My Impossibility of Languor

(i) The impossibility of languor— “where are you today?”— Driftwood revealing a complexion of moonshine— Peach sundering around a malignant pit— Looking into the eyes of an ecstatic girl and seeing Antarctica throw emerald spears that raise new continents in the Pacific— Satori in the men’s bathroom— This very second, where are you?— Reacting to the world with postal dead letters— Four light bulbs stuffed with hair (“Hairitage,” sculpture by Michael Arceaga)— Sinigang soup from fish bones and tamarind— The equivalent of an elegy— Knowing life contains no “continuity girls”— Here are lies, all well-intentioned— (ii) I am the poet yearning to meet the songs I should have learned Before writing the first word Until then, my language relies on surface The fate I choose is not to make Linguistic surface synonymous with the non-transformative And what is not Beauty And what is never compassionate Another mistake I hope to avoid Is to believe my life is a cinema—      Although I like to open her saxophone case      To see its interior of cobalt velvet      Of course, my finger also stretches      Towards the shimmering surface I am too old to live in my mind The mirages I see are always heavier than space But there is a reason Why my flesh aches For a stranger’s stray touch