I saw a book, ash-colored; on the side
of its skin lived the initials DB
riven by blankness
and a fatal crave darker than dark.
It read Dobby Gibson. My eyes
hungered, wishing for another
court in the sky, or another throat
to house another world in another time.
I should be in jail. I have been crippling
syntax to its spindly few. Spelling
I pummeled to misspell Dumaguete
as Desperado. Words whiplashed
on fire ice: Kripinoy, a Joaquinesquerie
jeepneying with Saint Lazarus—
the emperor of English over grass
lilt parsing poison into ice cream
poetry and screaming grammar noir.
The narrative of tradition, beer-fellowed
by cultural madness to digress
and mull over a foam
of savory crab fat alongside
our pickled come-what-mays. For this,
Art arbitrarily is sans an ‘A’. And thus ‘RT’
we all are. So I should be back to bed
confessing the secret of syllables
under the covers. Good morning!
At the glum gates I see clock wives
in need of music, my geography
lessons I still can recall
while longing for vestiges of light
the long summer
the sweet mishaps
frozen fireflies in the mind—
the left and leaving, inaugurating
the nameless things
here, there, in the waiting room.
Many times we have pried into the secret lives of words, how syllables could swim like Shinji in our head, bethinking of our mutual weirdness, rufous-headed, in present perfect.