poetry reading

all the men i've ever dated never ordered hot coffee, always the frothy frappe kind for them. why is that?
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i remember late one sunday afternoon, at a coffee kiosk in the middle of an orchid garden- you and i fighting off sleep. we were together since the previous night with nowhere to go.

people pass by with their grocery bags and lives to go home to. this is our home- transient afternoons like this one , with money enough for two coffees, one cold and sweet, the other hot and strong.

you listen to me read the poems i wrote for you. the little notebook with scribbles painstakenly penned in handwritng you might be able to read, was a little worn from the countless times we leafed through its pages.

and the afternoon wore on. the barista asked if we wanted more water and a fresh ashtray. he had to ask twice. i was reading you, "there would be times when i would look at you and think the world is you."

and perhaps in some sunday afternoons, you still wonder if that were ever true.

mobile thoughts

these happen in moments when i fancy a thought. where before i'd write them on random objects, napkin, palm of my hand, back of receipts, armrest of a chair, wall- now, it's my trusty pocket pc i turn to. these are some selected random mumblings. make of it whatever you can.

***
slowly the paper burns by the embers of lasts, like the tomorrows that will never be. the heart which was strong now latches itself on mere dreams. and slowly, as it had before, gives up to the last draw of breath.

***
there it is. the first few nervous glances. strangers sleight of hand in a dimly lit room. then the conversation pregnant with many intentions.

***
staring long and hard at the winding stairs. waiting for you to come. my beer is too deep into the bottle. waiting. waiting for you. now I stare at the empty seat beside me. then I imagine how it would have been like with you here. now. now that i've switched to dark lager and I still wait for you.

and there you are. you with your charms and long sleeved shirt and khaki pants on a friday night. a casual hello and that touch on my elbow that cannot be held back.

now we sit- a few millimeters apart, your knee to my thigh and nearer still your fingers to my shoulders. how many seconds more till we touch?

***

love bought by fear

where will you go

When night steals into your windows

and demands truth

love stolen by shame

will it be found again

when will knocks down your walls

and calls out for you

love where do you go

when no longer you cannot hide

from searching looks

and faint gestures of comprehension

diminished sense

i miss writing the good stuff- the more elemental things like hate, love and everything in between. ever since May, all i have been wasting my time on are corporate communication plans to hoodwink (mussolini used to say this word a lot when we were in grad school and obsessing about cars- it seems a million years ago now) employees into believing there’s more to work than just earning money. the crap! i’ve never really believed that maslow guy’s hierarchy of needs. do not seek self-actualization in the corporate world. do not expect to see prophetic writings on the walls. according to the wise simon and garfunkel, those words are written on subway walls and tenement halls. you think there’s meaning to waking up early in the morning and slaving away the day to make whatever? i mean, even when you’re manufacturing the latest wonder drug to cure a deadly disease, you’d rather be doing something else. me, that would be hiding out in the jungle, perched on a tree, shooting at clueless illegal loggers. that would be my sport and recreation.

so, i have just been edited by my boss who pretends to be a writer. as i revised my beautifully crafted work to accommodate what transience labeled as “pimping on a parade of peacocks,” i felt every part of my body squirm. i felt how a child, pure and good in the eyes of heaven, would have felt while being molested by a pedophile.

i seriously need to feel a stronger feeling to get out of this rut that is quarter-life crisis. there are only two things i feel strongly about these days: the fifa world cup and coffee. i almost cried this morning when i found out germany lost to italy. my beautiful michael ballack! seriously, i need to see more sun.