Lunar Eclipse

You are the moon tonight
And all the light
Tonight implies.
Your body,
A full smoothness,
In pallid splendor spreads
Like the naked sky above, and
All I do

Is tremble.
This is beauty lust and tremor:
The makings of a world.

Dearest, now, don’t worry.
As I hover above you, and touch
And eat you,
Like a supple grape, the moon,
All they’ll see
Is shadow.

The makings of a world:
The dark and swallowing shadow.

12:43 AM

Idiotic Idling Idioms/ Ostranenie

For when tatay cannot make tayo, even when you tayutay.

When I say that you
Should stab me with a knife,
I did not mean for you

To talk behind my back.
I meant, really,

Stab me with a goddamn knife.
Perhaps nine
Inches long. Making sure,
In the process, it’s sharp.

I heard the neck
Is the sweetest spot
For the sweetest

Dear, you are
The Apple
Of my eye.

When I look at you,
In the wee, early hours,
Between tremble, and
In-trepid, and

All I see
Is an apple.

And fuck do I want to bite you.
(not in a Christian Grey kind of way,
more like Michael Jackson in thriller)

There are butterflies in my stomach.

I ate butterflies for breakfast.



Are momentary roses,
Are apples in the garden of sin,
Are prayers and sin on the skin,
Are gospels of ghosts and gyzyms,
Are palpable the holy of halos,
Are halos the sizes of silverwares,
Are altars of devotion,
Are altars of desecration,
Are craters on the flat lands of the country,
Are flat lands in the country of the body,
Are the body whose angels are not free,
Are the blood and soul whose alchemy
Are silence and stillness stillborn,
Are the fossils and the fission
Of a hieroglyphic heart,
Are the body’s way of saying:
I am hurt.
This pain is making me blue.
God’s touch is making me

Turning Tables

(To Mama and Papa.)

I remember:    my face
In the seabed
Of both your stomachs.

You, together, carrying me,
When I was a child,
With the surging tide of

Your arms.
Carrying me,
And in carrying,

The World.

Mama and Papa,
Perhaps I know what’s changed.

Over the years, as my shadow
Crosses yours, as you could
No longer engulf me fully
In the fluid of your embrace,

Perhaps, it is nature:
That I’ve grown

Perhaps, though,
But Mama and Papa,
I am the same child twice, am I
Not? And thrice, the same child over
And over again.

Is it possible,
That it’s not me,
Who’s grown bigger,
But you, in time,
That’s gotten


Like waves receding into
The center of the Ocean.

Over the years, maybe, you are growing
Small, Mama and Papa.

And smaller,

‘Til you are small enough to fit,
And in so fitting, sleep,
In the calmness of my heart.

Now that I carry the world for you.


Love In The Time of Poetica

Hinuli ako ng Tula
Sa gitna ng Pagka—
Kinalabit, at saka
Kinuwelyuhan. Itinulak ang
Katawan sa pader.

Gumapang ang
Tula’t, hinalikan
Ang hinubdan
Na dulas ng aking pusod.
Sinunggaban ang labis
Na lapnos ng aking
At saka

Ang nagising at naninigas
Na ningas
Ng aking

Hinuli ako ng Tula.
Na ako ang

Hinuli’t, isinubo’t,
Hanggang sa

Ng mainit at
Malagkit na punlay

Ng ‘alam, alamat, at alat
Ng buhay.

Consider this my birthday wish

If, today, I were
to die, donate
my body

to the National Museum.

Ask, for them,
to plastinate
my lower

in the grace of eternal run.

Donate my eyes to the blind
and merest child. My skin
for the cold uncovered. Bones
for the frailest flesh.

Grind my innards fine, and
feed them to
the fishes. Feed them to
the birds.
Cremate the ones too many, and
fertilize the earth.

For in death
we are
the earth.

And I hope,
for when I die,
for me
to be
not nowhere
   but everywhere.