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.