Window Seat

You enjoy
the way the world looks
as you pass it by,
the way the wind blows
across you and your unkempt hair.

You stare.
In this dilapidated car, you stare
and see how the blurred visions
all fuse into one truth,
with you moving through it
as you sit in this dank, rickety vessel.

You stare,
oblivious to all
save the view's
overwhelming consumption of you.

Sightseeing

There is an open window
intruding upon the solitude of my room.
But the wind that passes through it
is a welcome break from taxing thoughts.
My lust-filled eyes long
for the sight outside.
My tired, aging ears find themselves curious
about the noise.
I stand and face this audacious housepiece
to witness

children dogs playing cats
barking cars fighting passing
through meowing game disrupted
yelling colored walking balls
people leaves talking rules
rustling fruits feet falling
mothers birds running singing

Until it is night.
I close the blinds and turn my back,
then walk away from the sounds
now muffled and eaten by the plastic curtain.

Toy

I've kept my favorite pants since I was three.
It's the one where you shared precious pocket space
with my broken yoyo, an apple core,
the three-toed frog, the headless lizard,
and the silver dollar that I never spent
(the one grandpa gave me on my fourth birthday).

Intoxication

I wondered why you didn't kiss me
that night at your house,
when we exchanged tequila shots
and shared one calamansi.
We were licking, shooting, and
sucking simultaneously.
Kept downing one, and one more...
Until we both lost count.

Your toilet bowl was an angel
and I wanted to marry it,
lovely, generous soul that it was.
Then I gagged some more,
a sickly, yellow, smelly mass of rebellious fluid.
I wash my hands and face,
then see myself reflected in your bathroom mirror
I knelt and kissed
my new porcelein friend again.

You assisted me without complaint
and took me to your bed.

I wake up with a bubbling pit of brew
for a stomach.
I knelt once more and prayed.
It felt good,
this expurgation of what I thought
I wanted in great quantities.
And my eyes were no longer as blurry,
having seen my reflection in Saniware water.

Overboard

I walk to the ends
of a winged ship's prow,
where the winds are blowing towards north.
The floor planks are wet
with the smell of fish
caught, died and dried.
My straightforward steps are measured

against the cacophony of the sailors' harsh laughter.
Their sweaty, unwashed bodies,
brushing and pressing against mine,
infect me with the guilty scent

of fish for copper killed.
I push forward and away from them.
But they insist on turning me into a sailor (like them)
with missing teeth, leery grins, and wild eyes.
I stop and turn to face my companions,
whose weatherbeaten faces have seen
too much sun and too much wind,
but never enough of the water they travel by.
The prow looked more inviting,
and the foaming seawater beneath it
fresh and welcoming.

Phonebooth Story

Standing in line
outside a blockbuster phone booth,
I await this girl to finish her conversation.
I see an old woman carrying
somebody's three year-old son.
And she says, "Girl, you know, I really need to make this phone call."

The young girl turns to look at us.
She's all teary-eyed.
I couldn't stare at her crying so
I sort of shuffled my feet.
I look at the cute little three year-old
clinging to the one he calls mama.
He starts wailing and bawling and crying
just like the girl in the booth (on the phone).

This tired-looking man between
the girl and me just rolls his eyes.
I see he's carrying a bunch of wilted roses.
But his nose is bleeding
and the blood is soaking up his fake silk shirt.
He mumbles something about
women being fickle and overdramatic.

The girl walks out of the phone booth.
The tired man walks in.
She looks a mess
and his woman doesn't want to talk to him.
After a couple of tries, he storms out
to ask me, "Would you like a bunch of roses?"
And he shoves them into my face without
waiting for my answer.

Before stepping in,
I feel someone tugging at my hair.
I turn around and see
that it's the cute little boy.
I smile and then let the one
he calls mother go ahead.
She says, "Thanks missy,
and I pray nobody asks you
to give up your baby."

I give her the flowers
and some sort of emphatic smile.
I make a face at the innocent
then he looks at me with his big, brown eyes
and smiles.
I pick up my backpack and walk out
into the rain.

The Walk Home

My blue and white sneakers are getting
soaked by the deepening flood.
My socks are now wet too.
It is only a short way to home, though.
Shorter than the distance in
between your kisses.

I look forward to the warm bath
mother has surely prepared for me,
and the hot cocoa drink that will follow.
Mama always takes care to
pick out all the pink marshmallows.
(She knows just how much I hate them.)
Hate them like the perfume
you insist on wearing.

My jeans are getting heavier
and I am finding it harder to walk.
One foot in front of the other,
I tell myself over and over.
Until, there, I see it.
The moss green gate that
has been waiting for me
and my knocking.

Writing

is nothing more than a quill, really,
a quill on processed tree bark.
It is nothing more than symbols, too,
the ones recalled and recorded.
It never fails to astound, though,
for everyone who has ever attempted,
how the quill making symbols on the bark
makes man want to suck all inkwells dry.

At Three

Inside me is a place
where dodos thrive and dinosaurs exist,
a place only I can ever fully explore.

The last time I was there I saw
Captain Hook making crocodile stew
and serving it to the Mad Hatter.
They offered me some but I declined.
Crocs are poisonous here, you see,
and only the two are immune.

Walking away, I was tapped on the shoulder.
It was Pan and Loki, inviting me
for a drink at Bacchus' bachelor's pad.
(He just turned 21, and needed a good party.)
I'm sorry but I don't drink, I said.

I only actually came for a visit
to see how everyone was doing.
I just wanted to make sure they're still there
for when I next come calling.

Music Man

Bruised and calloused feet
are driven to wild, frenzied dancing
upon display of your gift, sire.
A crowd is always drawn the time
you bring out your harp and lyre.

Where did you come from, Phoebus Apollo?
They said you left like all the gods.

Here, below, is a measly incarnate
of all that you are. And yet
all the rest sing to his tune as if
he was your crowned.