Untitled #1

What time is it?

I often ask myself.

I tried smashing the hands

and destroying its face

to freeze it in a moment.

It eludes me,

it continues to flow like a river of sand.

I tried controlling you,

by changing your features.

By reversing your hands.

But you forever slip through my fragile grip.

I tried hiding from your face.

Under the covers of my dreams.

Yet you continually appear to me like an oasis,

disappearing and re-appearing to quench my thirst.

I leave my house to avoid you

but you show yourself again.

The children playing in the streets,

the man with the graying hairs in the office,

the flower that dies in the August rain.

I’ll just close my eyes forever

to live in a dream,

to hide from your hideous yet wonderful face.

But then again..

I could’ve missed out on the beauty

that You’ve seen.

The D.J.

The music thumps in the cosmos.

The beats dance into the blackness of the galaxy.

Effusing the dance floor universe molecules with life.

The bass drops, the hook pops.

The dance floor floods with muzak.

The music blares into the twilight.

Boog-boog-boog-boog-boog.

The D.J. takes a track from Clotho,

a remix from Lachesis.

Mixing and matching to create Atropos.

The song of the night.

The dancers groove into the dawn of day.

Sweat dripping to the dance of ethereal dreams.

The music slowly fades,

as Thanatos takes the floor and busts a groove,

the dance floor dissolves into the black of the universe.

Hero

The sound of glory resonates within

his inner being.

He basks in the moonshine of adulation.

A victory won

a medal granted.

Decorated upon a glass statue of himself

in the house of solitude.

The music fades.

Adulation turns into the symphony

of despair.

With each triumph a piece of himself shatters

into the twilight.

His peers hate him,

his family scourns him.

He repeatedly listens to the music of his glory.

Nothing else seems to exist.

The beat of the drums drives away the silence.

He wakes up weak and deprived.

The glass statue stares blankly.

Each day he loses strength and vigor.

Listening to the music of his glory.

He wakes up upon himself looking at a child,

with its peanut-brittle body.

Reaching out with its little hands.

The penumbra of light releases the darkness.

The old man gets up from his ethereal dream.

Moving his frail body,

drudging the piercing grass of death.

With a muster of strength,

he raises his sword and fells upon

the glass statue of medals.

It breaks, his glass face shatters.

He hears his voice upon a thousand faces

upon the thrashing of crystalline,

marching in cadence into the night of day.

The Ceiling

Hello there ceiling?

How’s it going?

I’m fine thank you.

How about you?

Just as great as always

I wonder,

with your luminescent white paint

you stare down at me through the infinite blue of the skies.

All knowing and all powerful

always above me

silent.

Grotesque.

Beautiful.

What’s going on in your head?

Mysterious and cosmic.

Still.

What am I to do?

I don’t know where I’m going.

Do I do this or do I do that?

It seems to me you know everything,

don’t you?

You’ve been there since I was born.

My first steps.

You’ve seen me fall down and rise up.

Lie, cheat and what not.

Yet you say nothing.

You’ve seen my parents argue.

Throw fists at my kin.

Seen robbers walk away with computers.

And yet you say nothing.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Are you there mocking me?

Looking down blankly.

The silence rings in my ears.

I hear my own voice.

You wrap it in your silence.

It echoes in the darkness.

A glimmer of light pierces through the shadows.

I move forward and open the door.

The ceiling stares down upon an empty house.

Man in the Mirror

The old cliche goes

as you stare into the mirror

you see the depths of your soul

a reflection of an endless sunset

a bottomless sea

shrouded in darkness, ashen gray

you stare at it,

that thing you call your soul

what is it really?

The glimpse of an eternal sunshine

or torrential rain

a ceaseless fire burning within

its slowly eating at you

what are you going to do with it?

The man in the mirror never really talks

he just stares at you

never says a word

but yet in his silence

you hear everything.

The man in the mirror never does anything

he just sits there

looking right at you

forever omnipresent

within the corners of your mind.

He comes out even if you don’t want him to.

He shows up at inconvenient times.

He has no time and no place.

He follows you wherever you go

in the bedroom,

in the bathroom,

everywhere.

You open and close your eyes he’s there.

The man in the mirror

staring right at you.

What are you to do?

Amplitude

Sound waves leaving remnants of a sieving  reality

Courtney Pine playing all that Jazz.

Keeping in tune to the muzak of time.

Dancing, keeping in step with three left feet.

The endless samba of two numb bodies.

The effervescent waves of corporeal sugary substance

melting into the mix of hot chocolate.

A taste of authenticity.

That smooths down the throat, that sticks in the head,

that verifies amplitude.

The fantasmic orgasm of subsistence.

The rain of black water.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

The solid sublime ice-cube drifting through a vast ocean.

The amplitude phenomenon.

Blaring thoroughly around perceptibility

shattering it with its hand-grenade.

The ejaculation of a substantiated Atlantis.

Seeking actuality in waves.

The amplitude of sound.

Semblance of Reality

The idyllic view of the moonlit Bay of Manila

shatters the endless droning of nerves in the brain.

The distilled image, upside-down

turned right-side up by the refraction of light.

The world is upside down

Could you believe it?

It makes no sense at all

with its seeming contradictions.

Death in order to live.

Love in order to hate.

A God that gave love in order to create and yet destroy

within the same breath.

The penumbra of darkness that envelopes the light.

The endless plight of despair

in its highest form…love.

The exquisite brain damage that dulls the senses.

Heightens the sensualities of a disembodied

ego like a dead man waking.

The seethe of turmoil that wrinkles the face.

The endless shimmy of thoughts creates a new step, a new move.

the danceless mind lacks an imagination.

A breath of reality gives forth an empty well

of mindless chemical concoctions—

the touch of a woman, the caress on the lips.

The Bay area dims.

The darkness covered with eyelids

brings back the reality of the world.

The Space Odyssey

The luminescent night sky

fills the lustrous stars shining brightly.

The air molecules spin around aimlessly.

Gravity twisted and bent.

The body floats like a sunken ship

beneath the dark blue sea.

The mind wanders into the depths of the unknown.

Floating, flying, dreaming and dancing an endless waltz.

The mind thinks and the body jerks.

It feels an endless and wondrous kiss.

It breathes life into a dark space.

The clock’s hands fall off and moments pass

in an instant with one whim.

Space bends into four dimensions.

Unwinding each thread and breadth of life.

An image freezes of an old man in his death bed,

with a young woman making love under an eternal sunshine.

A child dreams under a fountain of joy.

Time bends…moves forward and backward with each itch of memory.

Each fleeting moment encapsulated with the mind’s eye.

The heavy blackness fills the night sky

and weighs heavily on the lightness of being.

Dance Dance Dance

The heavy downpour of an ecstatic  nightfall

slowly drizzles down the pink sky.

Howls of effervescent laughter fills the gaps

of empty hedonistic  space.

The clock winds down towards an

abysmal  orgasm of pain.

Shellacking up and down the twilight of tomorrow.

The lyricism music of words dance

around the afterthought of days gone by.

An airy feeling of delight oozes out of

the four corners of the gray sinking matter.

Subliming into the thickness of the reality of nothingness.

Dissolving each step into its icy gospel.

1-2 step, 1-2 step, 1-2 step.

The symphony of time and omniscient composer.

The pitter-patter of falling whales and dolphins

etch into the rising sunset.

The fatelessness whisper murmurs into the

suppleness of a virgin’s body.

Caressing the essence of the fulcrum of being.

Slowly…rising and falling, underneath and overneath.

Dance, dance, dance to the mute sounds of the echo of darkness.

The Nothingness

Nothingness stares into the mirror

looking for something to see.

Touches the wall to feel something.

Nothingness breathes the air to smell something.

eats the chicken set on the table

to taste something.

A semblance of something

whatever it is to define a semblance of something.

Nothingness.

Absolute Nothingness.

Groping for air.

Arousing the orgasm of molecules and atoms.

Grasping something whatever it is.

Nothingness sits down.

Melts into the background.

The sound of silence ignites the pale fire.

Without heat, shapeless, senseless.

Nothingness crawls into the abyss.

Searching for something, a semblance of something.

Nothingness wants something. Whatever it is.

Something to eat. Something to see.

Something to hear. Something to taste.

Nothingness melts into something.

The Day I Die

The sparkles of time shine brightly above the moonlit sky.

Pervading astoundingly.

Its brightness reflects the shadows of darkness behind it.

The round earth spins on its axis meticulously.

Round and round, same-old same-old.

Nothing much going on.

The buildings and houses are built each day

across the streets of Manila.

It’s 7 A.M. Monday, over and over again.

The buzzing blur of speeding Toyotas fill the heavily polluted air.

The street kids meandering about the sunken roads.

The twilight of their being doesn’t bother them…

it’s just a shadow lurking in their midst.

They run in the streets brandishing their souls with their hands

daring fate to rescue them.

The circle of names repeated over and over again without a doubt.

Doing the same things over and over again like a broken phonograph.

Returning to the same street of memories.

Playing the same songs again and again,

its lyrics fills the rustling of the wind.

Always on rewind.

Time stands still never moving forward.

No past, No future, just today.

The sweet temptation of a beautiful memory wrings me by the neck.

Its sweetness chokes me. I grasped for dear life.

Fighting and screaming for that bittersweet to end.

I wake up again to the same songs, the same sounds, the same pictures….

It’s 7 A.M. Monday again.

Outro-lude

The clock strikes 12 its midnight again.

The dark blue sky hums a melancholy tune.

The moonshine covers the empty city with light.

He looks up at the ceiling as he lays on his hospital bed.

Waiting for the clock’s hands to fall.

His heavy breathing forms a sound in his head.

Hee-hu-hee-hu-hee-hu-hee-hu-hee-hu

the dextrose dances its tube to the beat of breathing.

Rhythmically jiving.

The music fades and dips into black.

Interlude

The clock strikes 12 its lunchtime as his stomach tells him.

The eerie sound of flies buzz around as he opens his lunch.

The sound of computers talking about work fills the heavy air.

He listens to a tune in his head its Duran Duran

with a tint of Boy George.

What an akward mix of music…

How strange could that be?

As the music fades and dips into black

he finishes his meal and drowses for a power nap.

Walking through the endless galaxy of his dreams.

Waking reality seems unreal.

He wakes up and talks to the computer.

Intro-lude

The clock strikes 12

its midnight and the sun

is falling into the night sky.

The clouds erupt and burst into an orange hue.

The baby cries as he leaves the darkness

and is covered in light.

The ceaseless wails fill the white faced room.

As the doctor cuts his umbilical cord

it is its own being.

Feeling the moist air breathing in the smell of garbage

by the roadside.

Seeing the plethora of colors within the clean well-lighted room.

All life breathes into the feeble body, learning it on its own.

The excruciating pain of the cut life line to its God.

Composing its own tune dancing to the beat of its own reality.

The symphony of cries drowns out

the silence into the abyss of turmoil.

The clock strikes 1:00A.M.

The crying stops to the hum of

Twinkle Twinkle.

Virtual Reality

The blue sunrise  raises  the dew covered  concrete to its feet.

The buzzing sound of cars at 8:00 A.M. Monday morning

fills the empty crevices of silence.

The tick-tocking of alarm clocks says its time for work.

Getting up taking a bath, dressing up

eating that box of Fruit Loops.

Then off to that advertising firm before the boss

yells at a frenetic pace.

A thousand words per minute.

Effortlessly shifting from gear to gear as he cruises

along the highway of thoughts

colliding into each one at the red light.

The street turns gray and the cars take shape and color.

That black BMW and bluish Camry.

He walks into the firm.

A multitude of colors flash with a gleaming radiance.

Indistinguishable hues of watercolors  mix  with the

empty canvasses of the blank faces.

The computer sighs signaling the end of the day.

He finishes his Starbucks coffee and drives home.

He sleeps and wakes up in a room with four gray walls

with a white monolith standing by the door.