Philippine president in New York

babagsak ka rin
duguan mong ulo'y maglalarin-larin ....

BUTCHER (for Jovito Palparan)

In the service of "who"?
the dying statistics of
mangled tortured bodies
and cracked skulls ...
our cries pierce the sky
as hollow projectiles
stab you and silence
the tongue that is so
used in wagging death

TEARS

weep beside my casket
but don't let your tears
linger on the glass ...
let it drench the earth
already littered with bones
fertilizing the rising crop of
steadfast fists and militant hearts...

BULLET

Stars fall from
sky above as
another kasama
accept and embed
the lead slugs
in his thin flesh
as hatred-full laughter
echo from the dark.

there's a word "me" in PROBLEM

the problem with today
is yesterday and yesterday's
problem is looking forward
towards tomorrow and so
the problem goes on
and on like the spokes of a wheel
that is needed to keep this
vehicle going ... this vehicle
we call life going .. even
towards uncertainty and nothingness.

tomorrow looks very bright, indeed
especially if it is a gray cloud cast
against the dark night ...
frog croaking at the invisible moon

farmers marching towards Manila (straight from my brain,unedited)

farmers ... tillers of my land
far away on
the move, marching,
chanting their voice hoarse
trying to crack the glass
heavens for the genuine change
and peace that is so
elusive in the present dictatorial
regime of the puppet
president

glued to the boob tube
wishing I am home

the great multitude of my
people raising their angry fists
defying the State that's never
for them ... for their chidren
and my own .. for all brown skinned
indios, proletariats, peasants
and the working class ... wherever
we may be ...

the doll with the throbbing black mole
must be brought down

sky opening a hazy hue

the sixty tics that
round the face of the clock
made a complete revolve
as words were pumped to
combat the foe in my
legal gobbledygook
(did I even spell it right?)

onward and forward
as I look up the bright sky
devoid of clouds as I
clutch my growling gut
after my struggle with
the 'tikbalang' in Dandy suit
(you expect me to explain this mythical beast?)

temporarily relieved
as I trudge the streets of Gotham
for the remainder of the day
will again be spent in front
of the conveyor belt of
prepping agony and despair
(drifting off and away from the topic)

one afternoon in the library of Cornell (unedited)

welcoming the breather
as my mind squeeze the
already parched tabula
every drip of a letter seems
like also brushing my blood
dry as it splatter on blank
paper hoping they do
make sense

it is hard when heaven
haven't wept for so long

there must be an end
this dismal routine of working
the conveyor belt of medical
care sounding like a bloated frog
awhile wishing that the old self
of maybe 2 decades ago is still
there, buried but nevertheless
there while I demand for signs

it is hard when heaven
haven't wept for so long ...