Waking Up On Sundays

I see you.

Sleepy eyes. A half smile.

Your outstretched hands caress
my ruffled raven hair.
The murmured sweet nothings
flood us with innocent light,
and I bathe in the beauty that I see,
clad in satin, unadorned and free,
unfettered by Shiseido and Lipfinity.

The colors that you borrow
seem not here today.
But I will not miss them,
I like the way you are.
The freckles on your skin
are colors unto themselves.

Seeing you on Sundays
always happen like a dream,
a flash in the pan,
then suddenly gone.

And I am left tracing the outline
of the shadows of the trees,
while I run by my lonesome.

MRT

Night falls over Makati,
and we stood there watching
the city lights go up,
from a crowded train.

We touched our skin,
and we smiled to each other
Not a word bridged us over,
But we knew, somehow,
that there is something coming out of us,
something that had been in a slumber
but is now frolicking in the wild blue yonder,
filling us with a promise,
we knew can never be fulfilled.

We chose not to say a word.
For we are two mortals, trapped,
yet still, by the rhythm of the rail we tapped,
a rhythm of our own.
We made music out of skin,
And we lived a life out
of watching city lights go up
from a crowded train.

EDSA, by Train II

Utter stillness.
Unbearably light.
Jagged pieces of Pasayscape flew by.

And I paused to wonder
if time in trains is frozen
as life outside moves on… …

to destroy itself with mortal thoughts;
like silver daggers of slanted rain.

Kissing, missing,
but succeeding
in destroying,
the view from where I sit.

So I blinked to change the subject.

The edge of ADB,
“fighting poverty”,
turned opaque in my eyes.

So I persevered to think
of nice things,
good things,
of coffeeshops and moonbeams
As I rode the night.

Yesterday, I asked.

Are trains for thinking?

EDSA, by Train.

Somebody said that love
can have such dainty hands.

Timid, like silence flowing,
like water, quiet
like the calm after a storm.

Words you speak create
solid objects . In my mind.
Connected, like trains
yet separated
by the silent space between us.

And I feel the warmth,
the gaze,
the breath,
the bridge between two islands.

An empty sea in between.

Side by side, juxtaposed
and divided.
We mumbled nice things,
good things
blue and colored things.

Then a wave of the hand
meant goodbye.

Yesterday I asked.

Are trains for thinking?

Thinking of Aya

Taft Avenue Station.

Hurried steps, doors closing,
like a relationship ending,
and I thought of a little girl’s hand.

small and fragile, soft and clinging,
at the edge of my thoughts,
but barely succeeding.

Such small hands.

small kind of big; enough to keep me in.
Enough to make me understand.
Life is like holding a baby’s hand.

I stood by the door and felt the train’s beat.
And I said to myself: the circle of life
is finally complete.

Yesterday I thought, Are trains for thinking?

The Last Train.

I wish the gentle wind that brings all things to you,
will bring all things, including me.
And I will dream of walking with you,
through foliage and forest and cobblestone paths;
through every scenery conceivable.

There may be some roses but not necessarily red.
There may be some music but not necessarily soft.
There may be wine but not necessarily sweet.
It may be an endless road we have to walk
But if we are lucky we might just find the end.
The last train will be there, the one bound for Paris.
We can ride together or we can simply stand
at he station and exchange immortal promises.

It does not really matter, station or Paris,
With you I’ll take any, or anything in between.

You only have to hold my hand.

Love, in the time of the Cubicle.

I try to contrive
every now and then,
the imagery formed
by your transient presence.
I tried piecing you together
like a complex puzzle;
thronged each fragment
by way of short glimpses.
I’ve built the context
like a financial model.
I made a thousand runs
of the formula in my head,
and when you spoke to me
I input things you said.
I’ve modeled those eyes,
almond and deep.
Transcendental, elusive,
they find me in my sleep;
I will never understand
their economic cost,
they make me feel right,
but also lost,
like in a labyrinth,
or some wilderness.
And I rambled lonesome
at the edge of sadness.
From the inside,
the feral creature is released,
Completely transmogrifying
this analyst.
Those smiles, flashing wide
they wound me well;
they drown my reason;
they urge me to dream,
of infinitesimal numbers;
of endless river flowing.
But I can not see the model
that I am doing.
Theory has it
that all things have their costs.
I pretend to understand,
but I am only lost.

Logic

The way you had become
is astoundingly beautiful.
I flourish under your gaze.
I am happy when you are near,
in the same intensity
that I am happy
when you are far.

If we are notes in the music
that I studied, about Love,
my logic is as follows:

The notes are consequential.
But the distance between the notes are quintessential
for the music to be free.

Timeless

In a hundred years from now,
I will still remember how
music filled the early morning breeze
[and feathers drifted by like little songs]
when I first said "I Love You."

Time would have then slowly crept
into your soft, freckled skin;
your hands would then be wilted
by the rigour of the years.

But I will remember how fireflies
suddenly appeared
and floated by on their little wings,
When I first said "I Love You".

I hope by then you would have found
the pinnacle of your dreams.
Meanwhile I promise to watch you here and now.
[No matter how lonely it is to be waiting in Cubao.]

I will see you through, my love,
in a hundred million years.

So don't be afraid to follow your dreams.

Song of the Ninja Worrier.

I am Toronaga,
I am invincible.
Like energy,
I cannot be destroyed.

I cannot be created either.

Love is the only chink in my armor.
I am the phantom that visits you at night,
and take away all your daylight troubles.

I am yours,
but I am not yours.
Instead, I am the threat
that dangles like a sword
above your lover's head.

So he'll never be able to leave you.

I live on the pretext
that love is as natural
as a leaf unfolding,
like the way you wake up
thinking of me.

I see all things in you eyes.

I am there, always.
I am not.

I am near, always.
I am far.

I am yours, always.
I'm not yours.

I am Toronaga,
and I am invincible.

And you are my secret darling.

The Director's Chair

The sound that came out
was a marmalade of songs
Parted limbs, on the Director's chair.

Skin to skin. You spoke in melodies.
The breathing,
heavy as Deuterium,
close to delirium,
light as helium.

We meted out sentences
for each other, like judges
or convicts at the same time;
in the same line;
under the same light;
or, out of sight.
To the death row
we exchanged our sweats
like promises
we quarreled just for the show.

The meeting shall continue,
on the Director's chair.
We will sing muffle songs,
and play muted gongs.
Every Tuesday, while you call home.

Tell me again, that my skin
has the scent of sugar, and whiskey,
whisked while waiting
for wisdom to ferment.

And I will whisper words
that your Helm's Deep is impregnable to touch.
But my sword,
as I wield,
you yield
and then
a river runs through it.

Superman

Will you please stop
showing up
in my coffee cup.

Can't you see,
I am trying to be
indifferent to you,
because I have things to do:

I am busy trying
to save the world
one memo at a time,
hoping each will make
a little dent on the ego
of the politicians.

I am busy trying
to change the world
so that in the future the little kids today
will have a quiet playground of their own.

With the letter S on my chest
that is what I hope to do.

But first I have to save me from you.

The Original Sin.

If you think of me tonight
I promise to also think of you
and under my satin sheets
you'll be there too.

...naked like the sun,
...pure and alluring,
and we will share the lamplights,
the pillow and the high tides,

as we merge our thoughts.
our bodies will melt into one
as the salt on your skin
dissolves in the still blue waters of my soul.

and as one we will listen
to all the music they wrote
for all the lovers in the world.

I will feel your hands move,
plowing my body like a barren land.
and I will sprout like a seed
that awakes into the warmth
of your embrace.

...slowly, darling, there's no rush...

I promise to take you higher
to a place where the angels reside
and we will make them envious with desire
we'll clasp our hands
and we will grow our wings
like butterflies,
and as such, we will free ourselves
from the shackles of rationality.

We will make sin look so lovely,
that the devil will blush,
and the angels will continue to envy us.

...if you stop now darling, I will die...

Deep inside you will find rest
after we burst our bubbles
together and wallow
in the river that is sweat.

Then I'll taste you again until the night is dead.

Oslo Calling.

Oslo is calling, yeah.

What awaits me there
but snow, and bluish fjords,
falling off crass mountains
to caress the sea.

Or perhaps the ghostly shape
of Viking ships,
slicing cold waters.
Red days of plunder
mark the masts,
turning crimson against the midnight sun.

Pyramidal roofs gathered
in neat lines to justify a town,
or wooden walkways bridging shores,
and sights, and maybe even
bridging thoughts.

Serene.

Peaceful.

Quiet as our notion of spaces between notes.

I was told the evenings there
are accented only by the lights
reflected in the snow,

And music there is made
by the ebb and flow
of the Northern sea.

But what beauty resides there
that is not here? Perhaps none.

For all that's been made lovely
somehow already found their way
to this place where you stand.

Web Logger.

And it is at this age,
Blog happened.
So to justify its existence,
I dug up old files,
even old diskettes that do not open.
In some old postings I found old songs
that my soul used to sing. And some musings,
old and outdated, but musings, nonetheless.

I hurdled the technical divide;
visited google,
signed up for a spot.

Then I copied,
pasted,
tarried,
hurried
and sighed.

And at the end of it all,
Blog happened.

And I am not complaining.

What was lost,
has been found.
Poetry gained a blow horn
and a pound.

The time will come that this poet will fail.

But not today.

Solace

Insight comes to mind
when idleness creeps in;
I wonder if this is life,
or this is just pretense.
Houses burn. And brick
by brick resiliency builds
them back, like spider holes
and niches for the dead.
We wake up with the promise
of another hectic day.
So we break our back
as expected. We shimmy
right next to the ghostly
person in the train,
hoping the fellow
understands better, life.
The day ends as expected too,
and we go home less innocent.
Staring at the red tail lights
as we negotiate the traffic jam.
Sometimes we find solace
in the thought
that if these all become
too unbearable, there is always…

Suicide.

One Fine Day

One day maybe the world
will unfold again
before my eyes, like heaven's gate.

And leaves maybe
will slowly grow again,
Although a little late.

The birds maybe
will grow again their wings, a
nd fly towards a future date.

And I maybe
will die again
as I rendezvous with fate.

One night maybe
the lights will glow
and wipe away the shadow cast.

In all silence as water flows
my ship will build
again a mast.

And I will voyage through
in a steady row,
across the sky of grey,

But would it matter?
Maybe no,
because I'm lost anyway.

Kahlil Is Right.

I watch the bluish ocean waters
the same way I watched you all summer:
endless.

And when I closed my eyes
I saw you, endless. Still.

I struggled to rise above my reasons,
with the same intensity that people employ
when they aspire for a PhD.

Only, I have spontaneous hematoma.

In the beginning I failed to understand
why leaves grow on trees
and not on dogs, and definitely
not on hopeless romantics like me.

But now,I still don't understand.

However, I learned that love
is better lost if losing
is what will make love happy.

We look beyond where Pluto is,
and we notice that a new planet
now sits there.

If planets grow on nothingness,
then love must be forgiven.

And If that is all correct,
I guess Kahlil is right:
love makes us laugh with all our laughter
and cry with all our tears.

Finally we decide to be sane
and so, we succeed in forgetting.

While the moon floats out there eternally waiting for music to taste like coffee.

Seaside.

Somebody sent
over the fax machine
a cryptic message:

"Do you want to see me?"

And the Gregorians chanted
at the background
of the complex place I call the mind.

There is no telling if tomorrow
the war will break out.
Meanwhile I partake of the poetry
that her love inspired

and suddenly I am on fire.

I just realized that summer
is now ending quickly,
maybe because of the rhythm
brought by the waterfalls.

I would not really know.

I sat down to contemplate
life's trajectory. And brought
my thoughts to where
the river meets the sea.

For all things die there.

End there all
that make all things bloom,
like water,
and love.
And life,
and other non-essential things.

So I decided to respond:

"This weekend, perhaps."

To Cinnamon, whenever this may reach you.

Roses no longer grow
on your skin so I borrowed
the scent of something made in France.

I am learned now, a little older.
My eyebrows no longer
sweat with innocence.

Silence replaced what used to be
long talks that spill into the inklings
of a brand new day. It seems

as well that I have forgotten
how it is to be sad and brooding
over some sad thoughts of yesterday.

I have lost count of the CDs I own
and all the music I loaned
or borrowed from you before.

Post-It Notes no longer
mysteriously appear on your
computer screen or refrigerator door.

I am no longer surprised
of the reason why you count
the waves that break into your shores.

After all we do not sing

"Windmills of your Mind"

together anymore.

A Moment Sunlight

Apologies my love, for the incessant rain
How I wish I can make a pact that it will not happen again.
Yesterday I went running to get away from it all.
But the music that my shoes made on the pavement would not let me go.

Apologies, kid, for the short stay
It was only yesterday that I saw you playing with the cubes.
And now I see the cubes unplayed and you in a box.

Sorry for the times I did not come to see you.
Now you have to leave and go

to a place where only round things exist.

Sense and Sensibility

I hear the falling leaves speak your name,
I hear them whisper softly in my ears
everywhere I go.

Like the last song one hears
before going to sleep,
it lasts until the next day.
It lasted until today in fact,
right now, it mingles with the sound
of my own breathing.

I smell your skin in the leaves
of the book I am reading,
I smell you too in the paper
where I scribbled the rudiments
of this pathetic poem.
It lasts and lingers, it blends
with the scent of the rain on my skin:
those droplets that touched me
on my way here.

I see your face in my coffee,
three-in-one or otherwise.
And your face stays in the cup
long after the coffee is gone.
I see you in the txt messages
I saved in my inbox.

And your memory shows up
like a screensaver
every minute of idle time.

Desiderata said that I must not
be cynical about love,
for amidst "all aridity and disenchantment
it is perennial as the grass."

I hear you.
I smell you.
I see you.

And therefore I conclude:

This must be just some inane phase I'm going through.

Techno-savvy

Alam mo,
pag ka-chat kita
nahihilo ako.

Kung ano-ano kasi
ang sinasabi mo.

a/s/l. brb. lol.

meron pa minsan parang TV.

Change channel.

Palit ng IMvironment,

Mga images: autumn leaves, falling hearts
at characters na nakakaasar.

Panay ang chat natin these days
dati lunch break lang.
Ngayon, pag di kita ka-chat
parang may kulang
ang mga kathain ko sa office ay nakalutang.
minsan nakakamiss
minsan naman 'kakainis.

Tila kasi niloloko mo lang ako.

Hello? r u there? bakit di ka sumasagot?

Do u hate me?

Shet! nag-hang.

[reboot]

A Brief Encounter (Somewhere in Europe)

Under the stare
of the palace guard
you held my hand.

You felt warm and yet
you trembled. I fumbled
for words, all lost,
like the leaves
of figs,
all gone.

Washed away by snow.

Two souls found still waters
in the strange company
of each other;
stumbled on snippets
of happiness in the Northern Way.

Amidst the dying chill
of the fading winter.
A case of serendipity,
could this be?

It seemed that we are both experts
in building landmarks
out of debris from disjointed cultures,

And so, built did we in two weeks
our own castle, gargoyles and all.

Until we realized:

we are not good at goodbyes.

In Transit (Schipol Airport)

Melting ice on the pavement
Reflected the silver moon.

Perhaps in the effort to return its grandeur.

The airport lights
greeted the squinting eyes
of the traveler in transit,
like everyone else

In this life,
clock faces reflecting
different hours,
time zones melting.

Like ice.

Supergirl.

She can sleep
and yet still move me.

One smile
and my defenses crumble.

One breath
and she makes me happy.

Her laughter sinks my Titanic.

Her small hands
protect me from harm.

She has the toes of Uma Thurman
And her glances can play music
for my worried soul.

When she wraps herself around me
I become complete,
and a little bit more.

She is the only woman
who caught A twenty minutes
connecting flight In Amsterdam.

And she did not even run.

Muse of Badminton

And when I heard your name
spoken, I already knew:
you came to steal my game.

All my quick smashes will be returned.

There is no forgiveness
in those eyes, as they followed
the falling flight, the dropping
trajectory of the feathered orb.

Those eyes reflect
no neon signs, only flame
and fire and flexed beauty,
framed by the lines
that the net provides
from the opposite side
of the Tareflex court.

The Duel

The burning heat of the silver sun,
diffused by the turning blades
of the exhaust fan,
slowly evolved in her eyes.
Sparkling beads
of sweat like gemstones,
they formed in soft trickles,
sweet projectiles
of salty droplets spin in wide circles
as she turned.
Titanium racket in hand,
air blade series, slightly used,
procured second-hand.
A slight twist in the grip,
leg muscles strained,
Yonex squeaking innocence,
eyebrows sweat malevolence
elbow pointed towards
the spinning fistful of feathers.
T’was a passing shot.
Backswing. Anticipating, disregarding
the frozen expectation of the anxious.
Back squarely to the net,
arm extended to the moon
as the racket gently kissed
the bird’s ruffled feathers,
and the clock struck twelve.
The cock shuttles crisply back,
in seemingly retrograde motion,
massaging the muffled emotion
of the animated crowd.
Barely clearing the white tape,
in a great cross-court netscape.
Gravity did the rest.
With winged anticipation,
and bravado made of raw hide,
I took the chance,
a cowboy dance:
two steps and a skip
I reached the net,
ready to return the favor,
with a tropical flavor
of a hairpin counter.
A little wrist motion,
and the carbon graphite weapon
did the rest.
The bird went up
like a cowboy’s accent,
and fell
like a cheating accountant.
A parabolic wonder.
But only right after losing
a lonesome fragment of plume.
I got you now.
I began to smile,
Moustache and lips
fully extending to the side,
breaking wide,
purporting to be decent
like a crescent
moon in a starless night,
accented only by
my squinting eyes.
Instantaneously I began to imagine,
the whistling wind
In the Grand Canyon;
the dusty streets
of an old mining town;
the smoking gun
of the Unforgiven,
spitting lead to end
a gunfighter’s life.
But I was startled just a second after
by the swiftness that the bird returned,
rushing blindly back in a blink,
like an ashen pheasant chased
by a ghost rider in the sky.
I saw nothing but the sun in her eyes,
and a flash of lightning.
All became quiet.
Not a sound was heard.
And the outcome of the duel
between the meanest gunslingers,
in gum-sole shoes.
Was the highlight of the evening news.