Anthology

today you’ll fly across the sky
with snow and tears falling on your shoulders
may good fortune meet you where you go
for the moment, let me say, “zai jian.”

i hope one day that you’ll swing by
and our arms will be ’round your shoulders
to hear your tale, to ask you: please don’t go
and the many ways we say, “zai jian.”

the time has come to say goodbye
the weight of your soul on your shoulders
if not places, then off to those dreams you shall go
until we meet again; but for now, “zai jian.”

i was always at arm’s length away from my father.

his arm was on my shoulders.
once, inside the taxi with the smell of gin in his breath.

his hardened hands, often met my mouth
or the backs of my hands.

his calloused hands, crashing on my rear end
or the back of my neck.

at arm’s length
when he shakes my smooth hand,
asking me how i have been, how far i have gone
at arm’s length away from his cough
or the smell of menthol painkillers
and the gilded calling card he puts in my hand.

the same arms that toil in the gardens, that clean the house
the arms, the hands that go through endless work days
to feed me, to clothe me.
the same arms that once held my head high after a fight
the arms that forced me to bow and bend low when i was wrong.

and at arm’s length from the boy
he raised to be a man.

my father’s arms cradled me once
that in time, when i’m at arms length away from him
i’ll hold his hands in mine
and wait for him to let go.

que venga el rey y su corona
ser el amo de los mares y la tierra.
Soy paciente, esperando a que mi recompensa:
cuando beso a mi novia,
como el tiempo va pasando, una siesta,
la muerte de los reyes, nos traen alegria.

* – halting, inaccurate spanish.

El aullido vientos
mientras la tormenta se acerca.

Como hacen los perros
cuando el temblor de tierra.

let this be death.

you and me, our necks wrapped in nooses made from the same rope
our bodies swinging and hanging by the same gallows.
as your weight bears down to break your body and breath
i ascend, dying at every inch of the way, till my blind eyes meet the sun.

let me be beside you, or behind you, as you point that gun to yourself.
let me hold it steady, both our fingers on the trigger
and let me catch the bullet that takes your last breath.
as we fall in embrace, my dying body keeps your cold, frozen corpse warm.

if i can’t stop you from dying
let me be the one to take the pen out of your hand
and give you a reason for every breath
before you write your name for the last time.

let this be life.

for something made in nature’s way:
every drop of you tears me apart.

you fuel my spirit and burn my soul
the invisible flame escapes my breath
and engulfs me in a smell i can’t stand.

you open my eyes to a dizzy world.
you hurt me, and yet i take you in.

pain is like glass of gin:
cold and bitter.  i should force myself
to take you out, but i drink more of you
and chase you, go after every drop in the glass
in my hand.

a hand that could have been attached
to a worthier arm, controlled
by a worthier mind, to make
a worthier poem.

and yet, to the last drop i take you in
a glass of gin
that every night’s cycle will begin
to replace the pain deep within
with something alcoholic.

something to cover up the pain
deep inside my heart.  the kind not experienced now.
instead, anticipated.  to feel it in time, when i can stand it.

where the two lie
are fields of green
where the butterflies roam
among the flowers and the bushes.
the ponds that shimmer with the light of the moon
and the morning glows with life.

where the two lie
are tall skyscrapers
where the busiest of people walk
among the sidewalks, shuffling by buildings
the glass walled windows glimmer with the sun
and the evenings glow with car headlamps.

where the two lie
are low, gray boxes
where the crows fly about
among crucifixes and cypress trees
the candle-flames whimper with the weight of the wind
and the dusk glows with fireflies.

where the two lie, they lay forever.

throw
me
out to a sea, where my gasps are drowned by the sound of waves.

throw
me
out to the gully, where the rush of blood to my head kills me first before i hit the ground.

throw
me
out to the roadside, where the rush-hour leaves tracks on my blood as i rush to the other side.

throw
me
out to the fires of hell, where every bone of me is immolated along with sin and good i have ever done.

throw
me
in the hardest way possible, just to make sure it hurts.

I think that I shall never witness,
a poem as lovely as that chenes.

A chenes whose hungry mouth is prest,
at dahil doon merong nag-text.

A chenes that makes-okray all day,
and lifts its arms there or ditey.

A chenes that may in Summer wear,
kung anuman nandyan siya ay kever.

Upon whose chestness snow has lain,
but haggardo versoza ang drama again.

Poems are made by a FAMAS Best Actress,
but kinareer ko na ang poem about chenes.

* – from Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees”

look how you build the walls
that i cannot climb or scale
entombing us in rocky halls
where an echo meets a wail
leaving us with our own cabals
now slaves: to whip and flail.

if you so choose to leave the flag
must you disavow your race;
in distant shores if you must brag
should your heritage be erased;
if scarves and suits replace your rag
and make aryan your brown face:

to your past, if you choose to be blind
you see but shadows that lurk within.
if you choose to leave all you are behind
you can’t part with the color of your skin.
in that ghetto you build in your mind
in your hands, the cuffs that drag you in.