12 Poems of Thematic Summation

(Gangsta Rap)

His words are gross
but humongously true:
“Some women
are attracted to bad boys.”
Her boylet loves to cock
his gun at his temple,
then pull the trigger
to the blast of his hyena laugh!
Or smash the plate against her face
so she could feel
every inch of her muscle fibrillate.
Yes, she subliminally thrills
to being brutally split apart
down her clit & up her guts
& pulsates to animal groan
of womb & blood.
She’s Bonnie to her Clyde.
She couldn’t hack it
with some milksop
who gets high on the navel
& turns spirit from rock.
The world’s a boxing ring
& she’s fixed on combat
& the Spartan hype
about a banquet in hell
to the peal of angelus bells
joyfully in their ears.
she lives dangerously
in racing circuits
& shopping malls,
tiptoes on the watery edge
of religious propriety,
her mode of brinkmanship
for bourgeoise life
is sedately puttering
about manicured gardens
that wouldn’t pump ions
into her marathoner’s veins
She loves the wakeful jolt
of cold & heat
that triggers a brain freeze
or orgasmic fizz:
verily, only an uppercrust bum
could pull her panties down.

O she’s a Dresden slut
with Angel Locsin face
& the ritzy world spins
with her virginal gaze.
But isn’t this, senor,
paranoidal mush
about a boy who sneered
the grapes are bad
because he couldn’t scale the wall?
Surely, her cup runneth over
with angelic intentions –
evil men are filled with the notion –
but alas! dismal losers boom:
Quod Erat Demonstrandum!



You take the pill
3x a day, the doctors says.
Your heart is taxed.
Is there someone
who put you in a box?
This woman who pushes you
into mordant moods & acts
about time you kicked her out
of your infantile psyche.
She’s pure torment:
you squirm in your seat
& sweat like a convict
praying to change a verdict.
Don’t kill yourself, amigo.
She won’t anyway die for you.
But you rewind the I-pod
for the same old pop.
Your libido is outmatched.
She’s screwing around,
smirking you’re an old crackpot
chasing after her ass…
You’ll rot in a corner
like some doddering milksop.



The picture tube
couldn’t lie –
Ms. Universe
of his small world
was fat & matronly,
almost undefinable,
when once
she’d mesmerize her
like a wet dream.
But there she was:
professing a European air
of fecund motherhood
with her mestiza features
suddenly knife-sharp
& a smile
attended by eye bags.
O where are the beauties
of yesteryears?
Was she the apple of his eye once,
who would visit him
like an angelic infestation
to drown his heart
in lecture rooms.
Always it was the distance of the moon!
Time, time, time
is a dying river –
he could only embrace
the ghost of this mare
like he does
his trusty wheelchair.


(Don Juan Redux)

An army of women
of all sizes & temperament,
of different ethos
but essentially the same:
He had forgotten their names
who wouldn’t remember
his harlequin pain.
Is it a blessing or a curse
but of the thousands that passed
through entry points
only a handful had stirred a storm
in memory’s room.
Then, like the wind of summer,
they’d up & groan
how terrible time passes,
they must move on.
There’s the world to conquer
& he’s just a stepping stone.
Each to each,
that’s the mercantile vision.
He’s heir to quick mortality,
they to fleeting passion
The trick,
aging Sancho of a lost kingdom,
is never to make much of their persons:
To remember is to mourn.


(La Belle Dame Sans Merci)

A sentimental fool he is
trying to reincarnate
a moment of his centuries
when she was good
& held his hands
as if he were the ultimate dude.
But shit always happens
& the order of events –
a word, a glance
or whatever to seize on
& break free from the dance –
always turns awry without plan.
Now, she doesn’t pick up the phone,
now he keeps fidgeting like a fool.
He doesn’t understand it anymore
but the world spins dizzily
& he’s left hanging
like an inverted flag on the door,
He incessantly reconstructs her face
& situations.
Next time they meet
no one feels nor remembers anyone.
A perfect survivalist is she;
the bitch has a Polack boy toy.
He stays by the windows,
stupidly imagining a raven croak:



& when she lapsed into silence
the trumpet blues of Satchmo
replayed in his soul;
he could only sigh
like Mick Jagger
reprising a movie line;
“Such is life”
before they pulled the rope.
O he was always in the thick of hunt,
but by wolves overrun.
He had counted the notches on his heart
& they had added up to being him
 an unbearable stone of nuisance.
Time for a redefinition
of life’s perennial comeuppance?
To grin & bear it,
or cross his fingers
that one had better die young?


(Kid Stuff)

N times the lunch date
had been postponed
for reasons of quiet indecision:
trysts to discombobulate, intimacies to consummate,
et cetera, ad infinitum.
He’s putting his foot down;
laying to rest
the fiction
they’d bother,
his persona somehow mattered.
They’re off to their own busyness
& wouldn’t have time
to break bread
 with an old fogey
who never figured at all
in their imaginary future.
In the equation
he was a zero factor,
the phantom pivot
on which love & hate
rock & roll.
He’s a moron
jumping like a dog
at a dangled bone.



Icy hands balled & thrust deep
into his trouser pockets,
jacket collar turned up to seal the heat,
Marlboro dangling from his lips
he was James Dean squinting
into Palo Alto’s autumn wind –
his Greek fisherman’s cap
keeping him whiskey warm
in ghetto alleys
where San Francisco women
must steal the foggy nights from scum.
O But he was always somewhere else
she who saw her future in her own crystal-ball;
he’s always the x notion
removed from her heart’s equation…
But this idiot held on to her name
like an ice cube
melting hotly on his palm.
It’s not a Houdini trick, voila!
High noon of summer, she’s forever gone –
Now if only memory
wouldn’t feed off itself
like an acrobatic bum.



The main man was desperate
for a tablet of lexotan:
his blood pressure had rocketed skyhigh,
he didn’t have someone
to play his second in command
for junior had other things in mind:
he wouldn’t get stuck
as studio assistant –
he had envisioned a different trajectory,
a career putty in his hands.
The patriarch was hurriedly gone
after pressing a pack of ice
to his nape like a balm,
as if burdened
how the day should pass
& job be done
for his family was so far away
yet within spitting distance.


(May Day, May Day)

He’s back to his habit
after some costly rehab,
his uncle nodded.
Wasn’t he the spoiled brat
gifted with an electric toy car at five
& toy guns because his late dad
had a huge arsenal for bloodbath?
But when his father’s face
was bashed in by a colonel, now general,
working for another gambling czar,
growing up, he’d turn taciturn
& nightmares would rouse him
shaking & sweating & mumbling:
he’d get him yet… he’d get him yet…
But it wouldn’t like an Eastwood film be;
the bottled rage
would in sachet seek deliverance.
Sure, he tried to be a lamb,
be counted on by family
but the imperfect world
wouldn’t let him off so easily:
the crimals get to yakkety-yak
with officialese on TV.
At rehab, how he wished
deliriously he were Spiderman
& crushed the bastards
with his bare hands.


(Old Chaps)

It was with the most
bitter & hilarious
sadness that they received
the medical report on their lolo:
he had contracted VD,
almost predictable
like woodwork
whenever he’s out with the boys,
old timers come to LA
to enjoy whatever was left
of their adulthood:
Las Vegas to throw the dice
or share whiskey & rye,
but they could only suppress
a hint of a smile:
in their future old age
would they recycle
the rambunctious angst
to feel again the rush
when young, busty women
strolled by
like sirens on the lam?
O Shoot! It’s not the sex of it
but their wild oats sowed
they nostalgically sigh for
whenever they mount
two-penny whores
& if both quickie lovers grunt
& interrupt their coital love,
is it fair for God
to deny this easy ride?


(Vigil Redux)

Mothers wait for their kids
to turn up at the steps –
drunk or not.
But when he failed to text back
after an avalanche of SMSes,
she felt some butterflies in her stomach:
her son has a family –
young wife & one-year-old child.
He’s not running for office,
hasn’t filched a penny from the Treasury.
Ergo, he’s doubly clean
& a dutiful citizen.
A man above suspicion –
who would do him harm?
He had left to talk the talk
with Central Luzon peasants…
& like all anxious parents
who leave the lights on at the gate
& peek through the curtains
she sits by the window
night after night
until he comes home
dead or alive.

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3 Responses to 12 Poems of Thematic Summation

  1. jen says:


    advance happy birthday! :)

  2. edel garcellano says:

    ty. just read right now, may 15, 4:20 pm. happy new boyfriend daw.

  3. erick aguilar says:

    edel is like water…invinsible!!!

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