goodbye, cried the weed.
she paused, then silently cut the string 
that choked her tufted hair
and steadily chopped her into lengths 
that might fit the pot.
her bulbous head kept her red cheeks 
and what was left of her weight
on the base of cold metal
as she opened the faucet
and filled half the vessel.
the stove was now hot
her name was Gavat
and it was time to say
goodbye.

We talked for hours. She crossed her legs five times and three quarters, the last one she wasn’t sure she had to. Her pants were pressed neat, creases fading under new folds of a day’s milling about. Her shirt, a clean white, had two letters, R.S., sewn on its right sleeve, as if to remind her which side faces front because it had an oddly symmetrical collar. Her hand gestured for the bill and she was ready to leave. To go home where she clumsily strips down to her underpants as she lights a cigarette. She locks her room and starts writing on her computer. 

Are you there?

there was once a poem about a tree
but rhythm never captured the mystery

of a humble gourd they named sayote,
which strangles beams like an olden garrote

embracing the contours of a wire netting
only yielding at the sight of poles swinging

and then that playful banter
with the famed tree by Kilmer

is there really anything as lovely
as poetry made for the tree?

a fool may know the answer
while the poor man will have his supper

never have I had this.

this hunger for air,

as if it was the food drop

that never came-

refugees in line-

undefeated,

Only I.

my breathing deep,

grim in immensity

of all that is inside.

I fall on my knees,

palms towards me,

like a solemn raka’ah,

then I remember.

there is a buzz of revolution,
one that does not spill blood,
nor cause betrayal
... to the nation’s cry for freedom,
but a new kind-
a celebration of the day
when a marching band plays
a clutter of dogma and dissent,
boom, boom, and boom---
a little girl holds her skirt,
dances in circles,
adjoined little circles,
two at a time,
before jumping on
to leave a fantasy impression
of eternity on the ground.

everything is now familiar,

a fine line is drawn over an outline,

let’s see---

the quick brush now feels like

the touch of the passenger’s listlessness

as I hand over her change,

or that faded road sign-

it stands there

in the same indignation

as that of the lost man,

oh well, it is after all just a hint,

a modest clue. a needless caveat,

of things lesser than that which

when given the chance to clear up,

everything comes back to a blur.

the shortest moment --

out of which I learned

a great lesson of truth

about living intensely,

insanely,

sometimes disgracefully,

and of which I shall forever try

to forget how to look beyond

harrowing eyes

and into the soul

of a person who may have endured

the same battles,

the same triumphs and losses,

the parody of one’s childish ambitions,

but may not be as miserable

as the one I see

whenever I lift the curtains up

before the sun is fully visible,

the other side of the glass window

still a looming dark --

outlives its vessel.

Time does get you on the run.

Soon as I hit the mark,

I feel my body screaming.

Particles that poison

the walls of my air pipe

have now been the new masters

of what is to be the day's ruling.

So I put on my shoes,

start running, even skipping

two steps of the stairs

down the metro station

to chase the scent of Manila Bay,

against the traffic of Kalaw.

and a national hero stares

at the glowing rear of my sneakers

and at a nearby hand grabbing 

the rear end of an underaged woman.

Rizal has frightened eyes of stone,

filling out the hollow sockets

where jacketed bullets had once passed.

Oh Luneta, how deviant you have become!

I must run- run down the stretch

of the famed Boulevard

that hosts multicoloured lamp posts.

Short of intended functionality,

they serve as a statement

of how a few have confused history-

writing a textbook and splotching its pages

with green ink, yellow and pink,

and don't forget blue.

-the talented hands of dyslexia

and the always amazing adhd.

 Well just look at that dog,

marking the base of one post,

reclaiming his territory which I will avoid,

sprinting now.

A kid on a skateboard,

a couple in sauna suits,

and a family scrounging for food.

An old man and his fishing rod,

a writer and his monument,

a police officer and his piss against a wall.

How fun life is as I run by it.

Then I always stop to catch my breath

and a cab to take me home.