23 8 / 2011
Enter my Asian kung-fu
The sound from the television’s drowned by the honks of the japanese cars
swerving on the rough and bumpy road of Divisoria.
The streets are packed with black crows waiting for their turns to eat the
botcha meat.
I can see their eyes blurred by the city lights and colored by the smog
GRAY
was the name of my lover way back 1800s.
He was tall and copper toned with lips that are moist and puffy.
Oh God, how I missed him and those days when dense forests of narra covered
most of Northern Caloocan, the air’s full and virgin and the fruits are real not
PLASTIC
little piggy bank, dancing nervously on my office desk.
Waiting for the clock to turn 10am so it can go outside and have a smoke.
The coins make tingling noise and the dust are settled inside his
transparent body case.
Shaking. Lust. Cold.
