we throw each other praises until onlookers decide we must have been the same person once long ago, and that our or my or your narcissism made us or me or you decide to want another entity for a mirror. i laugh when i see a misplaced punctuation. ha! see, i am smarter than you. then i read on. i see courage. then i remember your words. no, you deserve a better word. i then take a little piece of your bravery. oh yes, a mimicry. i then think to myself, she uses different words. unlike mine. not medieval nor renaissant nor victorian. those are the only ones i can come up with so far. she knows a lot too. she's loved. she's loved. i then move my head from side to side--what do you call a horizontal nod? tsktsktsk. a connoisseur. i began to wonder whether it was she who made him the whore that he's become. in some tabooed land, there is a temple where men peer through grids of multicolored laser, awaiting a mistress to lead them to some chamber. i can never understand how they mean when they say to love with the heart. i then search old shelves with cups for display--half cups. half cylinders. and then the clay carabao with one of its horns broken off. fingers like candy. a guitar tuning peg. like frankenstein in a costume party. shame. hidden.
when she reads, does she stick her eyes near the screen sometimes? bloodshot? perhaps not. her crazy dance. limbs flailing, hands unclenched. women. she made her first tambourine with seashells. the sound comes with a ckle in the end. shackled to the sand with threaded thin cyclinellas and coffee-bean trivias.
how do you keep the flame from falling off the wood it stands on. "you throw a strand to a wall. if it sticks, it's cooked." i laughed. not to these walls, not. i drew near to have a feel of it. webs too. i decided not to. something behind that laughter, roarious sometimes, you see. of course, i always wait for you to rescue me. you instead. every time. i will never understand your hate, thus i always return it back. a little childlike, you say, then when you get mad, it becomes childish, foolishness. sometimes you even simply brush me off. thus i hide in your unknown. giggles of knowing friends. matching objects. a pact. forever. lovers were people not mindful much of time.
you make me laugh as well
with the smiles not so often seen.
then immediately sadness when we part
you see, i got too shook up with the quickness of your leaving
metered word, they say, love, would bring you back
only a feel, a feel, then words
here now mourns one poet
for a death that left her excluded
a whispered, "speak to me in french . . . "
from which you broke into an uproarious laughter
you have mocked my lovemaking again
i then smile, oh you . . .
my scripts are made up of clichés. i see with one, thus i only see one. a table near a sink used to be kitchen enough. culinary with fire. the trees felt the blood touch the ground on which they, too, stand on. then weeping followed. they thought, perhaps such is the case always. then, one of those days, it was explained to them what hematophobia is. "where are the trees' ears, ma?" she then looked down at the child. "they only grow them when you start talking to them. you start with a whisper. then the tree grow ears on its part where it can hear you most clearly." everyday, with her ipod, she takes a seat under her favorite tree, leaning on the nook that she found cradles her just well. she places one of the earpiece beside her, touching the tree. "i won't carve you an ear. i can't play with knives yet."
maybe a story about a woman this time. knowing the things that girls are not supposed to know just yet. women with mysterious smiles. she's tried them too before. deciding one day to pick up a mirror and just play with her face. a woman looks this way, she thought, as she wiped all smile off her face first, then recalled a good memory, a funny memory, but she can't laugh. she must try to look serious still, and slowly, just slowly, let the laughter start with a smile first. slow, graceful. she then let out a giggle. she was being silly, but then she didn't know what that word meant. she didn't talk in her mind yet back then.
she's got it programmed in her. when it hurts her even a tad bit too much, she then shuts it off her conscious thoughts. "at some point, i would have a bad day too." "we're seeing too little of each other lately. maybe we're done." "like you have a bad day now." "oh." "maybe sleep." "yeah."
