rest on her laurels

how i

could not believe roses as if where
were they in the first place.
the thorns that hit are white and copper,
in another In
credible Tale the crown of wreath or wrath
is multi-pronged.

the moments memory waters narrow themselves &
the tunnel extends into only
a stem of a vertical stretch that prunes the
             in bed I am nudging my head into her chest,
             (the crown shrouded with deliverance)
apart, her sheets of flowers fall,
shrivelling under my tongue and then where were we

how could I not believe roses as if they
were not there in the
    first place is untouched: that disintegrates under our
tongues and then where we are, again.
there is first silence, and then a dawn,
dust of dried hands, flowers unfold…

! it can only come from her –
dusk floats only from anomalous drip,
the storm that follows the thunder
splits our sides
snapping roses into perfect halves.

more water, more water…

–––––    ––     –––– –––            –––––––––––––   –    –––––––––––––––––––––––––––.

con sore nant

i! am! afraid!
of how my fingers still reach for the corner
instead of the edge.
they make up by following links instead of
connections, past present postman’s
left so we revert to the right –
less wrong. subtracting two from three rungs gives
you a single Facebook status

“no stop right there b***”
don’t even first guess

in the mirror it’s only
muscle memory, disengaged from
the heart and all its pulsing

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, & Pooja nudges anatomy.

crocodile to chest

crocodile to chest.
tears’ heat capacity proves
twice as much as
the storm.

it, or your mind, must assume negligible
friction – a banana peel in your brain
where the foot slips

he is son before he is
exam-scorer, intelligence-prover, hardworker, Hwachong boy
the duty of the caller precedes that of
the receiver. this telephone line coils an anomaly –
never picked up, when held,
static. two children rub a piece of tissue into the microphone
against the green screen of muted laughter.
why can your love only ever be a
                                                         bsent; a
                                                                               idden; h

have you ever heard the blood
of stepping into your father’s leather shoes
in your voice:
“what’s wrong with all of you?”
“you are so stupid!”

he launches the duality of monster
and effort into the ground;
tartarus will reject it every time.

Até, you made home home & it comes anyway

The word is “never”. I am thirteen and that melody is on repeat. Tonight the bass is on, thump in, surge through award-winning golden raindrops. This kinetic sculpture is liquid, my breath held.

Warning: Ifugao; 2. 


Kinetic rain pulls up and down faster than before. we crash into each other again and again and again. Sky train takes me across, taking flight. Six years grow into a singular momentous moment, plane wheels hit the ground and taxi,


You can only untangle phalanges now.

In the front seat my brother changes CDs every five minutes. No Coffee Music. Everybody wants to rule the world. U2. Girl in Bossanova. Noise.

I am a typhoon already set foot in Ifugao. In Manila, flights are delayed.


the hague, 2015

“You’re okay?” orange-proud Dutch colleague scans my father up and down doubtfully. Potential concern.

Papa nods vigorously, either in excessive certainty or dyskinesia, and lifts his thumb valiantly before his chest.

“I’m good.”

He lets his fist fall back down. The side of his palm hits the box in his pocket, making a rattling sound.

哭逡 = T^-1

f off

us skirting around it is inversely proportional to that of my
skirt-wearing, and congruent with your
hatred of blue shirts and shits and ships and she’s

only appropriate on maps of

A*ccolade. musical accomplishment equates to
intellect and calculated decisions.
literary comparison
in bared teeth, your smile bare as a reminder that
not all lines of best fit are linear.

sometimes we leave the skirts aside, step into stilts. here. she
is measured with your scales and against my palms. the increments
you refer to diffract wider every day,
our plates are emptied in hourlong intervals,
fringes extend their stay –
allegorical Sunday Night Dishwashing clinks
its Operas into our binary box. 5, 6, 7, 8:

“what’s happening with          ,
this is to be
staying             is enough
do not transgress into                                                                         
i am           , yes
know that this is for your s”

yours as if you appreciate the way i dance on stilts
yours as if caution is the only choreography

      if this muteness is inherited
      housewarming should have been.


I have carried its death for nine months. Now I birth it. Through her eyes verbs were only ever passive; what we call improvisation Paxton knows is not contact, but unperceived imposition.

mid-June. from the in-between
she discarded first the dried & the drying.
for her prosceniumed floors
there was nothing to leave behind.

gestation could hold the dark between closure
and resignation. then,
the moon had turned blue for us,
wiping its crystal residue across my chest

so when i’d left the studio
the dim had retained its heavy, leaving one emergency
light the honey chassé
of a sole.

without sound now i will shut pastels.
our dances were always waltzes for
one, feet remembering the back and
forth, & in that,
our backs speaking too.

without sound now i will shut without now i shut now will without
i know now –
outside there are rows of rooms to create,
and while she will never hear, i will…
my harlequin heart will always hold a
space in which we still fly low