Polvoron

I remember Sunday morning drives,
counting bridges on the way to that church.
We strolled through the market
and got sick on
polvoron and pastillas.
In the distance, the sorbitero was ringing his bell.


polvoron: candies made from powdered milk
pastillas: sweets
sorbitero: ice cream man

The Quill

Like a blunted, scraggly quill,
my soul inks its dreams along volumes
of shoulda- coulda- and woulda beens.
Dreaming is a trick of night,
as though the possibility does indeed exist
of bigger and better things.
Mornings, for what they're worth,
are brighter and brighter still.
Another day, another chance--
like a gambler sick with game.

Negotiations

"Five more minutes," whispers the little voice in the morning. Sleepily, I accept and hit snooze. And all too quickly, I am alarmed once again. "C'mon... you can work out in the evening instead," the voice urges on, "another five minutes."

"I really should get up."

"Well, you can still work out and take the later bus, you'll feel better if you gave yourself another five minutes."

Snooze-buzz. buZZ. bUZZ. BUZZ.

"That's it, there's no more time to work out. You can afford another five minutes of sleep, and then catch the bus."

SNOOZE-buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz.

"Well, you did kind of resign yourself to that later bus already. May as well get another five minutes of shut-eye..."

Why do I never have a proper comeback for that little voice?

Picture Perfect

She enters the room with her head held high, every little strand of hair in place. Her 2-inch heels are polished, and so are her legs, by the way. Chin jutting out and shoulders back, the way they probably taught her back in finishing school (back when she was just a project). The veritable Eliza Doolittle transformed into a duchess. Color-coordinated, monochrome, and matching scent to boot! (If you can imagine that!) Yet as she walked past me, on her way out the door, I did finally see a little rip. At the very bottom of her hem.

Near

Never before have my
nerves tingled the way they
now do. Inching closer,
nearer and nearer. Roused
now--abandoned pleasure.
Needing. Reaching. Coming.
No more space between us.

By The Book

There was indeed the Word, in that Book. And it was good. And then there was you, without an independent thought. How simple it must be, to have this book. To live by, sleep by, swear by, and die by. Nothing less. And nothing more--to discover, to believe, to question, to discuss.

Nothing more to argue. So that when people are hung upside down in the name of that Word in that Book. That is still good. And when people are gassed in the name of that Word in that Book. Likewise, good. Even when people fall victim to hideous epidemics... well, you say, they dare to not live by that Word in that Book. And that is why.

Simple.

So what happens when you are on the other side? What happens when you are the one tortured in the name of a word in some other book? When you are the one plagued with illness? Will you still look to your book for a prescription? Or will you be able, at some point, to improvise of your own accord?

Still simple?

The Morning Rush

The barely-awake-yet-rushing irony of morning and breakfast-on-the-go. Of coffee, of news, of will-I-make-it-on-time. For the bus, the train; the meeting, the class, the test. For the presentation, the gossip, the water cooler bets. The slowly-picking rhythm of day. While not-so-perfect strangers file alongside you. In cars, streets, lobbies, elevators. Going the same direction; ending in separate ways. We start with good-mornings and end with have-a-nice-days.