To Whom it May Concern:

Greetings! You may not know me but I know you very well.

I’ve seen you come out from your mother’s womb, breathing in life for the first time.

Shining through the darkness in an empty room.

Your first words echoes in my ears in the twilight of the moon.

Your initial steps pitter-patter on my mind like the September rain.

The first cut on your knees, the first drop of blood

I was there more than ever.

Through the tears and the joy, the silence speaks for itself.

The first love that broke your heart,

the moment you looked down from your apartment…

as the moon reflected its ephemeral glow…

then glanced upwards as the sun rose from the eastern skyline.

I was there watching.

You see me in your dreams but my face eludes you

like an illusion of forever dancing eternally in your thoughts.

You tried to look for me but all for naught, you asked around

but they always said they didn’t know me.

You gave up your search, and went along your way through the blue skies of tomorrow.

But you haven’t noticed that I never left your side, I was there in front of you all this time.

The woman you married and the child you bore.

The last gasps of your mother as the silence engulfed her soundless screams.

I was there watching, looking as time unfolded.

As you watched the gray hairs grow on your head in front of the mirror…

The child you bore grew into a spitting image of you in your youth.

As you watch him look for me in the tumultuous justice of time.

For the eternity of my face…

The same illusions and the same whispers carried by the wind into the sunset.

I lead you one last time in your endless waltz.

You look up through the darkness of an empty room,

a glimmer of light dances in your mind.

You see my face through the shadows as clear as day.

You’ve known me all along, you whispered.
I lead you by the hand until the music fades into black.

Here I end my letter, to whom it may concern.

DEAR dETH,

Helo ther deth.

Dis is me fErst letr to yu.

My doggie-woggie jEst dEd.

WithOut wArnIng yo jEst tUk him.

KeeLeD over and drOpeD Ded.

Da oXygIn pEoplE, jeSt lefts him.

Momy ses hes going to doggie heaven.

Is Dat True?

Why’d you tuk my doggie?

hewas so nys and cute.

Why’d yu tuk my doggie?

Are yu a badd person deth?

my doggie was so nys yu meanie.

I’ma go eat yu just like my CooKIe

even if they hav anTs on thim.

GudbyE !

P.S. I hate yu

Seeing Sounds

Molecules bouncing off walls

to the sound of words

echoing through the amplitude of sound.

Drops of sweat fills the penumbra of the heavy air.

Boom-boom-boom

bouncing off the wall

molecule after molecule dancing to the sound

of thoughts traveling through divergent frequencies.

Change the tune, change the view.

Stay awake, live the dream

the amplitude of sound.

A pastiche of notes and verses

surrounded by euphonic molecules

forming a volatile atom.

Dancing to the seeing sounds.

Boom-boom-boom

the bass drops, and the hook pops.

Blue-red, white-black waves cutting a rug

to the cacophony of molecules.

The amplitude of sound.

G.O.D.

Mr. ____ lies there on his bed.

catheter stuck up his ass breathing life into him.

Taking away some of that nasty stuff too that can kill you.

A moment’s notice pain is relieved by an artificial morphine.

A mind trick to alleviate an injury within.

The clock’s hands melt onto its white surface.

Caging the room in a prison of endless thoughts.

A child with clear brown eyes walks into the room.

The child looks around and sees a bed, two white chairs,

a sofa, and a TV on the right corner of the white-faced room.

He looks at Mr. ____ lying on the bed attached to a machine—barely breathing.

Mr. ____ looks at the child

sees the boy’s distinct features, the stark differences from his hues.

The lucidity of the child’s brown eyes, looking at him intently.

Mr. ____ feels a blazing cocktail of emotions bursting at the seams.

He feels a sudden thrashing of waves well up in him.

Something the shapeless doppelgangers failed to do,

mere imitations of an illusory dream.

Ubiquitous in its transcendence, piercing through the shadows…

his son breathes heavily on his leathery skin.

His life flashed before him in the quicksand

of the time bend whirlpool.

His inchoate existence is thwarted by the boy’s sweet innocence

in the backwash of the amorphous darkness of the world.

A glint of light passes through him

he sees a piece of long lost beauty in the sunset.

He sees a face, beautiful and distinct

across the white surface of the ceiling.

His shapeless being takes a form of his own

grasping his existence at the center.

Mr. ____ moves his body as his own.

He opens his eyes and looks on

at the well-lighted room in the darkness.

G.O.D.

The phosphorescent reflection of the red gleam of the sunset

casts a dim shadow upon the pale-stained buildings.

____ wakes up to the sound of the alarm.

He does not want to get up,

exhausted by the monotony of everyday life.

Waking-up, going to work, ass-kissing, going home, going to sleep,

having sex, and the parties every weekend.

The impulsive splurge of live and let live.

His steady grip of time slowly deteriorates and weakens.

The monogamy of the silk threads of time wraps itself

around his bare neck — strangling him.

He gasps for air, making a soundless cry engulfed

by the echo of silence.

The streaming rain of blue droplets dissolve the miasma

of the traveling molecules on the tin roof.

The sounds of raging thunder on the backlit spotlight

of an empty sun fills the dense air.

He lies there on his bed

with nothing on his mind.

Empty and filled with darkness.

The world moves on.

The TV says that a man was shot by so-and-so.

President so-and-so put up a so-and-so…

Blah blah blah same old story different faces.

As the story goes…

He gets up and walks into the bathroom,

stares into the mirror

the amorphous beings with the innumerable

masks looks at him mockingly.

It has no form and has no face…

empty like the countless doppelgangers that he has.

A shapeless being imitating a shapeless being.

He looks on and sees nothing.

G.O.D.

The shadow strikes 12 O’clock. It’s always 12 O’clock.

The trivial drizzling of the proverbial sands of time.

Mr. _____ is grown up now. He has a Mr. in his name now.

The shadows of the shapeless beings are but a memory of a morning dew,

gripped by the sands of time.

Locked away in a shell of masticated spittle.

It peeks its head out every so often

but the iron mask would not reveal it.

The hunger drives him on.

Feeding the child within.

Sexing the moonlit air

devoured by the howling of the whores.

Enjoying love’s massacre perfumed onto his paper thin skin.

The orgasm seemed like an eternity moving up and down through his bony spine.

His shapeless face was reflected in the shattered pieces of light.

As hard as steel as inflexible as crystalline rock.

Grasping time within his hands.

Doing with it as he pleases.

In fast forward or in low motion, nothing in moderation.

The drugged state of heightened sensations fills the intoxicated air.

Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, the scintillating taste of an orgasm.

Feeding his epicurean glass till its full.

The refracted relationship of self-righteousness for dessert

—The God of the self.

Succumbing to its desires like a two year old child.

It imitates no one but itself.

He no longer wishes to be seen.

Forever hiding under the skin of shadows choosing

neither death nor life.

Masking himself with the amorphous subsistence around him to worship

—-the God within.

G.O.D.

The young boy adored his parents to no end despite the deprecating poverty.

The shadowy figures of darkness was swallowed up by the light of the rising red sun.

The young child idolized the tall figures of the man and woman.

He copied every move and feature.

The clothes, the gestures and the trivial habits of hands

jerking to-and-fro when sitting at the dinner table.

Despite all this, the shadowy figures didn’t have a face.

Just a smudged painting of rainbow colored hues of existence, a shapeless being.

The child slowly but surely stands on his own two feet.

Without the guidance of invisible hands.

Assuring itself it can stand on its own.

The darkness of life creeps forward…steadily

as a baby crawling into his first steps.

G.O.D.

The light seeps into the contrition of darkness.

A shapeless figure of existence nestles in the empty womb.

Gasping for the raspy air of life, the shapeless figure punches and kicks.

Trying to break free from the prison of life.

The unbearable weight of being has yet to bloom.

The whirring of the hazy light brings forth

a rain of voluptuous rapture of skin.

the endless cries of pain and sobbing..

blood brought on life.

The shapeless existence walks into the abyss of sin and darkness.

The surrounding air breathed heavily on the red sacks of air

and bronze-leathery skin of the shapeless figure.

The red stars filled the back-lit sunset,

the ceaseless thwarting of flies succumbed to the darkness of fear.

The cracks and broken foundations of the black buildings blockaded the night sky.

In the operating room, the shapeless figure mockingly cries out to the doctor.

Its parents looked on, the shapeless figure sunk into the darkness like the piece

of a missing puzzle.

It was named ______….

A flock of flies devoured a raw piece of red meat

and faded slowly into the gray abyss.

Chronicles of Days Gone Bye-Bye

R-r-r-r-r-ing its 7:00 A.M. Monday.

Its raining cats and dogs outside.

Mr. Mr is traversing through the rocky roads of space.

Looking for the hideous face of time.

The shower runs hot and cold.

The drops of clear water touch the skin

gently, dripping slowly

feeling its very being.

The towel wraps itself around the naked body.

An erratic mix of emotions trembles between the towel’s fine hairs.

The screams of the hot air rustling from the hair-dryer

caresses the jet black hair.

It puts on its Barong Tagalog and looks into the mirror.

Its shapeless body tapered by the Barong.

Walking in the lightness of gravity.

Traversing endlessly to The Work.

The shapeless bodies with Barongs

sit on wood shaped into a thing called a chair

by the shadow lurking within the shapeless beings.

Things called eyes stare aimlessly

through the thing called sky named Manila.

The endless carousel at the end of the day.

The museum of the first kiss, the first love,

mother’s embrace, father’s firmness, grandfather’s farm.

Locked in a box somewhere in the shapelessness of time.

Traversing endlessly looking for the hideous face of time.

The Place

A specific place, somewhere in the threads of time

It’s always that time, it’s always that time.

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere

A box in your head, a space in your bed.

A sound in the sphere, a howling soar.

A place to hold onto, for solace for grief.

For a fleeting moment, three seconds of rapture.

Played over and over again.

The child never leaves The Place.

In fear or in love, he’s always there.

Lurking in the shadows, and basking in the light.

For the clock without hands spins time.

Rewinding, in fast-forward, stopped, played.

The endless Saturn spreads throughout

a lucid blue and pallid sunset.

The Place is all ready there…

You’re all ready there.

Staring into a starless universe.

The paleness of an empty canvas

that is your face.

The painter is The Place

putting, doodling, blotching,

splashing, scratching

whatever it wants onto the canvas.

A swatch of red, yellow, blue.

A gradient of rainbow,

graveyard black and gray

spread onto the space of the canvas.

The Place.

A specific place,

somewhere in the threads of time.

It’s always that time

It’s always that time

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.

There

There, there, there

You’re over there

not here, right there

I’m always over there

not just right here

but over there

in the darkness of the abyss

in the light of the rising sun

always over there

not just right here

in you and in me

the infinite reality

the concepts of time

in the precepts of serenity

the silence howls

like the screaming of a thousand whores.

There, there, there

You’re always over there

a specific place,

a specific time

and a specific space

outside and inside

at the same time

bending forwards and backwards

threading through the sooty air,

the clear blue water,

the ephemeral fire,

the golden-brown earth.

There, there, there

You’re always over there

not here, right there.

It’s always the right time.

Right there.

Ice Cream

Vanilla, chocolate, cookies n’ cream

what’s your flavor like?

Sweet, bitter, sour, or bittersweet?

What do you taste like?

I hope you taste as you look as sweet.

I just want to eat you up.

From top to bottom.

Side-to-side

up and down, left to right.

Upside-down and inside out.

Your sweetness melting into my fingers.

The aroma capitulates the hairs in my nose.

My tongue tingles with delight from your

sugarcane cone.

What’s your flavor like?

Hope you’re good enough to eat.

The sugary being and cold touch

stinging the pores of my skin.

Oh I wish I could eat you forever!

Slowly but surely.

Caramel Eclairs

Its golden-brown coating and

chocolate-filled center oozes with passion.

An unquenched longing suspends itself

upside-down through stained-glass elegies.

The caramel taste fills my mouth.

it is oh so sweet and delicious.

Its melting slowly in my mouth.

Slowly..

The images of the setting sun are etched

in the strains of thought.

The sun crawls slowly into the twilight

its golden brown light

sinks into the teeth of the night.

The sweet enamel rolls round and round in my mouth

melting in me.

Its sugary being strolls down my throat and esophagus.

Persevering until it leaves a mark on my waist.

Its luscious sweetness fills my dreams.

the thoughts of caramel eclairs never satisfies my hunger,

the longing wallops and searches for you.

Hershey’s Kisses

The black crispness of the chocolate

figure electrifies an innate desire

that explodes like a volcano.

Each time a bit of wrapping is torn out

a part of you goes along with it.

Each bite dissolves in my mouth

like ice-green water.

The sublimation of pleasure

dissipates into the background

and disappears into the air.

The oil and sugar cling to my blood…

slowly destroying me

just because it can.

Its sweet temptation allures

as the fire in my mouth dances back and forth.

The aura of splendor disappears after the last bite.

Reality sets in melting into the sunset,

as I hold my Hershey’s Kisses in my hand.

Lines

How do you draw a line?

Is it just a vertical, horizontal or slanting streak of ink?

How do you draw a line,

straight, forward or backward?

Or is it just a figment of the corners of my mind?

Something abstract concocted by the eyes and the brain.

A black blotch of the gray matter.

Effaced and bounded by the human psyche.

Put up as walls to encapsulate parts into a whole.

It can be dotted, straight, circular,

going round and round infinitely.

Nothing even stopping it.

Drawn closely and interwoven it forms

a shape, a face empty and desolate.

Increase the filling and add more lines,

it makes a distinct appearance

on the blue glaze of the smooth face of a mirror.

Forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards.

Locking time within its surface,

throwing a lasso line into a fragmented memory.

Slowly tracing its sinewy blithe figure,

the line rears in the shattered pieces.

Piece by piece from different realities.

How do you draw a line?