Over Under And Through

The unraveling end
of the sisal*
is where the secrets begin.

We were taught to splice them
with tin sheets or
better yet,
weave them back 
into the fold.

Rope holds better
in knots than in pieces.

Yet we tie and cut,
burning tips we hope
we can fuse
or at least use
in the future.

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*sisal- n. fiber of the agave. (sisal, Yucatan)

140802
24 hours till touchdown. Will update when hands are free. :o) 
In the meantime check out the poetry ,  fiction ,  prose and correspondence sections. Hope you all enjoy the images I rendered. Other sections to come, Index to exhume has been created, will post works when all this is over. If you pray,  pray for my final exams. If you don't, just wish me luck (and love).

130802
i want to rush home to you. you'd be lying in bed reading a book and you'd look up and i'd come near you and give you a kiss. i want to take off my shoes while i tell you about my day, and give you a foot massage when you've had a terrible time at work. i want to be in the kitchen with you and not mind your culinary skills interfering with mine. i want to clean and sneeze with you, saw and hammer with you, and hand you the right tools when you're fixing the car. i want to go shopping with you, and hear you tell me to get myself something i've always wanted, and to stop being stingy. i want to carry your bags for you, and have you grab them from me because your hands are empty and mine are too busy to hold them. i want to drive home with you and have my hand on your thigh, or hold your hand when i get inside the train with you. i want to sit with you and talk for hours and forget about the time, i want to share my hot chocolate with you and wipe it from your lips when you're done. i want to solve puzzles with you and see you get frustrated and say you don't have time for it. i'd throw the magazine away and make love to you instead. i want to sleep naked with you and watch you dream. i want to wake up in the middle of the night and find you there beside me.

120802
Storymaker

You are the story unfolding
and I am the ball
in the tip
of the pen
revolving.

The ink is my blood
and I roll in it,
bathe in it,
like words finding their way
onto your pages 
aching denouement.

I will trace the curve
of each letter like
the mounds of your flesh
with my tongue
dripping ink, blood
and fairy tales left
unspoken.

Commute

The light from the window
of the FermEx bus
careening through the 
EDSA-Ayala flyover
is amber through my lenses
positioned to hide 
how I was up all night
thinking about you.

And the way  your eyes shine
when you tell me stories of
oh
never mind.

I rest my head back on the 
seat shiny from another greasy face
having so much more peace in their travails.

I want to run to you. 

110802
Camphor

The mint is kicking in.
It attempts to take away
the stale air of wanting.

Ground into various contortions
by teeth aching flesh to be still,
it distracts but does not satisfy
the hunger for other
textures pungent tastes,
my tongue left cool and twisting.

We suck and chew
on objects to forget
about our mouths
dry and wanting.