holiday in holiday inn

they didn’t want americanos

anywhere near clark-mimosa;




of them   s o m e   years

before –

screwing their women into


& reclining in

a haven of homes

with tiled floors

& flushing latrines,

while –

outside in the liquid heat –

the locals

coiffed the lawns.


I will tell you something.

the americanos never left;

troupes of

camouflaged troops

p a r a d e ground this hotel;

trundle with BIG


e n f i l a d e

every floor:

t r e s p a s s  the   foyer

like ants a r o u n d sugar.


their officers fart and froth

at the bar,

sinking budweiser

by the bottle,

while the puerile recruits

who haven’t yet

started to shave,

ogle the women

in the pool

like they’d never scanned

that gender before.


I was going to ask them

what are you doing here,

but their deferential smiles

and syrupy polite

‘what level, sir’ –

as we share an upward elevator –

merely serve to blunt

my own

atrabilious mission.


so we holiday,

slightly wary;


have a

militarised vacation





pampanga back lot

the sun is a liar.

he swindles the shrubbery



every       day,


as   they   g y r a t e                             that


&         this,

scalded by his scorches.


he merely sneers

&   glares;

some     times

just sulks;                                                  skulks


the nearest nimbus.


theirs’ is NO choice.


they     thirst   for

some   sort     of




s   t   r   e   t   c   h     &       s   t   r   a   i   n

y e a r n i n g l y,



this   final  decollate












Although they could not hear
My heart to them is very near
They could not hear any curses
That, to them is their advantage
Lots of hope is there for the deaf
Many endeavors are there and left
Talents are there, clear and seen
As an example, Ms. Marlee Matlin



Hidden river of crystal waters

Quietly streaming by,

Sailing down with sentiments,

Splitting near apart.


Between bridge of self conceit

And the narrow path of disbelief

Releasing strained uneasiness

In pure comforting loveliness.


My ever-present friends,

At the corner of my eyes,

Who meekly heed to my heart’s beckoning

In all occasions of my life.


From simple call of ecstasy

I find them always standing by

To my world that falls apart,

They faithfully stick around!


I have some funny rendezvous

With these fellows round the corner,

When they come in such a hurry,

Even though they’re uninvited.


Like when they came rushing

While I was watching at the parlor

Of these silly soap operas

Which made me sneak inside the washroom!


These salty crystal gems,

Which sometimes come annoying,

Yet in plentiful occurrence,

They neutralize my heart’s beating!


Oh, tears inside me and tears that gone,

You wipe away the dust,

That blinds my heart within,

May you never dry up so please keep standing by!

The Declassified Love

all at once, a great moving
act that what we do are all
for profit,

these lies, these shaky
plans, these answers,
these games, these romances,
these thoughts, these
wants, these systems,
these smiles

have you ever seen me

worn-out prophesies and
drying skin never felt
so complex and detached,

I stare and stare

never flinching upon my
self—in front of this place,
this exact spot for a
new, beautiful memory.

Gripping At The Handles

speechless, I begin to
perceive the ‘isms’ in your
seeming social stance

I was once bullied, to the core—
never minding perversity,
come across a book of tears,
(or drew them myself),
or plain honesty vis-à-vis,
retreating from hurtful names
that stuck to the soles of my
shiny, black shoes,
spotting Biblical verses
in your maniacal struggle
to put everybody into

may I just comprehend everything
in abc’s
like wanting it simply, so,

wishing it wasn’t like it, but it is
between, and amongst, what
I do not care to delve into anymore.

my Maria Clara dress won’t fit into
your puny personality, either.


yes, it is, like it is,
withholding no secrets,

now, you walk alone,
fiddling with your ego,
wandering far beyond
the subtle hills
being blown by causes
and remains,

watchful eyes,
searching whether
you’re a prodigal child
knowing who is,

letter-perfect soul,
cuts through the
obscured clichés once again,

tragically—bordering on
a sanity deprived, you walk
along, in the obliquely
off-tangent mark,

“what’s a flower
going to do without
its ugly prettiness?”

Poor Man’s Heaven

meanwhile, as though it never
mattered, it forces
me to be brave
and to trust,

as I ask the information
center person,

where and what to do
with amateur things,

or as while deciding what pricey
drink you are going
to obtain from the blinking
vending machine,

while as you, or that, wait for me
to close in on my hopes
or to explain on my sweat,
I struggled,
fishing my social status
in a pocket full
of non-air conditioned
bus tickets,

sometimes, you could, even;
never will it matter anyway.

Somewhere In The Blue

Somewhere in the blue
When everybody is asleep
I will tuck you in quietly sound
In the most secretive corner

And I long to sigh these words
When I knew it was you who draw
This world a question mark to its nose
And all I had to do was just to ask
Where have all the peace gone to?

I turned to you and whispered moments
As though it will never happen in time again
It is as if the sky had built a world that
Only you and me can cry into and bend

All the while I saw you waving farewell
To that one place that we will know so well
It is as seems the greatest lie in this world
When all the love in our veins had been
Seeped dry

I quietly told you “I love you”
And all the painful things one has to hear
All the more you told me to be braver still
For it is somewhere, we will shine again

I Will Write You A Love Poem

I will write you a love poem
Much more of a mystery than
words itself; when the bottomless
sun makes me write these words
until they leave you with
breathless sighs

I will make everyday a simple grace
for you
Much like waiting a blessing in disguise
And when every single soul has left
the place
I will gather all the remaining roses
and plant them in your heart, one
by one

And all throughout history, I wished
that every single painting that I see
of you has been understandably seen,
without such eyes where will I be free
when will such eyes be welcome to be

And I hold this glass of water. Without
moving an inch, I tried communicating
to you the sudden richness of a language
only the sky has lost in translation; and
everywhere broken remnants of our love
lie in exposed, like unsheltered remains,
of a truth that isn’t so.

A Girl

A girl
Let’s call her me
Went down to see
With her own eyes
What life is all about
Talking, breathing
Speaking of languages
Of tongues, of mazes
Bent her head to see
That it was just for fact.

And all around her
Proved too much
Slipping for words
She mistakenly
Put her heart where
Her world is, and
Now it’s clouded,
And every thing
Makes it more
Difficult to see,
Or just peek into
And be made whole,
Like so.

For the Asking

For what is art

And love that hurts

These nature’s times

Do waste and tire.
[Read more…]

Editing Life

As an editor, I am confounded by the number of writers who refuse editing; insisting that their work is perfect as it stands. It is especially disheartening to hear this proclamation from novice writers who stand firm in the certainty that their religious beliefs, combined with divine inspiration, somehow exempts them from the issues of grammar, punctuation, subject-verb agreement and numerous other problems that writers new and seasoned inevitably have with their work.
[Read more…]


When the wind flew beyond the reverie of my mind
my dream soars to fulfill my being.
I am a man of freedom.
I am free.
Am I?

If so.
Why the church has Ten Commandments?
And failure to do so is condemnation to hell.
Why does society has set of rules?
And violation to such
is against the law.
Why I have to discern to act accordingly
to the will of God?
And why I am required only to be morally good?

Reality here is a little complicated.
This is why beyond the reverie of my mind
I am still looking where freedom resides.
There I will live freely to fulfill my being.
My dream will fly even unto heaven
For I believe I am designed by God with freedom.

Though I have no wings to fly and so I can’t.
I have two feet to travel the path of my fate.
I have two hands to grab every opportunity that knocks my door.
And I have me to decide what I shall do to myself.
I own my life.