illuminated,

Apologies because swayed by lust,

Good night but no sleep found

In solitary bed,

Till early rays came echoing needles in chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Smiths are right (There is a light that never goes out)

The sheet is nearly dried up when a drizzle came,

like a teenager bereft of a playground that is caused by the sudden downpour...

my mother rush to the backyard from the kitchen with a t-shirt covering her head,

her voice is whining sharp yet low,

she is nodding, telling me: it is almost dry son...

I told her, I’m sorry mama, I didn’t notice,

don’t worry there is still a sun tomorrow.

Some night that I will surely forget

After contemplating about the Aleco bill hike,

Besides the Bayan DSL bill,

I am Desolate with the electric fan in the sala,

Sitting in front of our long Nara table,

The greasy dishes are now swipe by my hygiene passion (laughs),

Forlorn in the ancient humid pre-twilight,

Drinking innumerable glasses of water in the road of 3am

To sweep the msg brought by the instant killer noodles

That we devour for dinner,

I love organic foods; its just time is so scarce,

Rushing times gives me psychological rashes,

I hate hospital sceneries, although I love to hang out there

To remind me of coffins, skulls, yell and hell,

Anyway, here I am in the sala, with the pale 5 watts bulb behind me,

I am watching the darkness behind the windows,

Or is it the darkness behind the windows watching me?

I don’t care, if it is my last night,

I go to the toilet to take a pee,

When a mice runs on the floor, and a lizard fell on the sink,

As I pass by to go inside the toilet.

 

In the toilet, all my aggression pour,

My tongue roaming my lips,

Thirsty for the sunrise,

I yawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s back again with the same old stories that always bring new chills.

As I stand in our doorway like I’m doing in years,

The old wind greet me,

I didn’t greet her back,

The wind is a young girl,

Whom I still remember in my early childhood,

 

I always cherish to sip hot milk and chocolate,

As I grew older I become philosophical,

And I learn to sip coffee and tea,

And I didn’t rush it.

 

Every sip is contemplation,

Every sip is a fragment of thought,

Every sip is a remembered or a fabricated story,

So the wind greet me that dawn,

I want to take a long morning walk,

Because time is scarce now that I have a family

For me to avail long nocturnal walks,

 

So the wind greet me,

But I didn’t greet her back,

I just feel her arms around my belly

As she came inside my shirt,

 

Like the girl from my toddler years,

The wind likes to play,

My unborn son, I want to play with him or her,

I want him or her to enjoy childhood,

The simplicities of life that could be experience

By a mere hot cup of milk or chocolate,

Or playing with the eternal juvenile happy breeze.

 

Writing a letter for myself,

Literary masturbation? No. I am just writing a letter for myself,

 

Why? Because I am practicing to write

 

Lllong sentences.

 

What for?

 

I want to write a novel.

 

About what?

 

About the death of my passion in writing.

 

That’s nice, yes, so right now I am trying to write,

 

Could you turn off the fan when you close the door?

 

Now where is that pen?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When will you learn Frederick Maurice S. Lim?

Water, I am searching for water barefooted

In the kitchen lights out,

Glasses plates pan soiled,

Where is my head?

Is it still in the sink?

 

Again, again I fell in the sea of beer,

In the lure of friends I drowned into self-pity,

Alone I walk destination I don’t know

At last at home my head in the sink deep down I pray

Before going to bed TKO

Waking up before twilight

Searching for water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My heart, my head, and my feet

My heart between my head and my feet

Is strangled by my fingers

Playing inside my shorts,

Shortness of breath

Even though abundance of air exists

Inside and outside of my fairly opened bedroom window,

 

My head on top of my heart and feet

Has a hole,

So deep yet is it shallow,

I take a ride inside it

Only to swim in a pool out of water,

 

My feet under my heart and head

Is cold like a dead man,

Although I don’t yet see a dead man,

My feet are cold,

I’m weak like my heart and head,

My chi has gone,

But the wind is still echoing,

Mocking,

maybe I am just paranoid,

No I am not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let your eyes sink into me

If you read me now,

You will see that all around me are commas,

There are no period because there’s a long road ahead,

Nor there are exclamation points

Because I could contain happiness and the distress of losing you,

There are …only ellipses in between

Because tomorrow is  a door yet to open

But there are no question marks

For fortitude will be my middle name whatever happens,

Colons are there to explain things in order

But logic is not forlorn;

My mind and my heart are one:

I am certain about my feelings for you.

 

It is not that I am grammatically or psychologically correct,

Language is void; it is just a way to express

The deepest of my sentiments.

 

 

Krishna

As I bow my head to the ground,

My balloon like skull deflated.

 

In my hand was a plumeria acuminata,

In the front was Your altar and all its glories;

Garlands water fruits and all elegance,

 

Eternal chanting of the Hare Krishna mantra in the background,

My head still on the ground as I stood,

For the moment.

 

Myriad windows of my mind still a moving picture

Of lust and greed.

 

Humility is still planets away,

Krishna.

 

After the storm

Now only flood remains in our red tiled floor,

After the unexpected downpour of heavenly angst,

In the mid afternoon gloom…

This to me is a sign of beauty,

 

My eyes searching for living entities outside the window screen,

But all I found was leaves separated from families,

Our three pet dogs roaming wet; eyes still drowned in fear,

 

Our washing machine, radio and furniture in a platform,

Slippery but it’s not the reason why I’m still,

My parents motionless drinking hot coffee, talking about historical tear sheds and aftermaths,

 

No electricity brings families closer,

Just absorbed their stories and the chill of the enduring wind,

Flowers in the backyard are nowhere now,

Old aunties and uncles faces staid in the backyard, gazing at swift ebony clouds

My breath warm like tea,

 

White haired parents never ceased to give warmth,

Golden advices to love life while young,

I grow old that afternoon,

A twilight glee I possessed as I glow in the creeping night.

 

 

And so I learned from my mistakes

And so I learned from my mistakes,

Tea is death and so is coffee,

Death to the stillness of the senses,

Ohh, when will I rest without the disturbing faces

Of the night?

In the dark kitchen where I hang up,

Sipping,

Soaking myself in the eternal light.