meow~

Behind a branch lu-tong.

Last night I dreamt of a knife I had bought for my son. Of rare design, it went cheaply for its worth– short dagger with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath which miraculously revealed other, miniature blades. Oh how pleased he would be upon my return from this journey, I thought. What rapture will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering pleasure will most certainly be unleashed. When I woke, there was no return, no journey, no gift, and no son beside me. Where do I search for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so from such sharp points of dreams?

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

O somber mystery of eyes unspeaking, O dark enigma of Life’s love forlorn; The Sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking The secret answer since the world was born.

I’ve found you fruits of sweetest taste and found you Bunches of duhat growing by the hill, I’ve bound your arms and hair with vine and bound you With rare wildflowers but you are crying still. I’ve brought you all the forest ferns and brought you Wrapped in green leaves cicadas singing sweet, I’ve caught you in my arms an hour and taught you Love’s secret where the mountain spirits meet. Your smiles have died and there is no replying To all endearment and my gifts are vain; Come with me, love, you are too old for crying, The church bells ring and I hear drops of rain.

They say poor Filipinos multiply like rabbits since they have nothing to do but fuck. Living in houses with room only for the inevitable brush of the hand against the buttock in between chores, on the way to switch channels to the daily noontime show, no money and little space lead to nowhere but to coupling. We used to joke and call our selves typical Filipinos, broke and empty-handed, when all we did was touch, and for all the movies we missed, fancy dinners we didn’t have, books we borrowed but never owned, we compensated by making love. You told me not to worry, that someday the worst would end, just a couple of right moves and it would be over. Should I have told you then we’d never been better, should I have told you then to hold your tongue, but we had no room for such words. We were rabbits, Seeking the other side, bent on Crossing the pasture.

O, how dead you child are, whose spoiled Sportedness is being fashion showed Beautifuling as we speak – in Cubao There is that same look: Your Crossing Ibabaw, Your Nepa Cute, Wednesdays Baclaran, “Please pass. Kindly ride on.” Tonight will be us tomorrowed- Lovers of the Happy Meal and its H, Who dream of the importedness of sex as long as it’s Pirated and under a hundred, who can smell A Pasig Raver in a dance club. O, the toilet Won’t flush, but we are moved, doing the gerby In a plastic bag; we want to feel the grooves Of the records, we want to hear some scratch- In a breakaway movement, we’re the shake To the motive of pockets, to the max. The change is all in the first jeep Of the morning’s route. Rerouting This city and its heart attacks; one minute faster Than four o'clock, and the next Wave that stands out in the outdoor crowd hanging with a bunch of yo-yos- A face with an inverted cap on, wearing all Smiles the smell of foot stuck between the teeth.

Make me three masks.

You wake, and I bruise my hands on the living cage.

ten floors up a lizard punctual at six o'clock crawls down stopping every now and then along the slender tree trunk and kisses the ground nitrified loam of the arboretum ten floors up.

by William Blake O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Be beautiful, noble, like the antique ant, Who bore the storms as he bore the sun, Wearing neither gown nor helmet, though he was archbishop and soldier: Wore only his own flesh Salute characters with gracious dignity: Though what these are is left to Your own terms. Exact: the universe is Not so small but these will be found Somewhere. Exact: they will be found Speak with great moderation: but think With great fierceness, burning passion: Though what the ant thought No annuals reveal, no his descendants Break the seal. Trace the tracelessness of the ant, Every ant has reached this perfection. As he comes, so he goes, Flowing as water flows, Essential but secret like a rose.

Lyric 17 by Jose Garcia Villa First, a poem must be magical, Then musical as a sea-gull. It must be a brightness moving And hold secret a bird’s flowering. It must be slender as a bell, And it must hold fire as well. It must have the wisdom of bows And it must kneel like a rose. It must be able to hear The luminance of dove and deer. It must be able to hide What it seeks, like a bride. And over all I would like to hover God, smiling from the poem’s cover