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TUNNELS Something About Tunnels
Tunnel #1 (vegetable mineral emergency)At five a.m. vegetables are goingto be delivered but no market destination yet.My stomach sags with old food in this long daytrip from yesterday’s nightmare to this recoveryyour mother signs with anonymity.These wrinkles on the face are nothingbut fattening asparagus wired to my brain’sstreet map of indeterminacy. Visible horizonglowing my hair, to be grey and still; I hopeI care for another season. This tunnel caresso much about mobility and personal crises.It does. It’s the reason why we deliverdried oreganos or life and death safely frompoint to point, why in express we smell home.I stay alive though, sensing velocityas an ambulance would in a dream—brisk, accidental. Remember the first timeyour little bones cried for milk?The turquoise light I detest are eyes,the remaining light so imperial to touch basethe remaining skin of distance, my a
TUNNELS Mindanao
How do you savor the nightin its humid cloak of stars?Where are the clocks that tell uswe’ll never be archaic?Inside your guerilla flameyou sleep and somehowyou are freewith all but the dreamof cockatoos and Lake Sebu.The moment I picturein my mind that dogs can flybecause you close your eyes,your lips against a womanly mirage,you are your own moment.I am amazed by your peaceand sleep and your breathingsquarely in the quiet air.
TUNNELS Howl
It’s all right.That open window to your precedents,once it tumbles downafter shaking the earth’s disease,I’ll parry for youthe brisk blow of emotionsin the lateness of the world.I hurry home as thoughyou are there blinking with your fist.The night sabotaged by your fears,your fantasy castlebuilt upon my brain,your kindnessthe self-portrait of silk.Even what was beyondKinsale was recastin your dream’s silhouette;you gave the towncolourful wings winnowingover hills and harbours,its vibrant history a mouthand a howl,its ancient spirit your new meadso you can float acrossthe tops of pubs contemplatingthe signs of true love.
TUNNELS Kerugian
(noun: Loss)I give up my chance which is the crucial lasttwo minutes call in a basketball finals series.I give up my last mango shake which specifiesthe yellow fruit from the green drizzlestopping the late freeze by a too early ripening.I give up my time which is the best timeto quit and not the best time to quit trying.I give up my space which is you knowI do not really know nor recognize for itsterritoriality, its formation of forlorn insects.I give up my starshine patience (naïve melody),as it’s like teaching the kids how to shootfor the stars which are like shadows on the walland not anymore those daddy tricks which remindthem they’re kids, and that to myself I’m a Komodo.I give up my right shoe which usually sends mephotographs, by the way old photographsof my head and feet together, from my left shoesailing far across the crater lakes of Kelimutu2.I give up my vision which is ultravioletat a research conference while poetry asmo
TUNNELS Swamps
If dad could turn into a feather furor,under the meltingsun stares cauterized by the yester-lettersof history, my dad would still be the longuh-oh soundof all untrodden wetlandswarbling for a mother roost. And nowthe dumaras3 conquer this land, what the heck,what the quack! What aches the space?I wish dad were here tilling the nounsof greater yolked fellows:uninterpreted swamps and Mt. Arayat.Birdwatchers bird-watchingunder the rambutan tree—and then the beast of history,my dad after some crumbs of memory.
TUNNELS abiotic
wonder plants on the sidelines inhalethe nervous air emitted by neon. new isneon when all the way to the gutter timeis but a blur. and the blur, the slurringprediction of weather vanes slithers throughand across this and that ‘thing’ and ‘non-thing’surface of disaster splitting in half the body.rhizomic moon-body. human or not,the body unthinks, fades in the grass untilit becomes plastic. the beginning, saysthe complacent poet-critic whose lovefor cats has been admirable, like the body,the ‘about us’-telex truth, is impersonal.the moon is a room for. its bright treatmentof the rain wassails with. its people, alldressed in, singing to. since rain seemsplastic & ear-biting to the point of viewof dear trees, the moon predictably likensthe body to the natural habitat of signs,of neon drowning still the. wonder plants.perfumed by poetry or—philosophy.the Ecosystem, the still neon-twinklingthought of. the world: you & me & this
TUNNELS Listening to U2 with the fat still on your lip—
that pale patience of yours, oh, I could drive myselfcrazy from this observation of condominiums to Maine,old and bony Maine. What’s that song you’re guessing?I guess it’s empty passion no groovier than last night’scigs you’ve beautifully lighted for one more china sparksat the counter of 7-Eleven. You know what happensto fat when fingers stay out of love, out of their silveredstillness? Traffic lights, they turn to the eyes of the lawin tripartite colours. It’s safe and subtle, isn’t it?How clever the fat moves in princely prose, orin scripted smoke splitting between your Kerouaclungs. I suppose you’re a movie star, a gorgeoushard rain, a motorcycle of flowering acquaintances.The kitchen sink never dirtied, you never cooked,peeled, dreamt. But you showed me your world.Ashtrayed the day away. That dear fat on your lip,I loved it and I wrestled with the night pretendingit’s already 2:30 AM; that no creature of the streetswould dare say
TUNNELS When Manny Pacquiao sprained
the noise jamboree in toda terminals4, our regular Sundayafternoon scared the neighbourhood children for seeing blooddrip from his head, all the force and feeling swam to the floor,parents cried, and street by arcane street the whole townburied the fear in its throat, freezing the clock to stop the hurtof tropical error; that loss was the injured sound of an enginefailing to drive families to church, to a nearby shop after mass.I’ve felt my skin fumble when I heard a song from the speakerof a passing car, a very familiar song I could rememberin the instance of a straight punch combination made possibleby retirement, as winning, according to critics, shouldn’t becompressed on a tiny screen. Whatever that means—the boxer breaks the mirror of the modern man, comes downto realize why the future is unhomed by a heterotopia of hurt.
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