Portrait of A Poet—Part II—as Pebble

I am a pebble small,
Lying on the road
By the wayside.
Lying on the road along
With scattered leaves
And footsteps going
To different windward
Directions.

I am a pebble small,
Able to blind the eyes
With my minuteness.
Able to ruin the cogs
Inside a machine.
Through time and dust
And through the accumulation
Of particles and elements
Within me, someday I’ll be a rock.
More so I’ll be a boulder.
At most——a moving mountain.

April 21, 2016

2 minute poems on heavenly bodily fluids, politically incorrect and offensive

1. tell me what this is: _______

little clouds coming out
of little openings

slits or doors of abysmal
rendezvous

and with it in months
little angels
clue: this is

a sea of men

2. today i ran and with it
my dreams came out of me

who knew that dreams could smell
like little road signs?
and stop signs?
and gas leaks?
maybe—

3. is it cum
or precum
or postcum
or no cum at all

does cum laude mean
with great cum
cause if it is
then every day’s
a magna

4. they say it is pineapple juice
i say it is
just juice

5. tell me what this is: _________

little seas of roses flowing on
her thighs

and with it inside her tummy
little thorns
clue: this is

a sea of
mens

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.

6/1/2015
12:43 AM

Idiotic Idling Idioms/ Ostranenie

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

I.
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
Sibilant
Sleep.

II.  
Dear, you are
The Apple
Of my eye.

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

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)

III.
There are butterflies in my stomach.

I ate butterflies for breakfast.

 

Bruises

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:
Enough,
I am hurt.
This pain is making me blue.
God’s touch is making me
Blue.