It did not rain

I go back finding myself going that way these days

Back home when it was still there.

Now it's Stein-like: there is no there there...anymore.

Back to an April turned less arid by a profusion of tears

as I run after Tito Willy, who became as elusive

as words, as dead as death itself;

Back to a dream-like November,

Mama looking straight into my eyes from her deathbed,

calling me by her dead son's name.

I ran away only to run back only to run after her

the way I ran after Tito Willy,

whom I became in her dying eyes.

Home then became as elusive as those two deaths,

tangible only because Mommy stayed (thankfully now)

rooted there on the side of the bed

telling me,

"I can't leave.

I don't want them talking ill of me after all these years

I stayed and suffered."

I did not run this time, and like her stayed

rooted in the middle of the bed

looking straight into her eyes

telling her,

"Don't tell me about people taking ill, Mommy.

I'm gay. I eat those ill words for breakfast.

Just give me the cue and we will both leave here

together."

And maybe, those same ill words (coming from me)

killed her in the end.

And so I compel myself to go back now

to that arid December, running again

to a home that died with Mommy, after three deaths in a row,

while the skies punish me by not raining.

Now back here, drained of vitality and too tired to ask,

"When do we leave?"

Patched waiting

Strangers all walk circle eyes

averted in all directions

seeking shade from the oppression

heat pain hardship confusion

thick like mud blood on

the soles of my slippers seeing

but blind to everything the

disembodied sermon crashing

down my soul splattered on

the pavement found a resting place

until suspicion rose like smoke

from the cigarette on the hand

of a child in mid-invitation

among the roots stones leaves oils

like an offering to gods in wait

guaranteed to relieve one of the

heat pain hardship confusion

in exchange for a little bit of

my soul splattered in the

middle of Plaza Miranda while

strangers all walk circle eyes

averted and barely there surviving.

Balikbayan

One week on the streets

unanchored crashing houses

on the way to people time places

I did not think to miss

crossing old bridges in repair

and new ones that were not on

the list of faces staring

at me from every vertical

taking up space for the right

to stain a finger and a nail

a great Kafkian mass

toppling in on itself

is it even worth it

to remember a day

when it did not rain in December

so I visited lives changed

but lived the way they were meant

struggling to make sense

futile like the desperate gyrations

of eight naked men

I cannot look in the eyes

but persistent enough bombarding

my consciousness in front of me

and all around dick in hand

I forget whose while beside me

a tattoo on the arm reads

"Bulwak" aptly on my hands

and jeans and shirt and everywhere

else still trying to find the peace

leading me back to one set of eyes

my stained hands reaching over

to offer friendship grasped

instead I drown and sink further

I have nothing more to give.

Sur(u)real

Night life is sporadic

death Gumaca seconds

of vacuum slowly then

briskly looming booming

noise thunderous oncoming

trucks buses tricycles

reach an overwhelming crescendo

then nothing cycling in

mind-numbing repetition

Morning inundation of

jingles utter flagellation

timed to the barking of

bitches pigs chickens

staccato pounding haunting

consciousness breaking early

shadows piercing my sun

rising to abstractions ending

with a whimper not a bang

change is no Change at all.

Lost Dune Less (for jazz)

Ours is the desert devoid of sandworms

Yet hope is a planet undiscovered

Pregnant as we speak like the future

Dimension where we shall soon fight

Again together again secured

Minds conversing feigns behind

Every feign and solitary

In our freedom no more.

My Pants on the Table

My favorite pair, at a time like this,

lie there with much thought put into it.

The rest, strewn around and about,

were accomplished by rote --

rather automatically, rare as these

come to pass, as passes -- made or given --

never visit as often as I would like

to like not even consciously, or so I say.

At least it was comfortable.

Hipo

Strangers sleeping dream worlds apart

Does one just really need to be touched sometimes?

Not this way--pushed and shoved and groped

In the semi-darkness of an unpenetrated vacuum

Sealed frozen core dried hollow shell

With nothing left but when do we go?

Being graphic

Back is but a word for escape:

Running away from the madness

That has been consuming me from within.

Here, where time is slower,

The madness likewise slows.

But there's barely anything of me left.

Pretty soon, the howling will emerge from the depths

To deafen my consciousness

And wake me with little left to run.