Sunday, August 30, 2009

Cowardice from the '70s

My love, do you remember
the love of September 11, 1972?
I was with you, elementary
as rudimentary sex on a sallow,
sifting chemical boost.

My love, it wasn't raining.
And the neighbor's new b&w
TV declaring insidiousness,
furious decisiveness, less
derision than infusions.

My love, I was a child.
And now, old as auld lang signs
and symbols replete in lectures
and conspiracy theories, I too
give you my blasphemies---

but free now of the danger, or
the necessary boldness, or
bombasts and socialistic
baldness. I am, thank you,
a silt with semiconductor blues.

'Tis not to say the times
are way, way better. Indeed
I can testify to a dry spell,
a swell in inanities, flash
corporate bows & violences.

In fact, to say: things haven't
changed that much, and
historicity is not, that
cities are nuts, provinces
belting towards rot, impatiences.

'Tis not to say too I've learned.
On the Net I witness sallow,
sifting distillery boosts on
rainy days, when derisions
declare not, disclaim well.


May 16, 2007 - August 30, 2009

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Alternative Prosaicness for Jennifer/Stephanie, Pickpocket Prostitute Hit By a Car/Bus

This poem I write for the termite's window, the diesel sun,
the g.i. roofs, this poem I write for you, Stephanie.
This poem I write not for the light in the living room,
the terrace, the car, this poem I write for you.
Those poems I write for the coffeeshops,

those poems I write not for you, Stephanie.
Those poems may someday be out on sale, yes,
but this'll always be
for you.
Those poems may someday burn with the Sun,
this will always call cold for you---

from a living room desk to a black hole mess
this will always seek you, make you its guest,
and so I'll write this one, two, even three,
jot these down in a lavatory.
And I'm hoping you'd read them, it's very necessary.

On a train, in a lobby, in a wedding reception,
these poems are meant for your protection.
Bullets can't kill them, Jennifer.
Black holes can't blacken them, they'll
always be here, lip the lipstick on your beer.

These poems aren't meant to go with my sofa, never!
So sit back and relax, and may this last forever.
Am I being a sellout, a traitor to my art, Steph,
opting to write now for the common crowd?
But I often "converse in the nest of tailors"

while the bourgeois part of me's with the interior decorator.
Today, out with the astronomers, astronauts, theorists,
and all those who call themselves political nihilists.
Consume my poem, sing my poem, go 'head, curse my poem,
'til your cellphone alarm tells a harmful omen, Steph.

I'm outside or inside a house or a building or transport now,
my poem will be there to decorate your brow.
I don't believe a poem's higher than bric-a-bracs.
It's a snapshot that may turn away, a voice that may crack.
It's a snapshot that may turn away, a voice that may crack.


May 16, 2007 - August 29, 2009

Friday, August 28, 2009

Ghost of Venus

Vaguely faced like a vandal at large,
Her ghost remembers now lovelinesses.

Variously crazed as though in a festival,
Her host reconnoiters lonelinesses.

But she faces me unabashedly,
Naked to her bonelessness,

And I accept her unashamedly,
Naked in a shower carelessness.

"D'you remember the days when you'd undress me?"
"I remember now, but those were nights."

"Do you miss me at all, do you miss me?"
"I remember always, you and our fights."

"When will I see you again in the flesh?"
"Perhaps when I die. Don't expect a blush."

"Goodbye now, my love, see you later."
"Perhaps today, in a wrecked elevator."

Then, she leaves me. Unashamedly boneless.
I can accept that now, that unabashed carelessness.

Now, vaguely unfazed as a vandal at large
I remember her ghost, miss its loneliness.

Vainly dazed, as though in a funeral,
I fumble her locket, cry on a comeliness.


May 16, 2007 - August 28, 2009

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Locus Standi (or, The Battle for Good News)

The right to be heard, like the nerd
prejudged on campus by athleticisms
and catechisms, is like a snuffed-out
candle in a sound-proof locker room
where the rape of cheerleaders moan,
as if lab silences aren't violent enough
in praising that sexiness, that boiling
malevolence towards science-haters:
football players, the Christian youth,
the prevarications of a sordid truth.

A beaker and tube mix a phantasm,
though nobody'd believe in molecular
chasms that churn out rapeseed oil,
new churchbeams or bayonets or . . .

genetically-modified high-protein
mung beans. And news, good news.


May 17, 2007 - August 27, 2009

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Leaving Land and Water

You're gonna love me when I'm gone,
So says the Bible of my man.

You're gonna drink up, I'm gonna drop
To a germicidal sea, so I'll saddle up!

Have you seen me this happy,
Have you ever listened

to my singing on Mondays 'neath a fire of showers?
Helluva palaver that Sunday and night---

Goodbye, salamanders, I'll be all right!

Imagining Quick Boaz Hating All Things Foreign

You're right all of the time and I'm wrong every minute,
that's what I get for being such an ass.
You're fine and you're wine and I'm great at anger only,
savor the philosophies of Andromeda!

I've known you for a fact only and I've known you to be truth.
What are you doing with my shoe, huh, Ruth?
Israel, Levirate, the pedantic tome,
sanctuary only to my periglottis.

And she swung to the buggery, sucked vines to the teeth!
Nothing is sacred, I say, nothing is sweet.
And fire away, Ezra, sing to my blood!
My knife on pure chicks I'll fix to be glad!

Carapato, Tarapoto, bitch of a father!
Give me a pot, throw it 'round, holler!
I'll fuck your walls, o Elimelech!
Did you fuck Orpah too at the back of her neck?

I say purity, sanctity, nationalism!
Fire all these infidels, hail Deutoronomism!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The Military Appeals for Calm On Evita's Candidacy

And so it's true---unbetrothed to the wiles,
the simplicity, that incondite monstrosity
of her sermon first unheard, still unplowed,
the communities are continually at odds now

over the virtue of her existence. And so he
who was without sin cast out to sea to seek
solemnity, severity, at this news of her new
security/corruptibility. Let me stand here

and testify to beauty. To new grandiosities
of grandiloquent eloquence. To impassioned
militarist impotence, the religious' hatred,
a prejudice parried off as the potent patty

for the sham burgerology of our Daily Bread.
To hunger, and lust, behind a wailing creed.
Boredom. Snobbish kingdoms. Lost republics!
But the highest sin---the opinion of publics?

He devoid of evil, cast now the devil out of
the charities, please, the hotels, the civil
servants' hells. The decade of our capacity to
know has come, thanks to you, and you, or

you, so now go! In peace. For while standing
pleas for calm are in order, peoples' judges
now richly sit over porridge and peas, poets
broadcast on networks of guilt towards these:

images that provoke masturbatory mentalities;
braggarts' mirages invoking freedom from all
iniquities, royalties, reports out of wedlock;
tomatoes in Switzerland; that pain in the womb.


May 16, 2007 - August 25, 2009

Monday, August 24, 2009

The Loveless Wealthy Child's Absentee Father

God's only human, so:
To gargle prevarications for paeans
Is neither symmetry of gargantuan assumptions
Nor follicular formula for success on Earth.

I was aiming for jocularity
When I heard the churchbells, but
Was advised promptly by my nursemaid to hush
Down for humanoid focus, parricide in mind.

And gratitude for soup kitchen greige!
Ingratitude, you say, and I say blah
Blah blah you're super-unsatisfactory
In love or by seminary rules.

In the end, there's the shoutouts
At the cyber-park we seldom visit but must
Get to now in a huff. What hosiery
Are you wearing just now, huh,

Mademoiselles d'Avignon?
God's only human, I keep saying,
He wouldn't care if I cry a bucket,
Lockets in my jacket, he wouldn't know,

Even, what I'm all about, all around me
Stairs and heaven concepts and hell's
Angels in bikes and skateboards, parents
Abroad, and neither would he believe

I much need his help, believing as
Is his wont, I'm doin' okay in my bed, but
How could I be when he's always playing dead?

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Amarakosha Entry On An Exit

---a guffaw piece for Pablo Biglang-awa, who tells stories about the assholes of the world from behind the camera, who prompted me to an old thesaurus form from the 5th century

His butt skin stripped and laid on the table
Like wrapping for bologna, the autopsy experts
Were at the base extremities of their patience,
Still could not reach the tail end of a puzzle
Or the end of the tunnel, see the bottom of it---
Everyone too worn out, dedications to the hilt
To see the gaping hole, colon to the semicolon,

But punctuating their devils' tails and banging
Logbooks on table tips, resignation's fundament,
While that stump of an ass wallowed in the tub---
Soaked in chemicals yet, not drunk enough from
A night of accidents, hemorrhoidal bottoms-ups
Where his gun slit his jeans' backpocket flaps:
Wringing seat, posterior dispersed interiorly.

As yet to be proven, one theoretical conflict.
What's at the bottom? An asshole's automatic.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

The Elite's Religious Art and the Lowly Sprites

When the crucifix begot a rock song ballyhooed
by infidelities, I submitted an essay to the Pope.
The bishops said I was being pedantic, romantic,
silly and hoarse, could I be quiet for Rome,
be a tad high for the cloistered crud of Zion?

When the civilized baptized Noah and classified
mystics into factional disputes, I vowed not
to avow any pediatric case in messianic rivers,
promised to promote a perceived heresy in whores
blasphemed at the creek of highways and byways.

When the hologram of Goliath jazzed up a raucous
crowd biased against dwarves & ophthalmologically-
challenged wooden slipper-clod giants, I sensed
defamation by a nation of faults, galets, molten
lava'd white hearts melting at self-preservation

and pride, wilting for self-promotion, gliding
willy-nilly into power, thus to be declared new
towering kings of an old Babylon with curmudgeons
for pink infants, lions for gendarmes, hooligans,
braggarts, and card-lovers perfumed to the teeth.

When the hour begot a son and declared himself
liberator of a mob of sophisticates on Sundays,
I vowed to not allow crows into my cocoa-laden
house, promised my children the heathen will not
pay up, sour up their soup, melt trumpets for
goblets, raise ramparts for cross & crissa crooks.

Friday, August 21, 2009

When Sarcasm Agreed To Be The Empire's Cook

Grace, and traces of follow-throughs
was never allowed to take the lead
apart from accuse throat gargles
as mere skills, stop there, and face
the forum armed with intolerances
and camaraderie. Somewhere along
the way, a van dropped incongruous,
astutely sublime but insidious, happy,
au courant, alive, and superfluous.

Somewhere along the stray bullet's trip
I heard candlesticks mourn the day
with symbolic jouissance, said hey hey
my my, rock and roll would never lie
to the effervescent and trepidant:
august therapeutic that you were
to my icy bed, I still couldn't perceive
the crux of your argument, this luxury
of fame demanded by charity cases.

Be that as if June, but you're not
ready to bloom, can't be that, cannot
be but fat for Rome's catacomb rose
whose name is a crevasse of brevity.
I was lucky to be alive, of course,
crazy for death, but here I am,
fluid as a lamb casserole, forgiving
metal pots around me, a division
of labor, my flavor of sour cream
comforted by roasted coffee candy.

Centaurs of the myth, appall me now.
Assurances someday you'll show me how.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Artists' Cafe

Let us unite, o friends, but first allow me freedom
to interrogate myself, subjugate myself to queries
on mastery, integrity, suavity, and erudition, if
I should be worthy of emulation or a guffaw at
the pedestal. Most of all, my virtue unremitting,
my seances w/ history non-faltering, my recompense
of firmness and gladness and open arms. If I pass,
then be gone, all regrets, come forth o guests
and let us---unite, for similarities, argue, for
incredulities, but always, always, erring w/ grace.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Mussolini's Hiss

So serious, my ass, and stage-struck.
What a Zen conundrum to neuroscience.
Whatever pisses off the bigot is given,
if we are to agree bigotry is bigamy
of wanting all's audience to be his.

So curious have I become of his muck,
its mockery of itself as knowledges
personified, only to be nullified as
the piggery smell of pork's hubris---
I give him my audience to be all his.

He accepts, I walk to the bus stop,
he to the spotlight-struck stage of
applause and ... I'm so bad, it is
not that sad, he only wants to puree
our passions, that work ethos of his.

Political Art and Spies

What now, what now, dull am I in highbrow articulation.
Come now, come now, defend the salacious w/ inebriation.
I'm getting tired of all this rhyming, can we detour to

a broader picture, a camera on the kidnapping, notebooks
on the noggin? I was with reporters the other night and,
guess what, the rhyme did fall on a lime juice & gin hold

care of a flow that intended no friggin' show in the brackish
afterhours. But I sensed subliminal subsumption, and so
proposed a creaturely cheer on an asshole's hobnobbing

with art's eyes sideglancing towards a pretty execution.
Until I, bellicose and ephemeral, ranted pedantically,
argued with the stanzas till my poetry clapped dying.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Imagine Van Gogh As A Student Chef And Me As His Godly Cooking Teacher

"I’m on a roll & won’t stop, won’t patrol disgrace.
I’m on a streak, one whole week, but creaturely
I shiver, putatively snorkeling in the coral reef
Of my hallucinatory demise. I’ve got bread roll
In my knapsack, a tubercular wreck in a tin can,
Simmering scent, I’ve blogged wet painted kisses
On the pavement of your carrying a cross to that
Sugarland. My baker, my shake-maker, won’t ya
Carry me now egregious to a marginal funeral?"
Hahahahahahah, I’m not going to spoil the fun.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Imported Manly Ceremonies Before a Friend’s Crucifixion

The samovar’s fabulousness has come to town.
Similarly, sweetness. And religion. And hypocrisy.
But I offer no complaints, merely stashing deviations
On everyone’s take on the unpopular—I take pleasure
In defending the not-so-obvious, the murdering antlers
Of my dear grandmother’s passion for intelligent gossip,
Its metal tarnished through the weeks. I am, married and
Consequently funny, lugubriously nonchalant in tasting
The fruits of chemistry on TV. Care for wine with your
Woman? Care for sun, or matutinal moondrops on the
Beaches of WWII? Hell, yeah. Hell, yeah. You are so
Right, I am just carousing. But isn’t that better than
Just boasting or nursing a cantankerous glee on the
Night of our departure, our nature being to cry?

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Perennial Measure 2

A perennial incredulity, really a vow, to oneself, to a god,
But really more out of habit, expecting none to love all this
Fast, lasting, and fasting fracas of vowels and non sequiturs.

This is the cramming justification I offer all my ghost-fans:
Devour nothing from nothing. I exist not, relentless though
I am in this surveying the land with the rebellious sextants;

Listen not, for you are not here, read not, I’ll see you there---
I write for the luxury of having done my non-responsibility,
Earning for myself tickets to go home, having saved private

Whining, dining alone, blogging along like a fool, like a tool
Of a lost absentee Muse from a fantasy, keyboard-stomping
Like one possessed by the devils of a sea devoid of fishes,

Solely enjoying the doldrums, a man in bikini, sharks’ envy
Whose hungers lurk around in the deepest sound of hollows.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Somebody Else’s Day Job

Just something short, for the hell of posting something,
I have unfinished business, something pot-roasting.

No, no, of course I’m lying, though it’s true I have
Some dues, heard today’s crime syndicate-murder news?

Friday, August 14, 2009

Mona Lisa’s Smile On a Plate From An Afternoon Garage Sale

Cerebral, a radical conundrum with the flair of a behemoth,
Is an adjective, not the name of a rooster or a tower in progress.

Yet that is just what I’m calling my dinner. Penumbral is false,
Encumbrance is nasty, libidinous obvious and solicitous corny.

Cerebral, my hair in pasta sauce with the dark grass of a cenacle.
Cerebrum, an herb, suffuses the evening or flowery afternoon.

And since twilights demand reading and laziness and sex,
I masturbate my pen and spoon at the sight of your doom.

A Bohemian Author Contemplates His Fame and Fan-Base, Decides to Confess Poverty and a New Haste


Indeterminate was it for ten long years,
Severance pay was it to my famous ears.

Did France declare Bastille a cenacle?
Did fruit the tree of the cynical? Did?

Who among you cannot disperse must
Interrogate yourselves for promiscuity:

This is not to insinuate blasé ennui, just
Fecund caresses for the women of a city,

Uhm, did you tell them already? Ready?
Let’s go! The boats are sunk, all reddish,

Oh out with the porridge, am famished.
After this I’m writing again. Yes, again.

--2009

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Corrupt Take Communion Every Sunday

I watch as a watchman would watch his tower,
Asleep in the doldrums, astounded by comforts,

Sardines on his plate slated with celery, his
Conscience suspended among the laundry

Waiting for a Sunday, wilting for caress,
Some buttress to the criminal duress.

Who wants rhyme, why hunger for justice
When justices only hunger for lust? And just

As I was about to tell you---the mange disappears,
Cellophane morass tires of beer molasses,

And we are well-augured by witnesses to the shit,
See the blithe brothers, “forever and ever, all men

Created equal, today and whenever,
When the train leaves at the time of arrival.”

But this cannot wait, I have to protest the crassness.
I cannot be late, I need documenting cameras.

A So-So . . .

To, with serendipitous glee,
And fro, with equanimity,

The godheads of the universes allow me
Carefree sanctity in this travel.

Who shot the cameraman,
Who made the music?

No one could fathom the illness in the time
Of my sashaying amid the walls---

Superbly satisfied with my salary,
The rhyme no one cares to touch,
The rain no one comes to watch.

But, cynically, I burn with the
Bloggers . . . latching on to
A so-so insouciance.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Perennial Measure



cover photo and design by Marcel Antonio


--after Eugenio Montale's Cuttlefish Bones


This is it, an irresistible purge pure as the putrid
smell of parmigiano-reggiano I just have to tell
you about, otherwise I'd go crazy with laziness,
I won't know what to do aside from job-wait

in the land of peer-hate and crimes' journalese.
This is that, a party or poesy joyous with blase
blogging flagged at every measure but constant,
blatantly musical, trumpeting uncontrolled ease

in the city of grey concrete littered with plastic
insensitivities and manic individualism. I hurl
my silent keyboard with impunity, irresistible
purge this is, hungry as yesterday's hellish pizza

though nostalgia won't do us any good, it's time
to be looking forward, put up a new standard
in service of the old, for the same ideals burn
in me as the Fascist desire---power/harmony,

preferably pursued in greater graceful fashion,
sort of like Milan on a cafe afternoon, posing
as a dandy, but only with words, only with sly
inconsolable asymmetry by my flagging poetry.



---Milan, er, Manila, August 2009