my other blogs
May 8, 2007
my main poetry blog.
where I keep my slightly erotic but romantic poetry.
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click on the image for more.
my main poetry blog.
poetry and philosophy by Rax
Name: Rax
From: Philippines
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my main poetry blog.
Chasing the Equal Sign
May 1, 2007
We are two parallel lines
that meet while sitting down,
our foreheads touching
like the sides of a triangle.
We trade thoughts through
this illusion of an apex,
and I, in awe, notice
that there is precision
in the subtle ways
you hold my hand.
Your eyes dare me
with mathematical equations
that only have one right answer.
The angles of your mind
rest on black and white premises
that form a concrete
wall of syllogisms that
mock me every time
you speak my name.
You are undaunted and unabashed.
Even so, I smile
at all these numbers
streamlined to fit your life
knowing that this is the only time
I can meet your eyes
without having to calculate.
For when we stand,
our foreheads will no longer touch,
the triangle will shatter and we
revert back to parallel lines
that will never meet.
I am left to face the incongruence of it all.
that meet while sitting down,
our foreheads touching
like the sides of a triangle.
We trade thoughts through
this illusion of an apex,
and I, in awe, notice
that there is precision
in the subtle ways
you hold my hand.
Your eyes dare me
with mathematical equations
that only have one right answer.
The angles of your mind
rest on black and white premises
that form a concrete
wall of syllogisms that
mock me every time
you speak my name.
You are undaunted and unabashed.
Even so, I smile
at all these numbers
streamlined to fit your life
knowing that this is the only time
I can meet your eyes
without having to calculate.
For when we stand,
our foreheads will no longer touch,
the triangle will shatter and we
revert back to parallel lines
that will never meet.
I am left to face the incongruence of it all.
Burned
May 1, 2007
You must find it
fascinating how--
moths are riveted
to the flickering pyre
you dangle
in between fingertips.
Its wings dance
alongside silent, gray tendrils
escaping your breath.
Circling around,
irrevocably drawn
to the sighs
that kiss your lips.
Saltine beads,
tease your temple,
then your cheekbone,
curving around your jaw.
A faint smile shows
your minute amusement
at how this creature
will leave a field of flowers
for the scent of sweat.
This drab cousin
of the butterfly,
craves attention
and will stay still
on your palm
staring up
in simple-minded wonder
at the meteor
about to burn
its wings.
fascinating how--
moths are riveted
to the flickering pyre
you dangle
in between fingertips.
Its wings dance
alongside silent, gray tendrils
escaping your breath.
Circling around,
irrevocably drawn
to the sighs
that kiss your lips.
Saltine beads,
tease your temple,
then your cheekbone,
curving around your jaw.
A faint smile shows
your minute amusement
at how this creature
will leave a field of flowers
for the scent of sweat.
This drab cousin
of the butterfly,
craves attention
and will stay still
on your palm
staring up
in simple-minded wonder
at the meteor
about to burn
its wings.
Tresspass
May 1, 2007
You left the lights on again…
I tread through
the floor that doubled
as your closet space,
carefully weaving
my way through the
empty coke bottles
and scratched CDs
you buy everyday.
My foot grazed
a stack of worn books
you taught me to read
and I tripped,
landing on the carpet
I took hours to pick
only to be patterned
by cigarette burns.
I lay still
staring at the
signed poster of
our favorite band
before pulling myself up
on the bedpost
you normally hung
the cap I gave you.
I sat on the bed
and stroked the stain
that you attempted
to get rid of
countless times
with bleach that
only ended up
wrinkling your hands.
I stood up
and approached
the switch,
longing to touch it,
remembering all the times
I disturbed your sleep
and begged you
to do it for me.
Instead I turned
and retraced my path,
resisting the urge
to leave a sign
of my trespass,
even if it was just
a simple act of
switching the lights off.
For you.
I tread through
the floor that doubled
as your closet space,
carefully weaving
my way through the
empty coke bottles
and scratched CDs
you buy everyday.
My foot grazed
a stack of worn books
you taught me to read
and I tripped,
landing on the carpet
I took hours to pick
only to be patterned
by cigarette burns.
I lay still
staring at the
signed poster of
our favorite band
before pulling myself up
on the bedpost
you normally hung
the cap I gave you.
I sat on the bed
and stroked the stain
that you attempted
to get rid of
countless times
with bleach that
only ended up
wrinkling your hands.
I stood up
and approached
the switch,
longing to touch it,
remembering all the times
I disturbed your sleep
and begged you
to do it for me.
Instead I turned
and retraced my path,
resisting the urge
to leave a sign
of my trespass,
even if it was just
a simple act of
switching the lights off.
For you.
The aftermath
May 1, 2007
The morning after
he took one of his cigarettes and lit it
with what might have been a pistol.
The floor had been swept
of the garbage
spilled on its cement tiles.
The sink that was piled with dishes
was clean. no remnants
jammed in the drain,
the bathroom reeked of antiseptic.
Smells like the hospital, she whispered.
He helped her lie down
and kissed her forehead,
knowing how
her eyes resembled
Quiapo stalls and sampaguitas,
memories seeping through
like her monthly stains.
He knelt beside the bed,
knowing how
Septembers might've been a baby
one that could've been theirs
screaming for milk
they could not afford,
because only
when the neighbors couldn't sleep
would they ask him, why? how?
knowing how
he would've answered,
he couldn't do everything.
He watched her sleep and
put the pistol lighter down.
After all,
he saw too much not to feel
her silent cries through the
thin blankets she clutched
like they were the walls
of her own womb
he took one of his cigarettes and lit it
with what might have been a pistol.
The floor had been swept
of the garbage
spilled on its cement tiles.
The sink that was piled with dishes
was clean. no remnants
jammed in the drain,
the bathroom reeked of antiseptic.
Smells like the hospital, she whispered.
He helped her lie down
and kissed her forehead,
knowing how
her eyes resembled
Quiapo stalls and sampaguitas,
memories seeping through
like her monthly stains.
He knelt beside the bed,
knowing how
Septembers might've been a baby
one that could've been theirs
screaming for milk
they could not afford,
because only
when the neighbors couldn't sleep
would they ask him, why? how?
knowing how
he would've answered,
he couldn't do everything.
He watched her sleep and
put the pistol lighter down.
After all,
he saw too much not to feel
her silent cries through the
thin blankets she clutched
like they were the walls
of her own womb
Under the Blankets
April 30, 2007
your fingertips tracing my lips
let you know that i was real. we were
embracing under the blankets. i was
pressing my body close to you and
breathing in your scent of sweat and perfume,
reminding me of the feel of your arms
when we first danced, reminding me of the trip to Ilocos,
rolling on cement floors until daylight had
seeped through the curtains, reminding me of
sleeping in Kuya Dado's jeep with the windows down
shivering, forsaking clocks and later calendars. as the
morning dawned, i knew the city below pulsed
with madness and malice. i knew
i might lose you to meaningless faces of
strangers and false friends. i knew
there may be nights of sleeping alone
without your warmth, without your lips.
someday there may be a wedding, maybe
a child or two. there may be screaming
fights over money and other women, maybe
over in-laws. maybe you'll stop whispering
my name in the dark and someday i might
cease to be real to you. i was
drawing the curtains so the light
didn'twake you. i was lying down
embracing you under the blankets,
ignoring the phone ringing in the living room,
cherishing the languor of hips and
fingertips tracing my lips, i was
real to you.
let you know that i was real. we were
embracing under the blankets. i was
pressing my body close to you and
breathing in your scent of sweat and perfume,
reminding me of the feel of your arms
when we first danced, reminding me of the trip to Ilocos,
rolling on cement floors until daylight had
seeped through the curtains, reminding me of
sleeping in Kuya Dado's jeep with the windows down
shivering, forsaking clocks and later calendars. as the
morning dawned, i knew the city below pulsed
with madness and malice. i knew
i might lose you to meaningless faces of
strangers and false friends. i knew
there may be nights of sleeping alone
without your warmth, without your lips.
someday there may be a wedding, maybe
a child or two. there may be screaming
fights over money and other women, maybe
over in-laws. maybe you'll stop whispering
my name in the dark and someday i might
cease to be real to you. i was
drawing the curtains so the light
didn'twake you. i was lying down
embracing you under the blankets,
ignoring the phone ringing in the living room,
cherishing the languor of hips and
fingertips tracing my lips, i was
real to you.
Welcome
April 28, 2007
Sa souvraya niende misain ye
(old tongue for "I am lost in my own mind.")--from Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan