Two Forks

 

the world is a porcelain plate

on the table

while he is munching above it

A Moses wearing an old but fine tuxedo

Unshaven, lips glistening with sweet

and sour pork's grease

greased as his amber tipped fork

suddenly a fly

buzzes in then lands with

ovation on his fork

"Excuse me," he said

then hid his hands

he slapped his right hand not the fly

for it should have been holding

a spoon not

another fork 

 

 

 

Of Flies and Men

 

Sacred be a soul fitted all wards

To the barrier separating endlessness

Fits the eye – a shooting star

Rocketing empty of carnal direction

Alone remembering, regretting peacefully

Intoxicated by an oblivious rest

Staring at the shadow at its umbra

A humbled self as huge as coldness

Missed by the universe of self

Doubting haphazardly – scared

Doubt! Gain or lose none

“Have I been blessed?” not important

Ask the children if their mother-fly

Have seen you…

 

 

 

Fly of the Lord

Then, by the tick of howling silence I

Mourning for a lost love I can never lose

-Why her? In my heart I hold scorn

Death be to what caused her death, of my too

I would never accept – why I?

All flame etching earth’s darkness

I, raging and lost – battered specimen

Glazed the Bulacan marble with my tears…

 

A buzzing came that hops and claps

Teasing? Insulting? Rejoicing – for my lost?

Is this your messenger? Why so small?

The small desecrator of my beloved’s temple

Now hopping –pincher of my heart now moving towards

Her lips – is she Your reason? You took her

For Yourself…

 

Another dog howled against me

I cannot mourn nobody's lost

The world is silent feared by souls

My concrete’s dull

That buzzing came

 

 

In the Cloud is the Phoenix

 

Hopping and clapping while drooling

Her legs are from a barbed wire

Her nose by her black legs she wipes

She has eyes she could not blink

Her small veins with joy overflowing

Pollens on her legs, on her leg hairs

Pollens on her lips, no her lip hairs

Pollens from her new old flower

That reminds her of her lunch

Corrupted by the holy grandmother

Now, food and pillow are her pollens

Pollens as much as her hairs and eyes

Weary are her eyes with sensing danger

Sick of eyeing for his eyes… those eyes

In that white cloud that had her sister

For the minute she succumbs to sleep

Is the moment of the period for her fable

The end – in the cloud, the eyes are waiting

  

Fly-bag

 

Sitting on the porch waiting

To drool for the lines there under

Smoking cancer for the death of night

Under the light shade so near

Risking surname flirting with shadows

to receive enervated stares from

Sexiness from after wetting their thighs

Sublimely stroking the lamp post

Asking for the corner more light

Minutes of being alone – of senselessness

Of remembering wet dreams of pretense

Comes a lady cleavage covered with her hand

On her back a bouncing black bag prevents

Sight nailed, instead, on a lizard

Running after her tamed evanescence

Climbing her legs, of course then thighs

Poor me, lucky lizard now on her hips

In her bag the lizard goes – stupid lizard

Wasting time I would not have!

Then falling after the other I see

A fatter lizard still munching – from her bag?

He’s teasing – I said, “No thanks,

I don’t eat flies.”