Mon Vert

  There is a unique tune in their creation Birds  when they overcome winds in their white armors, Against worry they create wonder in the sky as though they freeze time that green leaves do not grow out of their green shells to browning colors, Like they are past mirroring the red and paleness of fleshes in their drive for independence, of life, their immortality.  

   It is strange now silent nights I feel away from my place an empty room to a space of no sound and light, my existence to a drop of a feather.      

  One of my earliest poems that I really liked and stayed for awhile in my head. It's funny now but I still think its good. I don't know why...     Doorstep strays by the guava bearing trees Flayed wooden branches, emptied to its sleep This love began only without a fruit On the ring of coarse and grated cheese. With non-seeded beans, Italians will quiver Salted banana ricecakes turn the radios over When it hums, the cockroach fills its hunger What happened when it began Lamp posts, they do not flicker anymore Not even on the evening joint rides rarely seen by the eyes They’ve hidden them, those gems they will cry What happened when it lasted Nothing left, no goodbyes Bathroom corners, the smoking pots No fun left behind, I love too you know.  

   when I have a hard time I always remember the dark alleys of clinics facing each other, where there is a cleaning lady carrying a mop and a bucket. she would always wear a red shirt and black trousers, hair tied I suppose a uniform, sometimes she would walk past us, smiling gently. my aunt would always manage to ask questions, she would answer and I would sit to listen where it begins to go awkwardly and polite But she was always too soft, and genuine, she makes people feel patient, human.

  There was longing And chaos And battle ships Rowing to my heart All to destroy my little island Of paradise.

  Sudden, and so gravity seems to rebel in summers warmer, lighter we weigh lesser and the beats come to fit better we live toes to toe song to song we live for the ocean blue and the heat that comes around back and forth.  

   inside the space between the still and the living into the seedless, the unmoving waters into the disarray of sails there is a stir to create the wind to get away to believe into the waves that carry the awake and the seen from the darkest nights where the light does not shine through the waters.

If you find me through these flashes of light in through these wallows, of these escapades that bring the narrows and the mild cold weather tell me so if so, tell me so the cold does not do me good.  

   Lost into eternality like madness buses, the wind is fast waiting is fast hours will become lik e the sun melting, like madness it is browning cooking boiling it is hot dancing into dances without thinking of necklaces that rings go round into these hands swaying weaving to thin air remembering because it is going, threads are going endlessly.                      

   There is a loud shot of bullets firing through chests and tires of a red convertible car reflecting neon lights and a gas station, He was wired in the head with a gun out of rounds and to hide the corpse inside trunks he got them keys and drove through town with broken tires screeching with sirens and a crying lady on the seat thinking how’d she choose an eraser to put on a jail breaker kind of pen.

Jeepneys and jeans Come together When crowds In the heat of summer sling their hands On shoulders And shoes become slippers And sandals become wider Feel well altogether To slip on Toes and heels Of women While their dangles Of hair Curl on sweat And hands remain on sides Where they do not belong Or pockets While we look for calves And naked foots On sands on beaches while we lay to let the sun blare to burn our lies to the summer heat.

  Confusing just so, that it becomes unseen and everything is felt untouched has it gone? this anger has it flown? the music is about to end this loud beating a wildfire of growing supple trespass to which can I point this to? Confusing me just as so.

  The usual scrambling of bags and glass could be heard just outside the bathroom walls, As I take adventures on dew drops at the sides of a bucket and the unwavering reflection of light on water I sat as my toes began to tingle and under my nose began to sweat The familiarity of the bathroom was known as my face gazed down the disturbed waters, The momentum of silence seemed to be as loud as the presence of wet floors and my wet feet.

  There is motion where the eyes sit to where it begins a journey of looking of thinking of making a dream a vivacity of tales the wheel of colors that adorns that admires this speck of wonder this mystery.  

  I woke with June staring at the wall today. She must've been thinking for awhile, as the line of ants begun to ward off from her fingers drifting across. We laid there, as the sun seemed to gloom outside from our window. "I thought of dinner yesterday, it was nice, I'd like it today too." She said. "Oh yeah?" We had mashed potatoes then, I thought it was disgusting, but yeah it would've been nice to have it now. Although no one seemed to want to go to the market today or take a glimpse of what's inside the empty drawers. We knew it was empty. Only a few bottles of condiments and an empty tray of eggs. "The air seemed different today, no?" I smiled. We laughed for a minute after that. It was stupid to think of the wind, when you are hungry. "Yes it is different, I think its just a tad colder than it was." "What month is it now?" "Maybe its October, its cold in October." I stood, taking a coat from ...

Gone is where the wind melting under this horrible heat Something has gone amiss in my globe of light, my seeking In the clouds birds continue to soar standing under I continue to gaze like it had been my dream to fly.

The dusk  remembers  the day when it does not see  Its morning in nights  Like eyes  lt sulks  It does not see what it wants  hides when it wants  it leaves a track of dreams  That does not come to life  writing onto a raining day  it becomes muddled  even then the richness does not die  it breathes like a lemon  fragrant such  on a gentle light.

Before the sun cracked In this open winded sky I was alone Flaking in a field of wheats Constellations twinkling In their lifetime of looking The plains rose As if it was drifting on its own Away from the roads Passing of cars In this trickle Of consciousness The clouds have broken in Into parting.

to divide a pitch,  alight it is like a feather a cross of a bridge the parting of clouds meant,  not be understood and strained  to the bottomless pit of our voices an end of what is a dance a close to a tune  a peace  a truce the dusk it is a mindless intruder gentle, as you are.

  “Church had always been like a field of poppies, one day it would wake mid-bloom and tell the Sun to move on. In the nab of thunder, nimble clouds would swarm in the sky, in little islands, to call the day of rain. Soon my window sill would be full of water and days will last in slumber.”  It is important, that in homilies, one must make haste to write of what may stray on one’s mind. This brief sensibility may have been why I had found myself to you, Iris. When you said that what makes us cry in music is when melancholy collides with specificity, at the time I had thought I understood you fully, that in all odds, we were a half of a half, that we shared the same kind of sadness.  I remember you wearing that dress, the one I wanted at Kaash’s, I still want to know what you meant, when I had gone with you that night and we were drenched from head to toe. Had I been upset differently, would you have smiled when you said those words? Would you have brought me to a quieter ...