“Your poems” she texts, “are depressing.
Sometimes I don’t want to surf your blog
anymore. I feel like I’m being slapped
into asking what’ll I do with the rest
of my life. Worse, how should the future be.”
The admission is real, sad & terrifying
for a young woman to grapple with demons
the future offers her as lover, mistress,
hausfrau, career executive,
even activist on the forefront of a silent war
that has festered & preyed on innocents
since time danced with the rhythm of the
But how should he see it?
Blood flows everywhere,
una furtiva lagrima
is a trail of dried salt water
on her cheeks,
people live & die like dogs
& animals get slaughtered
by mindless churchgoers
who pray to God for mercy & daily bread.
Things are tough to call
& Cagliostro lurks in the dimples
of every smile of a child-
the heart squirms with hurt
as it laughs.
He sees the glass half-empty-
The fullness escapes him like the air
that whips his eyes.
Everything is of color blue.
Rousseau rules this side of the pacific.
But a blank screen
is not comforting either.
If only militias, Marcos clones,
& American diplomats wouldn’t block
from sounding so musically,