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 |  a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado |
 Just a journal with everyday verse mushrooming all over Read at your own risk. The poems here are of personal nature, more about me and of what is around me than those in other books and folders. They are usually written in a very short time with practically  no poetic intent.
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I could… but I could write this in bloody italics to revile the silver light of a rambunctious moon for hiding the dark repute of the world. I could repeat the affinity of petty scenes and damaged dreams in a realm rendered by decaying scripts. I could declare myself fulfilled through my conceits, other shortcomings, and the bodies I felled into a rhetorical abyss. I could… but I won’t, since I’m the one who broke the bricks of Babel and laid my fancy -as if rose petals- at the feet of a few ailing words. Cryptic Blue Whoops! A cranky gal, possibly a klutz, with a knack for listing knotty problems of the cryptic blue computer screen… she tried to kowtow to the powers that be and kindle a flame under service aristocracy that a company might have; yet, to no avail. I wonder, who could that be, this woman so disturbed as to bother the ranks of outsourced geeks, for a motherboard gone kaput? Now, in her style, she casts a spell, thinking, “No more laptop for me, rhyming with hell, nor from any other patentee,” and she loops her neck in surrender, because “the shipwrecked man shrinks even from calm waters.” Meltdown (An amnesiac who just now woke up this morning with “total recall”) Morning lights wipe my eyes to make my sight beam like silver polished anew by the zealous hand. of a holy patron. Truth, definitely truth, is coming to me and soaring to the summit of certainty, while a gallimaufry of recollections -as if contestants in a race to trammel putrescent myths- rush through the length of a life, Call it a reconnaissance trip, since the forefinger traces, egregious and haughty. inside a tangled roadmap a flagrant route scrolling down to a self-portrait shockingly grandiose, obsessed, selfish, bitter; one who is cast so low. Alas, I urge the mind to forget and close its lid on memories, for I don’t want to know, now, I don’t want to know. |
Gossip Another weekday afternoon in the making, the hours seep out in faithful rows, crowding over stalwart desks, as resentful voices coil around the water cooler with bodacious gossip whispered in loyal circles about the quirky burnout punching the clock, punching the file cabinet, punching the boss, in the emptiness of what he was running away from. And my annoyance tries to clear out the rubble, by hitting the keys with gusto, as if this will save me from his fate and this tittle-tattle under dimmed lights; one ludicrous incident in fickle February no heavier than dust on the bookshelves. |
| Until a few years ago, in factories where dried shrimp were being prepared, "shrimp dancers" were hired to tramp on the shells with special shoes. Shrimp dancing on dreams to crack open their shells, those dreams birthed in me, lucid, unspoiled, untouched, undeveloped, whether in sync with the earth or otherworldly, I watch my dreams, I dance my dreams, as if wanting to get away without a passport, in an attempt to weed out the ghosts of want and illusion, to the sound of my last bed’s embracing sheets as if multihued autumn leaves rustling in winter’s fluttering shade. |
Solace in Scars In front of Riverside Church on Riverside drive, you glanced in my direction, your eyelashes piercing through the frigid wind, your lips curling in crisis, two rattlesnakes ready to strike, and I felt the icicles in my bones since it was mid-January, retrospective, in white. Your rage is poetry, a kind of lust, or sadness, maybe… but there’s solace in scars and I’m not troubled, for you got no one left to dishearten now. What was there is a clichéd blur, a memory alien, for the scenery’s changed, I’m no longer the same, no more stuck in Woodstock, vulnerable with faded pride, no more sagging deep with visible pain. After all, I had to learn a trick or two to survive and I ride the changes now; although, no place feels far enough away from you. |
| Inept My billet could be my undoing; me, a hunchback with Bacchic joviality, trespassing on holy men’s grounds, and my phrases in mass migration escape through slits in hordes. Still, I walk on stilts of baffling words to reach out to scrub the sun as if from the tower of Babel, for I crave to bate the mad muse who hides in the bedlam and lies on lines of unruly sheets, refusing non-chalant to give me hint.. |
| Spring Will Come Again With chafed skin, I wallow through an offending flurry, to defend a flawless credence, as the cretin wind blows. To amend my clouding breath and the colors lacking, I depend on the recurrent hints of the sun and the creed of change through the comfort of time: a pretend game ascending to hope that the sap will reach my roots once more. |
Yoda Exposed jewels of light, eyes, in darkness shining, sparkling in command, ordering with superiority to put all problems on hold, beating out a rhythm of purrs, content, with perfect timing. This intractable complexity, garish, pompous, spun from feline feats of long proud history; whittling at my wits, an unsaddled spirit inside an opulent fur. His pattern, a fierce stealth for strangers, those alien parasites, house guests, whose names he doesn’t care to know, whose faces he doesn’t need to see. At the other hemisphere of the living room, leaping on a stiff-backed chair, his altar of consolation. One miraculous jump, a Siamese taking in the landscape, to do largely as he pleases, as if a sun stealing in under my skin, to make a gift of his warmth, then to shrug and turn his head impulsively away out of affection. Indecision A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. The confusion’s mine, reversing the blow to sickness in me -the ire- since her two-timing man will set her on fire. A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. but this torment is hilarious, a tattletale or not I’m a sweating rag for either way I’ll be the hag. A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. |
| Let it rain.... Let it rain, we’re still out, running with muscled thighs and cannot be caught. Let it rain, while we can still enter a million battlefields alert and awake and elation filters through our skin to ring in young ears. Let it rain before the earth takes credit for each breath and repossesses what is his by birthright. |
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