01-29-2018, 11:04 PM
Home, after a restless vacation
There's the bright orange of the two lone lights
still open in my room: the eye-glazing screen
and the power-sucking bulb; there's the darkness outside
pitted with brief lights
and the half-full moon inverted
over my voyeur neighbor's house; I'm naked but the aircon's
never cool enough; I suspect I'm not in the right country,
I think my phone is dead but say lobat,
I look out over the sterile snow
Sometimes I mingle memories
with dreams
but this one I remember
clearly: her elaborate
right arm tatoo, her mousy
face, her thin frame
glasses and the piercings
on her nose, her ears
her half-American voice
my gaze shifting here and there
Sometimes I watch
her welcome me
in a foreign tongue,
toss away her legged bag and lift
her dress above her chin.
Sometimes I look
out over her shoulder
to the world passing by,
then rage over my choice
of thoughts, words,
advances,
as if I had a choice.
Sometimes I close my eyes.
that suddenly turns to mist like the rough bodies of those we
proselytizers and infertile mothers loved, hands clasped
in the dark. No I will not succumb. There is no night that will
not lead our eyes to close, nor blidness when oracular dreams
refuse to answer Hineni, Hineni. There is no turn approaching.
There is a voice that cries
out over the wilderness,
over the eternal fire-
works over Boracay,
over the sterile snow--
There's the bright orange of the two lone lights
still open in my room: the eye-glazing screen
and the power-sucking bulb; there's the darkness outside
pitted with brief lights
and the half-full moon inverted
over my voyeur neighbor's house; I'm naked but the aircon's
never cool enough; I suspect I'm not in the right country,
I think my phone is dead but say lobat,
I look out over the sterile snow
Sometimes I mingle memories
with dreams
but this one I remember
clearly: her elaborate
right arm tatoo, her mousy
face, her thin frame
glasses and the piercings
on her nose, her ears
her half-American voice
my gaze shifting here and there
Sometimes I watch
her welcome me
in a foreign tongue,
toss away her legged bag and lift
her dress above her chin.
Sometimes I look
out over her shoulder
to the world passing by,
then rage over my choice
of thoughts, words,
advances,
as if I had a choice.
Sometimes I close my eyes.
that suddenly turns to mist like the rough bodies of those we
proselytizers and infertile mothers loved, hands clasped
in the dark. No I will not succumb. There is no night that will
not lead our eyes to close, nor blidness when oracular dreams
refuse to answer Hineni, Hineni. There is no turn approaching.
There is a voice that cries
out over the wilderness,
over the eternal fire-
works over Boracay,
over the sterile snow--