from IISZ, edit 2

[RiverNotch]

Fallout


There's the bright orange of my room's two lights.
There's the darkness outside pitted with brief lights.
There's the half full moon inverted
over our 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
then look out over the sterile snow...

Sometimes I mingle memories with dreams
but this one I remember clearly: her elaborate
right arm tattoo, her mousy face,
her thin frame glasses and the piercings through
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
and see the world passing us by,
then rage against my choice
of looks, words, advances,
as if there was a choice.
Sometimes I close my eyes.

...that suddenly turns to mist like those rough bodies
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 blindness when oracular dreams
refuse to answer Hineni, Hineni. There is no turn approaching.
There is a voice crying out
over the wilderness,
over the eternal fireworks
lighting up Boracay,
over the sterile snow

Fallout


There's the bright orange of my room's two lights:
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 our 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 tattoo, her mousy face,
thin frame glasses and the piercings
through her nose, ears,
half-American voice,
my gaze shifting

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 us by,
then rage against my choice
of looks, words,
advances,
as if there was a choice.
Sometimes I close my eyes.


that suddenly turns to mist like those rough bodies
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 blindness 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 fireworks
lighting up Boracay,
over the sterile snow --

Home, after a restless vacation
after Louise Gluck


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 us 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 blindness 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--