March 18, 2020

 

Today I’ll fold my work clothes neat

in the cabinet farthest from the bedroom door,

hide my leather shoes, canvas sneakers

at the bottom shelf of the shoe rack;

roll my neckties, hang my sweaters,

turn most pairs of my socks to balls;

arrange my pens and sticky notes in a pack;

confine in a box my 3-year old knapsack.

I’ll ration the canned goods and some leftovers

for two weeks. It will be hard to go out.

I’ll befriend the citronella, converse with the snake plant -

an odd pair perched on my balcony’s gravel stone ledge.

I will get more used to the stench of the backyard canal,

neighbors nervously pacing our building’s narrow corridors,

blares of sirens rushing to a nearby hospital,

my Aegean cat rubbing her nose on the floor.

Things I’m assured will be within 35 square meters;

the size of my world, the new normal.

The steps I’ll measure will be the length

of how my dreams stroll further in my mind.

Nights will be darker, humid and restless;

days will be quiet, replete of the scurries and hustle.

Working hours will be spent in front of two monitors

placed near a window for a view of the sky.

And on weekends, pastimes on paintings and prayers

that the world won’t descend towards chaos and hell,

then binge watch frequently Aamir Khan’s 3 Idiots

to keep telling myself all is well, all is well.

Under Construction (still)

The houses mushroomed with blue roofs
for almost a decade.
Settled dusts, dried paint
left their own craquelures.
Through the window, late morning lights
poured in different slants.
The cerulean roofs carried
hesitant bird chirps.
A tricycle travailed lazily
over the cracking asphalt road.
The rusted tractors parked
under an incomplete flyover
had, on their one-armed claws,
residues of leveled down
century-old trees.
A young boy led his reed-thin goats
to where the grasses still grew.
The old farmer who once owned
a little plot of that land, sighed
"houses should stand here
for the foreigners, the city dwellers,
that's what Mayor said.
But look, nine years after I gave up the land
they're barely sold yet."

Do not lift the pen

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
even think
about it,
excuses
to stray from
your penciled
gray outlines.

Think of those
light sketches
the way Earth
Mother made,
on her skin,
deep ridges
for rivers
to flow rich
ceaselessly.

Imagine
like rivers
your inkflows
layer on
the graphite,
thick imprints
of your hand's
careful, slight
signature.

Imagine
the quickness,
the swiftness,
the utter
thoughtlessness
letting lines
bear genius,
make mistakes.

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
entertain
doing it:
random strokes,
curlicued
adventures
dry quickly
from previous
glistening
wet daydreams.

Respite

I lost my movie ticket
Looking for an open door
In an already closed, barely visited
High-end mall.

It's one way the universe tells us
We've got enough to spare
Like the dinner you didn't like,
The oily sesame noodles
Coupled with hot tea,
Not worthy of the pesoses
We easily departed with.

It's one way the universe tells us
Not everything goes our way.
And if we want to buy another peace of mind
Shell out further those extra pesoses
Clipped cleanly in our small pockets.

Distraction

Pleasantly
sat over
my finger -
a red glob
reflecting
splintered light
here on my
punctured skin.

I never
wondered how 
it was formed,
never blamed
the needle
that planted
its sharp kiss
on taut flesh,

Never asked
what karmic
punishment
for past sins
imploded
my lofty
search for one
sacred word;
rendered null
multitude
fleeting dreams;
made it quite
difficult
to recall
a stranger’s
comely face
while my mind
got a bit
engrossed with
prickly pain.

What wild worlds
I might have
written, what
character
could have sprung,
what tall tale
might have formed
from such swift
slight instance
was made moot,
lost for good
by fate’s hard
piercing smooch.

Now I must 
convince you,
dearest ones,
expect not
much wished depth
nor yearned
eloquence.
Be content
with these words
that it bled.

My Blue Cap

My blue cap’s
Gone grayer
Hung alone
By its nail.

Seven weeks
Have passed by,
I dare not 
Stretch my hand,
Pick it up,
Slice the air.

I wore it
Under clear 
Brighter skies
And some smile
Flickered wide
In your eyes.

That instance
Is long gone,
Images
Blurred further
By callous
Passing days,

Memory 
That has aged
Where it is 
Crucified.

Wanderlust

While away
with the wild,
pick a peak
of mountain
you would like,
traverse those
beaten paths,
unrappeled
cliffs, gorges,
get god’s view
of the world,
the distant
sketch of sea,
line of land
and ravines
you would like
overcome.

Above, sky
patterned with,
mostly, clouds,
dome your self-
adventures,
morning fogs
planting their
wet kisses
on grass tips.
You find wind
hurrying
without time
to speak with
a brave man,
and he’ll do
remember
your presence,
carry scents
of your brown
sweat-stained shirts,
well-traveled
mud-caked shoes
to hidden
mossed gullies
and gulches,
secretly
brand it with
your true name.

Graffiti

Some found words
written on
a bus seat’s
creamy white
top cover:

“You lonely?
Come, call me.
We’ll both have
lots of fun.
I’ll make you
be happy.”

Artly you 
scrawled with blue
ink against
tarpaulin
your numbers
enticing
me to press
your digits
and connect.
Cautiously
I studied
your cursives,
the tremble
in each loop
looking for
danger signs.

Finding none
and the far
station’s now,
finally,
been reached,
I stood up
and quickly
left the bus.

Some Found Things

Some found things
by the road
to your home:

Your pair of
eyeglasses
thrown away
forsaking
clarity;
torn pieces
of paper
hastily
scribbled with
familiar
acronyms;
little bits
of chipped wood
from what seemed
like a well-
split pencil.

The small road
told your tale
as it was.


  * * *


Your small house,
commonplace
corpuscle,
lost you well.

Where should I
find some marks
of your faint
fingerprints?
Should I start
making up
wild stories?
Like, let’s say
“He was here
but found this
world wanting,
that he fled”,
or “he loved
them, the lights,
very much
he’d rather
in the dark
stay hiding.”

Those great dreams
you spoke of
now orphaned
walls, pillars
with no nails,
subterfuged
cobbed corners
bereft of
your trademarks,
absent your
presences.

Accuweather

The latest update
was a cloudless sky
for most of the world,
Manila to Toronto,
calmer docks in Miami,
clearer outlook in Dhaka.
Save a dark brown patch
on the radar screen
over southern regions of China,
all is good for a moped rendezvous.

This is the new fear, the one
to keep our weary eyes on.
We'll take the dusty road
close to the reservoir,
get a good look at the water
beyond its critical level, rationalize
the schedule of rations and why
our faucets are still dry
even in the first months
of the rainy season.

Friday

Friday. You both wore the same shade
of color: royal blue, a language
understood by a few, that exclusive
party of him and you.
There, that unspoken agreement
hidden in plain view, was clear
to me. Just me. Nobody else.
You did everything in stealth.

A paranoid would have gone crazy
not knowing the back story,
subterfuged history,
anecdotes passed in whispers,
why it became clear he held
an umbrella over your head
in a morning that had a light rain
while I stood from a distance
in a weathered raincoat
and my skin turned slightly green.

Argh

Some dire things

That I fear

Like losing

You my dear

Snaps behind

My left ear

More wary

Of the mere

Thought of you

Not found here

Beside me

Makes me hear

Crazy things,

Makes me swear

Crazy things,

Might as well

Drown in beer.

Some key things

I hold dear,

Losing you

I most fear,

I peek through

The veneer

See if you

Have come here,

Praying you’re

Coming here,

But you are

Nowhere near.

Let me grab

One more beer.

Residence

Hi. Welcome
to my home
where a cat
imprints on
the leather
ottoman
her own sui
generis 
signature
scratched beside
my penciled
version of
that lucky,
auspicious
Tree of Life;
a turtle
paints green trails
of himself
on the smooth
white-tiled floor;
how the dank
toilet room
has passed days
untidy,
molds forming
strange colors
where water
used to drench;
and up there, 
the bedroom’s
grayed ceiling,
a spider
weaves a thin
prismatic
most fragile
expression
of herself.

There’s not much
space to run
and let dreams
wildly fly
and the paint
on the walls
have all gone
brittle with
traitor time.
But please do
come in. Please,
I insist.
I have chairs,
some corners,
dainty cups
for coffee
or hot tea,
a window 
with a view
of city
and a mind
that’s brimming
with stories,
poesies,
heresies.

A Brown Bird

A brown bird
perched atop
a wizened
brittle branch,
trusted all
of its weight
on the gnarled
forgotten
thin fingers
of an old
sycamore.

The wind snapped
the branch from
its comfort,
broke the weak
dying stem
and blew it
on the gray
hot pavement.

Left dead at
the asphalt,
that old branch
forsook its
hopeful wish
to ever
grow its own
small green leaves.

Hastily
the brown bird
flew away
with its wings.