I guess

we are not destined to be together
in a well-lit room, full of ashes
and drowned by alcohol.

I guess we are not destined to be together
in the midnight sky
our stars belong to irreconcilable
constellations.

I guess we are better off
as dried leaves
drawn away by the twin falls.
But who knows, perhaps
those leaves will meet again
in the sewage of elusive
coincidence.

I wrote this for you

What was important for me was to see you.

And see you happy.

What was essential for me was to be with you.

And smell your existence.

What was ecstatic for me was to see you.

And hear your voice.

Your eyes magnetized my eyes.

Three seconds was like eternity.

I don't know what was on your mind.
You don't know how you invaded my mind.
I get so weak hearing you say my name.
And talking to me.

But that day was special for me.

It was my present to myself:

To see your masterpiece

and to replenish this empty heart

with your breathing, your voice.

It's when you're near I don't feel

a stranger in the night.

The Circus Is Cheaper When It Rains

I’ve taken the same ride too many times.

I could fall asleep in the loop.

I know the clowns wipe the fake, makeup smiles off their faces once the show is done.

I know the lions sleep in cages at night.

I know the tightrope walkers have blisters on their feet.

I know the ringmaster doesn’t believe in what he yells to the crowd anymore.

I know the strongman, isn’t as strong as he once was.

I know the candy floss has always been, just sugar and air.

You are the only reason I come back here every night.

 

* * *

 http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me/2010/07/circus-is-cheaper-when-it-rains.html

Our Hollows

I was in deep slumber when you were not around.

I was dreaming of your arrival at my drunken place.

I had a cone of ice cream that did not melt.

You had me at one tap at the back.

You had me believed that you were my savior.

You were a seed growing inside my body.

We have never really met at all.

We are worlds apart.

We have been looking at each other:

with the universe between us.

My Changing World

Over here, over there
changes are everywhere;
changes that have end,
the world that suffers the world today.

The rivers, lakes and seas,
became dirty and worst
please stop your negligence, now!
or else you will be sorry.

Our forests, mountains and
trees in the past,
were blooming and growing;
but today I am wondering,
why now all is gone.

Many people get sick,
because of over population;
the epidemic spreads fast,
and many people die.

Many factories are built
but they cause pollutions;
they dump their wastes
into the rivers,
and many livelihoods there die.

I don’t know what to do now,
because I don't know what my
future environment is,
I must conserve and protect it
in our changing world.

***

This is my first poem published in our elementary school paper. The start of my random, unnoticed writing career.

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. I don’t want so much misery. I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief. That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

–Pablo Neruda,

I "prosed" the poem.

I would just like to add this: When I walked around Vito Cruz, I saw amongst the garbage on the sidewalks used condoms. SO, one of the poem’s lines should read: "there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords, and condoms." I hated seeing them. Photographs are on my mind.