I was born in the eighties. My fists were clenched
even before i learned how to cry.
and bountiful rations of revolutions.
Used brass knuckles for teethers,
had a gun for a friend, and some nuclear stockpile
in my head. And I remember the robots. Music
turning into lasers. Trees of technology emerging
from cold war escaped, dismantling to extinguish
more cities yet again: spark, tinder, black vapor, ash.
I'm the horseman wearing keds,
he who comes to your doorstep with a boombox blaring:
“I just died in your arms tonight.
It must have been something you said”
Ambababuy niyo.
Not many people have sex—
agenarian.
I wonder now how
I will die. So much anger,
And all I have to show for it is
A bruising that lever left the skin,
an aversion to all things glinting,
say, a cheek softening upon contact.
And moisture.
I am twenty seven years-old. I still wish
my father was Dr. Armstrong,
Wishing everything can be broken
into cartoon cells.
Into weak words that fall into curses,
a trap for our desires.
An awakening. A slumber.
2009. We never thought we’d make it,
Our hands are now open.
waps, joel, ken, corin, adam david, ricky torre., kael, sasha, yol, j.r. moll, glenn, panch, pancho
