Poetry

I see montages evoking regrets, noble architectures dipped in pastels, pale peaches and cream, reticent with their secrets: are the things you tell me after the rain. Together we look at pigments -- ochre, sienna, umber, sentinels on lily-white walls, tactile yet taciturn. What passes for us in-between: moments of walking,...

at 53 my sinfulness pervades the daily news and “justifies all my childhood abuse”— i thank all for the times when I can choose to turn to earthly and heavenly hues   and true forms and movements and sounds profuse, and fall out of the war of wordy views to forge...

Nothing in my garden of chrysanthemum can make me smile not the clutch of winged Monarchs perched on my rosals, neither fishbones nor the trees I had long since abandoned the cello for leeches in the lawn and for the din of infant years For at the top of my voice I can...

The following poems are part of an in-progress novel-in-poems that tells the story of two aswang lovers. Clara is a manananggal vampire and Santiago is a shapeshifting weredog in 1936 Cutud village. They fall in love and try to live as ordinary humans...

She left him nothing, not a word, not even a single letter. But everywhere he turned, he could feel   her cupped hand riding a plank the shape of a heart, brass castors and wheels of bone slowly churning,   searching. He closed his eyes and saw letters carved in reverse against wood, her hand making...

 These waves roar past, a   hundred feet tall, smashing through the rocks beneath. Carving out a hollow space out of the stone, that in a hundred years will leave this edge teetering and fragile.            The waves come rolling  in, one  after another, not even allowing one a...