Three for the Road

Greg Brillantes was waiting for his ride

at FC parking lot,

& conversing with Jimmy Abad

to mark time in an endless afternoon…

Perhaps, he started, he would write

a longish letter to the editor

for that publication to shape up:

colors & glossy paper do not

a readable issue make-

after all, he in his own forgotten time

in a land where only the dutiful


marshall the best & the brightest

to throw “pearls before swine.”


Yes, it’s only right

that the young should take over poetry,

Jimmy in another vein

would interject-

& I would check myself

from leering: oh, but that generation

that struts across the room

is infected with the diseases of the old,

as though the serpent egg had hatched

& some malevolent hisses

had crossed my path.

Yes, yes, a few moments

for this happenstance at the exit

of a heavily guarded building

where juveniles & their senseis

think they write in freedom:

the guy who wields a mean prose

a poet-bureaucrat who’s discomfited

by the word ideology

& this testifying bum,

all intersecting at a particular time & space

& exchanging customary pleasantries

on how time had been merciless & fast

& why old dogs persist

as if suffering & memory

were bones in the sky.





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