Leo Lutero
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In the factory
The cement walls form squares
and rectangles with sharp, 90-degree angles.
Our heads try to fit and pass
through while our feet
fill the holes on the hardwood floor.
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Do not wear that blue shirt on a black day
or the red ones for the blues!
This is what is right, what is wrong we
do not talk about.
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Sunset at the horizon, pen and paper.
On a single sheet, write your name.
Your number will do.
Summarize your usefulness.
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Answer:“Why should we use you?”
****
Going home to Iloilo this weekend! You do not want to know how much argument was involved to get a hold of my money from the bank. Glitchy system, Bank of the Philippine Islands. Tsk tsk tsk
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Packing (a poem)
Good thing that fabric can crush
underneath zippers and hard plastic.
Apparently, we have less
than we though
—
A feathered hat from ’93.
A seat and a table from years before.
Fit them all in the fake hole that
closes when ran over by a metal bullet.
—
How delightful the mystery!
Is it laundry or melted sugars?
Inside the opaque mass that sits on the floor
Unmoving.
—
Rest it on the shoulder
that can stand against the core’s pull.
Will it decide the path
or follow the fool
who hangs by a handle
the heavy ball atop his neck?
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On a shore
It is dark
underneath the technicolor hues
of the flashing lights that desire
had dropped on tall, metal poles
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The sand trying to pass through
the hardened skin on our feet and
the salted air, filling our lungs
while the sound of bodies
are drowned by the crashing water of the sea.
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In the darkness, the sound is like a faucet kept open.
Water overflowing, brushing and covering
the path like silk. Cooling and warming, bobbing.
Hand in hand, again and again.
***
The short two-week break before my summer college term was a wonderful time. A few more weeks of school and I’ll have another two weeks to seize. I miss posting in this blog.
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My Hands are Dead (a poem)
My hands are dead
scarred and old.
But they are going
like wind.
They have worked
hard. Letters, paper,
wood, flesh but
none of them will remember.
My hands are not capable,
unlike His. Laying tense on the
lightning rests of His chair. I am
not jealous, but ashamed.
The hands fall off, to the ground.
I am now weak and poorer
but nonetheless
I have become lighter. -
Holes (a poem)
-Three Sphinxes of Bikini, Salvador Dali
Like a maniac
on the letter bed
I key in poem after poem.
My hands try to grasp
while I fear falling down the
holes which I have seen
on my way here.
They surround my feet everywhere
I go. But I do not mind them.
So they turn into vacuous holes,
sucking me in — Ignore them!
Now it seems they are winning
just like before. Their whir, I hear it!
It bothers me.
If I am to go down,
I will understand
when I shouldn’t.
(c)
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I write poems
Sometimes I feel like an elastic bubble, filling myself with air and water until I explode. This explosion I turn into poetry so that I will remember that I was a bubble of a certain color, ultimately bursting at a certain size.
Also, I have to keep posting on my Tumblr site. Tumblr is filled with artsy people, the crowd I definitely enjoy watching.
