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• Weatherman's Forecast of Rain
• Manila Monday Morning
• Evening and Under
• Aerophobia
• Conversations With a Paintbrush
• Studying for a test one late night

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Something to stand under while
we wait for the 8:22 bus
that never comes on time.

That morning

peered through the blinds
expecting the drip-drop sounds
and the matching visuals on the pool
of a generous precipitation.

But there is none

except for the mist
that could hardly be considered rain.

So we cross the street defenseless
to the red-marked sidewalk stop

Nothing to stand under while
we wait for the 8:22 bus
that never comes on time.

curses and verses

more verses
than more curses:

the long traffic out of here
the longer traffic to here
the longest traffic to her.

channel surfing
the chicken yellowish white
begins to take a fast
display of swapping hues
as it burns in colored smoke

took one bite then another
then feed the rest to the
plastic tongue of the trash

my octopus neighbor above
begins his wandering

faucet on, faucet off
dropping heavy boots
and moving furniture
or dead bodies
running, coming to a halt
up the stairs, down
doors swinging
music coming on
sounds of frying
crushing
washing
drying

then

nothing

people should be allowed
to walk on ceilings.

They do not respect my sleep.

When their wings collide with
the stars, i hide in my
blanket, afraid of the molten
metal rain.

And each time one dives deeper,
flying dangerously closer
to the roof, i cry.

Your absence has brought
me strange fears.

the stench of dried paint
and beer bottles welcome as i
sort the painted walls, recalling
the mother of each and when
and how i came to release
their individual still-lives.

must have been a night
of pleasured arguments against
heavy hands and empty tubes
and blindfolded eyes
while outside
the only sound not resting
is the moonlight casting in
a dance its borrowed light
against the heavy downpour.

must have been a night
like tonight

now, while i await the
victory of the beer bottles over
the dried paint, while the
steadiness remains, strangle
the thin neck of hues and
for hours sit in patience

trying to convince
the ends of my paintbrush
that your face is not
worth painting.

a mechanical noise
of the wind blowing defies
the calmness of the hour,
interrupted seasonally
by little squeaks from
nowhere.

outside
there are occassional voices.