after Ansel Elkins

Carabao **** isn't permafrost,
temperature, disdain — climates
stirring into a tornado soup
of force, melting, seclusion.
In the heartbeat of gulls,
the waves gargled froth and
spat on charred limestone.
Then the grass beneath our
wet feet writhed in the
slice of wind atop the hills
of Hiyop, in Catanduanes
where roads go unmoored from
their skiffs like violin
strings curling under sharp
slide. You can invent a new
word to describe transformations,
but these will never catch it
in the act — the moment
vibration somersaults into
howl, when swinging grass
is louder than jetplanes
then suddenly quieter than
prayer. I like to dig my thumb
into the soft marsh, dirt
occupying the folds, creases;
labyrinthine pathways of skin
blanketed with Earth.
At this point the mountain
knows me;
and I dare to know the
mountain but come short, reaching
only its narrow berms,
pockmarks,
and ****-ridden sheath of
dry flowers cooking the
words to a song of its
people.

All we do is deconstruct,
this isn’t love. This is
microscopic examination
of potential disasters.
This is you building
an escape hatch before
there’s any reason to flee.
The weight of your hands
on my underbelly feels
like frisk. What’s there?
What did you find?

Spin softly.
Touch pebbles like your
finger will sink by mere impact.
Melt right here, in this place.
Not there, inside the heart
full of porcelain turtle doves
and twigs. But here, in my hands,
where a map of surrender is
eating itself.

As fast as fire
burns animal skin, as fast as
phantom secrets slither through
crowded teeth, I will answer the door.
And you will appear. Though dripping wet.
Though missing parts.
Though fallow heart.
Mine, then ours.

Bark and blemish. Toads
ribbiting amid ***** dark.
Poison underneath lip balm,
prayers and price tags
scattershot amongst pared
rosebuds. I feel like explaining.
But I can’t. Just imagine
the sun peeking above,
morning starshow, skinmelt.
Fingertip whorls
pinking with sheen.

Before midnight.
His breath turns to smoke
in mid-air. Sorcery.
I try, too.
Inhale. My lungs fill,
swallowing cold.
Like fingertip pressing on raw meat
fresh out the freezer.
The chill spikes, envelops
my body. Like my spine
is out.

Then, exhale. But it doesn't
Turn to smoke.
Instead, vapor.
Instead, mouth still open.
Instead, vanish.
In this suspended wait
He touches my back
and instantly I stop being a person
and weigh only as much as
dust mites, or the
germs in air corroding steel,
or the air. Probably the air.
Most likely the air.
His air?

I would like my breath
to turn to smoke.
Like Him. And with Him.
Instead, I learn to lose.
Instead, midnight finishes
its dark role, the light appears,
and the city before us
says Die.

I can feel the shift
into low now, one shot
one pill, one mile left
to go
I see a light on
up the hill
like most nights
trouble is
ain't nobody
home to talk to
I know
my bruh, Moon
he’s a lonely
old ****, too.

Scream, Memory

Accidents don't happen on holiday,
do they?
Standing in the shower, I stare out of
a tiny window at the setting sunlight.
In a row, children on a rustic bench
chatter through their colored ices
and kick their sandaled feet.
Soon, a tall, bland man appears
with smiles for all--this is his family
and he is happy.
His ambiance is like a drug so I leave
my caravan, barely dry,
Wanting to speak to him and not knowing why.
His good fortune draws one to him,
Yet I find another reason.
He directs me without words
to a desolate room and a gown.
And I remember...that I have not remembered
lately. And my collection of names is dwindling,
memory leaking like a wire basket.
Even before I don the ugly robe and lie down
on a cold, plastic bench,
I know what the diagnosis will be.
The cylindrical tunnel looms and his nurse or wife
motions to it as he still smiles.
The machine roars like time passing
And I emerge carefully, not wanting to know.
Seeing my expression, he turns on me:
"It is bad news, but also sad."
He tilts his head like a bird, self-satisfied.
His vacuous delight belies the words.
What the hell is the difference, I think.
And like a falling tree, reality splits the dream
And knocks down my life.
I weep, uncontrolled.
It does not help to swear
nor to hit the wall with my fist.
But would it help to slap the doctor?
People crowd around and tell me to stop
but, as I had to when my father died,
I continue to rave.
For, what is simple to them
I will not make so to me.
I will mourn and censure Fate!
And if I still must,
I will not go gently
But scream all that I remember
Into the fading light.

April 19, 2019