Narra Blossoms

Still in my teens
and mastering how 
to climb a tall tree
without noisy rustles 
and scrapes bleeding,
I am perched again
on a sturdy branch
to watch this couple
do their usual rituals
that make me quiver
and the ground eager
to welcome as a grave.
They are both artists
blowing birdless sky 
or distant hill smoke
before painting faces
staring in Picasso blue
or the thick undulation 
of the white sea suds 
as though the quiet
after the suddenness
of quick drowning.
I follow their fingers
grazing hair and skin 
like how their brushes 
wet, stroke, and rub 
repeatedly as if for 
emphasis or lucidity,
the sound of their lips
I can only imagine
from afar shaking me 
and the tree flowers.
I have been waiting
for some time now,
the leaves concealing 
my half-naked body, 
my eyes like those
of a predator watchful 
before an easy snare,
but the studio is still
empty, the pretty couple 
still missing, the narra 
blossoms still waiting 
to fall and finally settle.

Buffet for the Police

See, cops do not pay,
not even a gum
to mask the chlorine
stench of cum.

Her lips, like a donut,
glazed, cherry,
excite their eyes, red,
dazed, too scary.

They tatter her blouse,
buttoned tight,
unpacking sweet milk,
grapes, a delight.

For buns, they turn her
for clear butter,
sticking a clench before
shoving anger.

Playing with her cock
they call extra,
it is sausage and eggs,
but still vagina.

A sad workout, forced
to serve a sauce,
they lick, all drops of it,
acting like a boss.

Desserts, smaller bites
left on her skin,
shallow nail scratches,
gluttons grin.

Look, officers execute
if she says no,
thus, smiling as though

a lady, for ego.




Neither an astrologer of doubts 
or blinking lies
nor a loyal hawker, 
a peddler of tainted cues,
I speak today 
not with the slanderer’s tongue
that only knows bitter bile 
and vomit on lips.

I accuse those dreaming poets 
who only utter 
epic love, the lust
that soaks skins in sweat,
and their pens 
whose ripe words fail to describe, 
the agony of the mother 
orphaned with a son.

I accuse the flutes, the composers 
of melodies,
the makers of cellos, 
the singers of sad songs
whose strings 
and notes don’t heal the maladies
of the still chest bleeding 
in the quiet of graves.

I accuse the hands that carve dark 
mahogany lives,
those who form faces 
and chisel marbled eyes,
those who can’t 
sculpt his giggles, his tiny fingers, 
the final warm clinging 
of his lifeless arms.

I accuse those unknown inventors 
of subtle tones,
the painters of soft 
textures and coy shadows,
of timid smiles, 
of pink roses on shy rosy cheeks,
for I see no wrath, no rage,
no hue of bloody red.

I know not one but all the truths 
they conceal,
between the cadence 
of thoughts, in their hums, 
in silhouettes, 
behind the calm of wood that will
never bring my baby back, 
my Emile now dead.

The Evolution of Old Dailies

He began with paper boats
to help search for his father
sunk in the helix of the sea,
then a paper plane to scour
the sky for God he thought
was either blind or sleeping.

The kitchen quiet, he made
paper birds in the ricefield
they had already neglected,
then the paper grey mullet
his father grilled on cinders,
recalling the sour of lemons.

He has been folding the eye
of a woman, sooner her face.


Street Idler

Between the rock
and the hard asphalt,
I can wait,
I can only hope:

kisses of strangers,
empathy of the night,
the taste,
the warmth of rice,

but the cops come
to snare and hold me,
for the bars,
for the coldest floor.

School for Slaying

No pair of socks stitched on
with his initials but the drab
condom balloon fully blown
for his fantasy birthday party,

already a vagabond at seven
and incapable of tot rhymes,
he is eager to learn all about
the point honed on the sand

or the whetting of the edges
still dull on the skin thickened
by dirt and dark from summer,
the pop of air unable to bleed,

not sure how to cleave in half
the braided string he dangles,
and the bullfrog croaks nearby,
his eyes panning in excitement.

Pubertal Pacifism

The world a sinkhole,
my mind plagued
with pulled toenails
and scorched hair,
thoughts of revenge
are swallowing me,
even my exhaled air.

But I do not want
to end up like them,
his state assassins
and her executioners,
gorged by anger
mutating into hate,
the id of longing.

To forget the horrid
shapes of curling,
I lie on my stomach
and let the breeze
cling to my oiled skin,
my eyelids closed,
touching as if loved.

In Each Other’s Arms

Between the tree
and the window:
the lust of a child.

His father promised to take him
to a brothel for teenage baptism,
but that was before he was shot.

Her ritual at nine
teaches anatomy:
a woman’s torso.

His mother died after childbirth
so he has never suckled breasts,
and nobody can tell about vulvas.

A shadow drawn
by the moonlight:
the child’s pining.

She knows the sob story of the boy,
so she does not mind the disquiet
of foliage and the quiver of boughs.

The lamp stays on
to cast a silhouette:
the woman’s edge.

She has been nursing her own ache,
her husband left for a younger one
and it is the only revenge she knows.

Curves and Cleavage

I force myself
to think they are oranges,
what you conceal
and others call puberty.

A boy below who does not
know anything
about climbing a tall tree
can only look.

I have several hairs
growing on my thick skin,
the inches I hide
now stubborn and long.

A girl rushing the redness
of her bow lips
needs not reveal her name
but smile a little.

I can ask no one
how to silence with a finger
or how to respond
to the pulling of your hand.

A bulbous avocado ripened
on the fruit stand,
the coins spared are enough
for skin and milk.

Afternoon Intoxication

My elbows on the wood slab
for leaning on the patio,
the awning tight for comfort,
I noticed a child nearby
playing with rocks and stones
like a fixated geologist
awed by the earth and its lava.

Stubbornness is the logic of spit.

I watched with the keen eyes
of an anthropologist, no noises,
not even a sigh, wondering
if he could explain to me now
the strange texture of dirt
that welcomed itself to his skin
or the long absence of rain.

The empathy of saints is a lie.

He leaned his back on the flat
stingy surface of the ditch,
the remains of the dead estuary,
to watch the clouds deflate
or count the thirsty passerines
hitting the concrete facade,
the force of their seasonal panic.

What stays on the throat is bitter.

My last sip from the iced can,
the kick of malt and hops shamed
the uselessness of my smile
when the orphaned child saw me,
malnourished flies staying on
his lips and digging for last words.

Squeezed lemons are not cliches.