Thursday, September 24, 2009

Simple Life Sans Marx

All right, so the vocabulary may be simple,
I'll whistle only to a bus' sighs, permit my
daughter's flying kite to get near my 15th
floor terrace, Beatles singing Michelle, the
French stanza, and have yet to ask aunties
when they're coming back home, an island
to reclaim their souls here on a tiled floor
with the occasional birds' braving cereals.

Okay. And my dictionary by the rails could
kill a baby passing on this windy morning,
with cable TV blaring its own vocabulary
and very, very articulate criticism of art.

Have I forgotten the hours? I smile & fart.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

An Amputee Tries Hard to Convince A Private Not To Go

Scintillating, not. Daunting, yea, but. But:
would you even worry so horridly, bolting
so, almost frolicsome to the hilt? Would ya?
Of course I'm being condescendingly cocky,
creaturely cute, or curvaceous in my logic,
but that is all because I'm tragic. Okay?

Let's focus on the lyric attitude, one arm;
now, turn; churn out some vapor, burn one
vesper candle to the mandible. Hello? Know,
though: true you are respected, neglected
perhaps, but really, have you seen lately
how this white lady tramples on corpses?

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

By An Early Eight O'Clock Weekend Breakfast While My Pooped Out Wife Sleeps, Disturbed Only By An 8-Year-Old Daughter's Frenzied Waking Scream

Scintillating consonance is here for you, my love.
As are butter on toast, pink pomelo juice, coffee trio.
I have not bathed yet in the amber of your chamber, love.
Nor have I yet found you. Nor the dryers. Nor the zoo.

Have you heard her enter the door, the floor creaking?
You will smell no semen, won't be sore or cry for heaven.
Scintillating assonance, my love, is there for thee.
And me, certainly excluding me in the picture. Allure

was the name of the game that I played onwards, not
a lame dissonant perturbance encumbered by crustaceans.
I have not bathed yet for the danger of your daughter, love,
I'll only be looking for you. Not the dryers. But the zoo.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Glad Attitude

You fail to see that all art is vain, and the artisan vainest of all,
unless he stays anonymous or hides by a plumed name, then vanes
can't see the rain inside, there is only the glide of fortitude hiding,
a phoenix's swoon to vague borrowing, sorrowing, careening to ohs.

Yet you fail to see that all art is ownerless, and the artisan a slave,
even as he stays eponymous or arrives on a Moses cane, waning
soon to be not the bane inside him, but the boon to glad attitudes
in helixes crooning to big arrowings, narrowing, caroming off arghs.

Competition Canceling Each Other Out

This is me, irritable jester in this time of cholera.
The suffering demands a plastic confidence, right in front
of the fear, nursing the containment of hate. Containers
leak a color there, a letter here, whenever pride fails.
I will have betrayed a streetsmart past, last indian,
snake from the grass out in a defensive gesture, head
up, a cup of venom boiling from the glands, ready now
for the next steady rampage of fellow snakes, fellow
proud jesters in the time of dengue rains, AIDS lanes,
A(H1N1) banes, cancer industry boons. I am, loony crooner,
singing here of my moody anger eager for forgetfulness,
longing for peace in the time of choleric pantings
and insane greed, wishing for an encyclopedic lung,
log of creeds to never ever hear your sighs again.

But, by a credence, there drops from the sky an image.
Hitler with a spoon, from over the moon, daughtered Picasso
with another woman, Dali with daggers, Liszt with a theme
jumping from mood to mood in a linear phase, irking Foucault
and a Buddhist Marxism. I was a cross jester in the daytime,
by nighttime a sufferer of your jeers and judgments, you
who have suffered enough humiliation in the green greed
of the times of choleric jealousies, art politics. Never
will I see you again, not again, Houdini of your magic.

Multi-Colored Confusion In A Reluctant Communist Double Agent

Soapdish, soap sud on my brainless idol,
though true I may be I maybe syncopated.
Famously I glide along like an old song
familiar to Sinatra fans but crucified,
mollified, beatified you. Had to be you.

Santa and saturnine, red-cloaked verily
like a F├╝hrer, I poke my tribe's chief
as though it was morning. Had to be me.
Had to be free, have to be, see, wily
like some parrot on a cardinal's welter.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Queen Elizabeth Pale, Unburnt

O England, o fiery monsignors, muse---

she was a pet, yet-to-be, postdated,
your guest, delirium, company color.
Really not the bird you were calling
a cardinal, only that it had the hue
of a bishop's blood on Easter Sunday.

She must forget the prank, posthumous
now it was, askew & an arbitrariness
asundered. Critically liable, violins
cranked up a future Voltaire from the
doctrine, fired no heaven w/ a Queen.

A Sergeant's Wife's Head On My Shoulder By The Beach

Drowsy though non-alcoholic, I've bestowed fervor
On the surreptitious, and so welcome home to love.

Sumptuously latent, incredulously laughable/soft,
With the army now, the marinated fury, fomenting

Fearlessness, no noisy barometer measuring people.
Trepidation on humanity, celebrate forgery awhile

And crank up sonatas and pirouettes and painterly
Lines on historical data, united though defeated,

Not a brigadiers' bandolier brandished. What the?
Came a comandeered frown. Bolt the drowsy free!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

A National Artist Award Nominee Secretly To The Award Winner

I am, like you, awash in recurrent pride and insecurities,
like you, coopted by industries to present his tawdry resume
and account executive appeal, like you, an enigma and shit
upon this earth that only wants to pretend life's so pretty.
I am, like you, a corruptible artisan, willing to ass-bend
for one's fingering of my soul with the books' aesthetics,
patrons that we are to our taste that we dream like brooks.

Upon this Martian caliber of mine, I shoot a mirror's smile
with alacrity, uniform praise being your ideal of a proper
friendship, lordship that you are, avatar to your ego's soul,
filigreed film of a flatulent fornicator of fiefdoms, Kantian
diminuendo criticality, my astuteness asunder, leavened
bread to your fame. Hunger, the plumbing for restless arts,
carves out sibilance of acquaintances, rascals and pederasts,
lifelines in aristocrats, and I sense abominable courtesies.
I am, like you, awash in recurrent pride and insecurities.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

The Myth of Religious Tolerance

Penumbral anarchism. Seven laws of Noah. Interlucate
Calls from intermediaries. Funerary. Infirm catechism.

You loathe the candidate that sews ties with condoms
and lies, surely there are other minds. I broach themes
and antonyms and homonyms, that I may stay awake.

Southern lights, o Southern lights, make peace please
with the Christian hegemony. O Northern wind, o silly
windchimes, ring me a bell for fecund ceremony only.

Fight! Until the day I die, we'll be sibilant and flatulent
both at the same time at the hours of our lives, amour.
Amour, yes, amour I said as though we were French,

the long breads we carried from camp to camp, silliest
as silly could go, but no---we knew better & southerly
we went, away from our druthers, me, you & my Pop

forever and ever; Amir, Amir, where's Amir? Christian
crusaders were fencing with Moorish marauders (sic),
all fabulous, caricaturesque beauty. What campy ones.

I loathe candidates, ties with corporations, & lookism.
And lies. Surely those other minds, debating, will die?

Monday, September 14, 2009

When I Say I'm But a Poor Servant on Holiday at the Hacienda's Backyard Shack, You Say B.S.

"Coffee and dominatrix toffee, quick!" To bully . . .
or not to be, bully that they are, is the answer by
itself, by cycles that glide downhill beyond
burros from Chile (not here), behind bisons
from America (are past and not welcome, 'bye).
Believe me when I tell you. Burritos is bad
only when you're full, is fine when the banduria
begins hungry trills, a ballad my abused maid sings
in Bisaya, sounding something bee-like, business
in theatrical gaps, screaming, yaya!---broad
breath in the orgasmic moment, bouillabaisse
for my tendrils, diaphanous to my creaturely bent
that matters most when our masters do not bell
a ring-like tone to deafened ears: wham, bang, your bed
is red. And they're blue with envy, wallowing in their bullshit.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Art Of Dancing Is A Form of Spitting

Artisanship's an expression, like mindless slang or the bitchy
platitude. A vociferous assumption, a tic like masturbation.
A few artisans have eyes fully aware of the politics around
their macaroons of artisanship, some simply don't care about
the baker, churning out recipes to make the baker sweat, wake
the eater's sweet palate, make him eat, make her eat, his cake!

But I am a critic, with another set of tics. The politics around
the picket, the racket, the rockets of artistic dancing/sulking
is my job, my eyes' slippery cookie. Who am I talking to? Good
question. For others may see my essays' Expression. Artisan will
merely shrug on his rug, carry on with masturbatory vomit, fart,
so I say: I do not expect artisans to have minds nor have hearts.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Lonely Sperm Cell To A Desolate Egg

What else can I write about if I can't fornicate under consent of the
        king? How else
can I adjudicate alliances if I am to play this gentlemen only ladies
        forbidden game?
How maledictive, fictive, and irreparably parabolic, kryptonite to my
        superflights.

What else can I sing of if not penance of a swing swinging with
        absent swingers?
Soft as a rosebud, a thorn will overdose, but am I truly to find you
        there? Haa-choo!
Is it you? Careful of the draft, my lady, it's only Saturday, it's not
        okay to die acutely

of sex on a holiday. Who will pay their respects, irrespective of
        salaries? Who will cry
or light a cigarette, or sigh, or fight for Queen Margaret, or furious,
        be daring? Fye.
Me? You ask me? I have not even thought of beginning. I have not
        even been living.

Snow White's Not Preaching Purity Today

"Seven nights and seven minds played around my televangelism
informing dormancies and normalcies beyond the divine, & freely,
the malinformed courted my find---what is this, my prince asked.
Why not?---I replied. And all because I was so sacrosanct, but

"begrudging of favors to the dark and arts that suck. Aw shucks
man, I wasn't supposed to listen to all this light fiddling but . . .
fiddled on I did and did fall at the right moment, swapping all
fortitude for magnanimity. And I'm not now famous for nothing:

"am for him & am not sleeping again till white learns modesty."

Friday, September 11, 2009

Computer Widow Cooking For A Famed Busy Living Editor On Vacation

Computer widow cooking for a famed busy living editor on vacation.
Bagging a notebook at a Baguio home, I'd be watching your profile

than alone, and like a friend, it is, in a box with my name, logs and
more aflame, in the outburst of URLs and dotcom yahoos. I, cooing

a trill as a feathered fame, vexed by my Wikipedia entry, a game,
certainly see the social isms that measure the blogs as absolutely

Philippine terrain, no charity by heaven, sweepstakes to my nape,
now to the office website I go before submission. Other bookmarks,

other downloads emailed like mental caresses. Other pages' starts,
others' untitled art, all become part and parcel of these notations---

rotations on the desktop of my grandmother's antique sewing shop.
It's 11:26 ante meridiem. Time to check out lottery winning nos.,

get some lunch beyond stale burgers with your omelet, marmalade,
but first, to a website for my submission. And then a kiss on a nape.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Battle That Killed My Son

A semblance of jurisprudent influx
informed the caricatures, carried on
a lamentable carnivore in us all.
The first time death arrived on our shore
care of the marinated camouflage,
I was not here. Not there either but

always unbattered, uncoaxed,
disenfranchised by severities
and---often---carousing alone, bodily bare.
Not that I declared myself saintly,
am not sacrosanctly benign in my palate,
no! But I was far an adjunct to you,

far adroit in fearsome flattery
and, often, a joy to the mere super-sundry.
Whereas the journalists are arguably true
within bounds and rounds of beer,
I'd be watching TV only, absent
with absinthe, abetting my crankiness

on the devil who inhabited my blue sea.
Seven days a week I've watched you
and taunted you and fainted with you 'til
the daylights conquered my insanity.
Then, lo and behold!---the draft cool,
my craftiness no arbiter to my drool,

I'm now here! Am mumbling! And screaming!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Priest with Lung Cancer

Indefinite, he said. I would certainly not be pressured, no,
no, not be pressured; censured, ventured on, no; oh yes, I can;
oh no, you don't; do you take me for a fool like a stool on

the rug? Baby me any day but not this minute, not with this
thing hanging on my shoulder and the doctor saying he wonders
whether I'm gonna live another week. Light the wick, I feel weak.

Someone told me the day I fly will be the pilot's last supper or
a helicopter will take me to heaven, and I will bring with me
incandescence, phosphorescence, incense and myrrh; of course

this is not the last time I'll ever sing this song---come on,
then, sing along, we are the champions, aren't we, my friends?
and didn't I show you the end of the rope, the hope of love?

Che Guevara's Ship Finds Fishermen Willing To Forget Themselves

Reggae'd in Jamaica, swam around in the Bahamas the president
of our corporation of the tortilla chain. There were refrains and key
changes and loud riffs and streams of solos, but the synchronicity
was not exactly what I was looking for. The syncopation, infusion
of ladles and rhyme, was an unfortunate Canaveral to a rocket.
Thought I wouldn't last another minute, the blast was fast,
I do not even remember who got it. Was it you, Simon?
Was it you, Peter? Is it I, Lord, why do you ask? I was
here when you found me, and now you say you love me.

Cocaine/Heroin's More Popular Than Jesus Now

Pocket the billiard ball as you/I sip coffee,
one hand on my cue stick, another palm on a wall,
why do you say I always lean on divinations?

I'm jobless, tactless, tasteless with dubious
religiosity that forgives you, bastion of hope and
ticket to the moon; always swoon when I see

you, even as death crimsons in lively parodied
fathomless depths like submarine sandwiches, belie
the Beatles were here in '66. Did you see John?

Someone was aloof, another infantile, despite
curmudgeons and pantheons devouring my life. Then
you came along, took me to spoon it up, Jesus.

The Lonely Book Tour

I'm late, as ever, and maybe never will I see again
her lips, her flattering apocalypse of Biedermeieran
sycophants, ja?

I'm blase, as always, populous and closed as Bombay
heavily rained on, flooding my temple with Subhiksha
cellophane, hm?

I'd brave it, m'nurse, caress it within infirmaries,
laugh with you, my cant/hubris, you are unperturbed
by debris, haha.

Three hundred girls, Spartans, met me at Thessaloniki,
told me about a disco where infernos or pseudanthiums
bloom, oh yeah.

I said, bring em on, caress me to heaven and why not?
Insufferable, indomitable, am welterweight enough for
sympathy, oh no!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

For UN Worker Lila, Who Prefers To Be Flattered Beyond the Blue of the Sky As She Prepares To Sleep In New York

All right, then. Doff the sky-blue helmet to the UN-derbelly
Of the war cynosure, Lil, sweet as bills of the birds of sleep
In the dawning of a new day---the compulsion to change the world
Can wait, New York neighborhoods among sex offenders can shake
In their big, espied-on non-obscurities beyond the First World's
Basic need for subsidies on corn resulting in high currency
Assigned to cheap food. The daily massacre against our 'hood,
Genocide, is not without its accompanying lilac protests, Lil,
Sometimes outrageous as anti-Bush shoes, but we'll not choose
Sylvia Plath and her tulips in Ariel, plotting the pith while
The kids sleep, but human development in your dreams, human
Delinquents descending like sheep down Amartya Sen hill for
An attack from the flanks of the capability well. Sen, seen
Since on a page on freedom, expanding freedoms, floats above
You distributing wealth, and equitably too, along with social
Services exploring capabilities under your helmet, little sis.

Sleep as a bud now. Li'l by li'l, lilac skies flower a sky blue bliss.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Lullaby (Motherless, Nameless Young Torturers Torturing A Fellow Young African To Sleep)

---for Lila Shahani, UN worker

a derider you say i am i am
but a ridiculous riddance of
my gods, and a lad at that
with sumptuous filaments of
sinews and prejudices, sample
fur---courtesies and infamies.

a fiducial inquirer you say
i am but i will not, as usual,
summon gumptions of, bitter
still, hacks and better kiss
of bort. a derider, you say?
i am just a cat, with an ax.

on your bloodied face i blurt
out a laugh and loud lisping
for comedy or chancery blues,
and whether seams erupt on
the robe of my lost mama i'd
still laugh, a secret sobber.

a defiler, you seem to know
me to be, i hate your beauty
o hanky panky of a luxuriant
black aberrance, how do you
wondrously, crimson and fine,
get bloody angry, dead gazer?

die now, and close your eyes.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I, Judas, Falsely Accused Of Raping the Sacristy Boys

Cram, cram, and the breeders be infidels,
as it always was now and forever, amen---

In seventeen days we shall pass, and boats
big as sunglasses for the Sun will moat up
no palace like insecure cantons on Wrath.
Curlicues of dust now unseen fornicating
and the desert winds devoid of chance, no
one even contesting the shaking samovars.

I was absent for a while, cantankerous as
Mary of Magdala on a lye; passing the time,
presented fumigated flasks on Jesus' tomb.
Only to be sacked, be shocked by ambulant
arguments about Mary's womb, loyalties,
lies! Seventeen days passed. Love is lost.

Cram, cram, and the breeders be infidels,
as it always was now and forever, all men.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Ivan Bunin's 401Kiss

Action
Armchair faction
The lottery insisted I note down
wallets, pomegranates, and youth
the speaker of my house demanded
"sift through and sow magnifying lenses,
devour defenses, battery power insurance"

Facing the book, I wasn't allowed solemnity
I asked for indemnities but He was absent
I called for Nicanor Parra who was laughing
I ingrained my thoughts on bra, ob-la-daing
I was absent, too, reminiscent of old hit songs
I was dying for a bathtub, aching for lost loves

The cellophane bag lunches swallowed the oceans
but that is not our concern, it's God's, always, forever
so let's just live, live, live, live til we die, die, die, die slowly
in a gooey death refusing to leave or even---retired---believe
that the consumerist blame is on the veiled abundant fishes
copiously murderous in the reefs, not the leeches in the forest
of the capital city's rivers and old houses and banks and ...

I was happy to see you but you weren't happy
to be born, and though there was the TV
"I couldn't hunger or clamor for more"
throwing your arms round 'n' round
in desperation, asking for respite
for salutations while I sighed
in this ... incarceration

In twelve years
I will be
free
see

4 160-Chracter Poems

1. MRT NIGHTS. Such a train o thot gets u nwher. A salary in celery pickld lyk a bad tickle irks u, angers u: pushn & shovn til u, alone, gt yr way. W/ a bad loan.

2. LAF. Dark glciers, far's i cd c. Bt in tween, th sea warm lyk a sneez gave th loudst breez. I'm such a whiz. Half o Mnila drowned by the sound. Half, a laf.

3. COMA. Twas a comma. Saw her & a karma, calmly car-crashn ovr & ovr til th nytmare woke her 2 a daymare. Rmembers a mare, wreckd lyk a neck downwards. Was it wine?

4. HER JAM. And so it did, casually intriguing at first, horribly intimidating at day's end. It did. Come, it did. Then slid. What a bonus, and joyous as marmalade.


2008