they walked home
their crowns
the streetlamps,
the headlights,
the stares
of strangers
they did not care
the street,
the night,
the world
was theirs
to rule until
they reach their
their crowns,
but not the fact
that briefly
they were



I like to think of them
as motes aloft
in afternoon
and not
silica and lime,
shed skin,
and soot.

I like to think of them
as alive:
pixies in dance
by wind and wheels
from sluggish trance,
some torpor spell.
They bathe
the city
in golden


a shadow, a rustle,
a flutter, a crack
in the doorway.

in that tiny space,
you dance
only to those who seek,
only to those who listens.

in that tiny space,
the cosmos
the sublime
the infinite


hands clasped, as habit,
he’d wiggle his fingers:
a beetle unravelling
fragile wings
to flight

and off he flies,
hurtling through space
and stars and time
to lands known only
in his mind

The dance

The summer breeze stirs them
into a dervish —
this crowd of dancers
without faces and without names.
They leap at the command
of our footsteps, and pirouette
at the turning of tires
recounting civilization’s strides.
Their collective memory holds
what has been, what is,
and what will be.

And we inhale them
into our lungs, where they occupy
the passages pilling heavy
and sticky like the years,
with their stories
and their dance.
For when everything has come to pass,
all shall return to them — to dust.

Weather report

Mutindog ko sa hawan nga lugar,
sa tunga sa dalan,
sa basketbolan,
sa kasagbutan
ug hulaton ko
ang paglabay sa hangin.

Bantayan nako kung asa
kini padulong:
asa muki-ay ang mga sanga;
asa musayaw ang mga dahon,
papel-papel ug plastic
nga nangatagak.

Dayon inig abot
sa hoyohoy,
magpagaan ko,
pasagdan nako
nga mapalid ko
para madala
ngadto sa lain-lain
nga mga dapit,
lapas pa sa syudad
ug sa mga lugar
nga akong naadtuan.

Ug imong masundan
sa Twitter account sa PAG-ASA
kung asa nako dapita:
Ala una sa hapon,
sa kasadpan sa Cagayan de Oro.
Alas dos,
sa habagatan sa Tagbilaran
Alas kwatro y media,
sa Siquijor.
Alas singko,
sa habagatang-sidlakan sa Dumaguete.
Alas nuebe,
sa habagatang-kasadpan sa Iloilo.
Ugma, ngadto na sa Palawan,
ug ugmang gabii,
mubiya na sa Pinas.

Kung dili na nimo mabalitaan
ang akong lokasyon,
sa kana nga panahon,
siguro ang bagyo
nga akong gisakyan, nikutat na
ug ako, nialibwag
kuyog sa hangin.

Busa, kung hangin ang adlaw,
adto sa hawan nga lugar,
sa tunga sa dalan,
sa basketbolan,
sa kasagbutan
ug hulata
ang akong pagbalik.

“My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent”

Like an equatorial summer’s day,
the air rises, visible, a cellophane apparition
screening the houses that encrust
the distant hills as if barnacles.

He stands, framing this vista
with his torso, white, like the margins
of a Polaroid, nary a scribble on it,
no record of when’s and where’s
nor any maudlin remarks, stark,
like my quietness, and the man in it.

He is transparent.

* title taken from Frank O’ Hara’s In Memory of My Feelings


innocuous, you lie
face down and on your back
you bear a cup
of woe, a titan keeping
the sky from falling.
but you faltered
and the torrent traced
the tabletop terrain,
trickling towards the sheets
and into the crevices
of the keyboard
and farther into
the f