at night

The streets become more palpable,
Its cold cement, dark.
In one corner,
You might see,
Splattered with blood,
A carcass of a cat.
No matter how silent it moves,
In death, it creates a rhythm of cracking bones.

The lampposts,
Become the sons of the moon.
Resembling tall men
Wearing stars for a hat,
Guarding the silence of the dark.
You'll find solace at their sight.

Like noisy lovers,
You'll hear the air,
Stroking
The slender body of the leaves.
Conceiving a tone,
That lucidly turns into a lullaby.

The sky becomes
A brunette sea.
Its pearls glistening,
In their solitary space.
The moon, a radiant bended shell.

At night, the world
Starts anew.

ashore

In the four corners
Of my cardboard sea,
The ink of my pen
Becomes the dark ocean waves.
Like love:
Eternally sloshing
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Incessantly becoming and leaving.

This ocean of metaphors
Sail me to so many
Shores of poems.
Bringing me towards
Your infinity.

Struggling not to drown,
I tore my paper ocean--
That opened into a terrain,
Fertile with fresh beginnings

Now I am a fish,
Forever ashore.

search

To remember you,
I collect all that is left of what we were.

So I go back inside this dark room
Where our shadows once
Danced under the glow
Of the jaundiced moon.

Engulfed by dimness
I start to search the space,
My hands becoming my eyes
Feeling textures
Known only in the dark.

Then my hand landed into something;
Something, only my eyes could stroke
Suddenly you are no longer
A fabrication of yearning,
But a carcass of reality.
The very same one
I have touched,
The very same You
I have loved.

And now I know why,
I chose to stay in the dark.

watercolor love

You are watercolor
Dancing on paper.
The strokes of your body,
Sway with the rhythm of colors,
That vivify the memory
Of the once flawless
Pare of my youth.

I am a brush
Trying to lash
You back into this blank space
You once filled
With bright
Shades of bliss.

But the light
Is swiftly grazing off.
Concealing the luminous
Hues of desire

The colors are turning into
Subdued streaks of parting.
Now only smudges of
Sad claret fills up,
The space you left beside me.

tribu blue

face to face with strangers
the night opens
with a pitcher of blue liquid and gin
and we match it with cigarettes
perhaps, in our attempt to belch out
the bitter taste of his skin

the second pitcher came
as i talked about long letters
and his short distant responses--
they relate to the coldness.
oh, how remembering
can bridge the souls of those forgotten.

the third pitcher poured
out her soul
slithering out her mouth
is apathy
concretized in his form.

the fourth pitcher spills out
memory:
his last words
his last kiss
his last touch.

down to our last glass
before the night closes in on us
we swallow down the very last
ounce of his being.

inebriated by memory
we suddenly head out to the sink
to finally puke him out of our lives
for him to join
the filthy side of forgetfulness
as we once did

now we lean against each other
the three of us
no longer strangers
and for the last time we raise a toast
for our new found tie.

(the first time with reg and red)