it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
***, bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.

“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.

The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.

The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.

You call, I come
- surrendering the fight-

how can one fathom life
so far from your thoughts
as pieces of the sun
- kisses wither in time-
and sieving memories soften
the fall

-you are my demise-
sweet harshness striking in calm
stripping marrows in early dawn
-yet you cannot will my will-

A paper weight holds
down the heart – and all beneath
slowly dies
-petals arched in the sun-

And yet, you call, and I, well I…
just want.

there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
 but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
   and wonder where all my poems go,
 the value they impose -- only there's implosion   and not   so much sense
    so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
 a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle   of a pilsner
   as i hear one  of   the patrons call out
  my solitude like a ******* on all fours;

one afternoon pursues a following.
  i have wasted my time writing and stopping
 to   watch   stray hounds   pant   and
     ****    on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the   papers   retch  at tyrannies.
    hands   for  mechanisms  configured to
  a heady bias of  probabilities.
 the   house   next  to me is  being
     overhauled   and i  imagine  the incredulity
of   things  not their own  meanings.

  a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread,  a decrepit  bed for making love
    or passing time or  wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone  is  reading my  poems  and  weeping at the  cadence.
   most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things   not mine to  commandeer.
   the sound  of  stone masons hammering
boulders double the  melancholia.
   the deliberate sieving of  sand and  stone
      felt like   sandpaper air.
 the matutinal  sky split into dire condition
    much like  mine: becoming   and unbecoming.

all the   ******* are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
   and mobiles covered with dust,
the  captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
  of the departed.

i look up and see my face in the sky:
  if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.


more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
   than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
  somewhere in Padre Faura.

madness hurries like a lover and hands me
   a picture of the moon.

i've got something and that's good enough
  as the police leave the grime of times
   and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
  as the priests step into the showers, naked
  and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
  as the cat that was hit
      by   a bicycle
   goes   back   to   the dark
  licking   the   salt  off the wound,
    bone fractured,    still alive on the  hot roof.

A teaspoon of tincture, to the actual worth
of a Kuerig waste eventually, in return
for a breath.

How slow do we sink below our bouancy specs?

Sein- in my future plastic accountibility,
a form of artifact that shall signal affluence killed us all;
any way, same thought, nine ounces of our local kush…
ah, it has a weak genealogy, nothing fancy, no Joe Herrera,
but a hermaphroditical what the hell,
seems some years ago, down in Lemon Grove,
one branch, in our first legal garden, in three generations,
one branch,
we seemingly never noticed until John harvested,
and had like 200 seeds,
- at that house
not far from where the 9/11 crew stayed during flight school,
but about ten years later,
-------- bubble memory on all along
we had a crop of ****,
plain old garden variety seeds from a bag.
And as we eliminated all the males, we spied,
using our YouTube assist- what does this look like? Abnormal
or normal
are no longer first page words worthy choices,
norms are not known
to be essenstial,
esse, essense essence yes sense, in no wise
as evidence from this POV, mine, on loan, you can use it,
you can hold it,
as a thought,
what if,
we knew at once, words are not Lotech. Let us express,
that
once hindered
by those that let, let us let free.
Read, discover the realm of minds past normal,
long before Art Intuited a system
to inter connect tight
thinking, sieving contraptions
for sacred secrets, light
reveal, see the bunny in the cage,
prior to the hat, right.

Plain Truth, Garner Ted 'n'em, made some money selling
a home grown version of once pure good news, from a spring,

oh, nobody lives forever,
ain't that a relief?
Think a spell.
I meant to give you the recipe, but got to vegetating how
chthonic circumstances determine much of the luck, but

Nine or ten ounces of cured and cooked to peak, commercial
quality cannabis, from any garden in Free States, nowadays,
steeped in Arizona legal Everclear, 95% pure moonshine,
for around a year or so… seems to become stronger,
could be a brandy evaporation kinda thickening,  plot that.

In the course of a novel day, I did deliver the recipe. That is it,
the deed, indeed, does call for more knowing, however, I do.

So I read it, and figured I'd said it. Right enough to work.

The moonlight was sieving
over the dews-sipped grass;
the flies, in their elements,
zoomed with a flourish
and belted out a song of praise:
the orchard is rich in sweetness,
the young apples are juicy,
the branches are the cradles,
and the leaves are fluffy couches.
God be praised for this blissful beauty,
God be praised for this feast.
we visit this place
when the sun retires to bed,
and the moon lit the path.
O Almighty!
this is for you
'Thank You'
for the silvery lamp!
O Almighty!
this for you
'Thank You'
for the soft sofas!
O Almighty!
this is for you
'Thank You'
for the comfy swings!
O Almighty!
this is for you
'Thank You'
for the luscious fruits!
O Almighty!
Thank you for this song
that flew passed through our lips!

shine of light through the heavily draped mist

|naked|

i kneel to pick up the crimson and drain
  the thorns of your aches

|naked|

you screamed in your cornerless voice,
    the blue of the ocean peels through
     the foam and then

|naked|

like fish struggling in
      a flush of current, swaying with
  the drowned **** and the derelict
     of ships revealing old shadows

|naked|

as we took a dive in each
    other's depths clad with bravery, now

  |naked|

     to the bone, in fear of our clutched hearts, breaking in the silence,
     looking through the window
     of each other's deliquescent being
      sieving through the world,

|naked|

It hurts so bad like a vulcano that keeps calm but just want the lava to cover it all
to swallow the core
vanish
disappear
be a breath
be a feather
I loathe all the ivy of this hell
I wish a " pretty girl" could be enough to light my pages
but so many sighs are unwritten
I am sieving the tiny gleams in the aching paper
I am shielding my words
holding my tongue
taping my mouth and my wings too
choking my soul for fear of being loved for fear of being hated too
numb and bleak as hell like the title of my heart book
I take credit for every spot of blood for every scar
it is all mine
Even the rain
Is it such a piece of cake to fly away from your own claws
Yet I don't want to die so let her torture me ad libitum
so I am never approach
ed
so I am drifting
on the ocean of nothing
knots and pieces of mirror
there are so many thorns under the coton of my dresses
when she asks for something
does she want to save me
I doubt her words
I doubt her face
Even her eyes can lie
There is nothing to read between lines
I am fallen from the nest
licking my wounds in the corner of my room
unable to breathe willingly
Everything is artificial and mostly hurtful
If only I could be a fool again maybe you would read and laugh more as we turn the pages(...)

unkempt neck hair
dancing in the fan breeze
pleased by the sight, I push up my sleeves
and seethe while sieving the encrusted cheese cloth
elderly resin glands scratch like sand
and the blandness of the disease seems to squeeze
any meaning from the motion
ocean waves graze mutant toes as wind blowing
snow globes throws devotionally challenged
prose writers into a delightful tizzy
thin lizzy in the background sounds like
barking dogs at the drown pound
and unwound knitted sweaters look better
when wetter than investment bankers at the swankiest of parties
sour smarties in plastic hats use poorly ventilated ski masks
basking rashes in priceless sashes bat eyelashes at lasses during mass
and the catholic priest has ceased to crease his pleated trousers
mouse traps snap shut in front of the bunk beds
her trunk of junk likes crunk juice on Tuesdays
and I sit, drunken, trying to debunk 9/11 –

Just let my fingers type, as they may, and feel your curves of energy. I feel your frequencies through simple words enough to sense emotion.
Subtle language, you may use, to convey thought's connection:
I understand them sure the same as looking at your complexion; don't take much introspection, did I mention bout to have a mean intervention with myself, stick around if you're down off the shelf, amount another, no wonder. Any way, here we go:

So I was off for a stroll earlier today, thinking about problems 'stead of appreciating the good things in life, when I came upon this sudden realization, I need separation from my loved ones to appreciate their true caring for me at the level it is. I...what is wrong with me-the mindless, brainless, shameless, blameless, tameless, circumstantial-rainless one, who cannot seem to come to agreement with his Mother about where to live fun-thought sieving through the sand ground.

Cannot keep going, getting sloppy. Close the tomb. Words are confused like a brainless bafoon.
No more swoonin for ya,
Swim quick like pain at the door for ya. Then let the energy store more, adorn the shores of need-to-do-this lists and other various chores, and what's more, I've gone on autopilot and let the trail behind my word with the last of my day's energies, blessed down the sun upon me.

I cannot escape death. I mean that in the most literal sense, but also in the most metaphorical.

I keep thinking about writing. I keep thinking about what has been written. I keep thinking and sieving and choosing, nitpicking and weighing. What are the thoughts I want to see the ends of? What are the words I want to be accountable for when I am gone? How do I want to be remembered?

In writing I always seek death.

and that is precisely why sometimes nothing.comes.

Blu shower
Sunshine sieving
Patches of grey cotton flying
They fall or not
Keep your bowl down