Pfft

I.

Shut Up

To have daisies tattoed on your tongue
Like it makes up for the unspoken
When lips leave nothing much to be read
And timing’s rather off or too late
Bittersweet candy you cram in cheek
Something to simply stick out in place
Of the mouthful to get off your chest

 

Dodoism

Let not what we’re doing be done as
Though we’re dressing up for history
How we want to be remembered by
And that’s how we’re doomed before our time
Take the Dodo, that never cared for
Confidence – just the way it’s been built
Take us, we love, we hate – and we’re good

 

Pfft the Tragic Dragon

You come around once every twelve years
Break china, unintentionally
That’s your blameless nature; you’re wedded
To brute entrances – but meek, luckless
Inverse of all lore you usher in
Your wings are dead weight, your claws are blunt
You shed ashes not scales, you turn tail

 

Outrage in a Bottle

I remember when I was drowning
Something happened I did not mean to
God or Gulliver, treading plankton
Tripped on my shell, cursed me back to life
Other creatures balked at what to do
With me; word got around, I remained
Nameless, vagrant off Galapagos

 

Back in Line

Too long early have I stood in line
I had to take a punch in the gut
To convince me when my turn came up
I felt eternity, but she was
So soon done with me; I find myself
Back in line, lately wondering still
In my ridiculous nakedness

 

II.

When Boy Nocturno Met Bella Luna

She may depart if it gets too dark
Sadness hardly is a shared device
The score is one bum to a lamppost
A park bench may take a whore along
But no more per incidental ease
The night is long and the street appeals
You might go yet where she will follow

 

Memory of Stars After the Plaza

“Dominique,” she invents her name here
Like when I introduce myself, “George”
Now the night’s no fiction, however
The doom I enact, the wounds she heals
Are real; we breathe in the weakest
Of light decanted in this chamber
Mug of beer and Sinatra streaming

 

Here’s the Deal

I make no claims; I don’t even have
A clue to what this moment’s made of
Surely it’s not about us spending
Lifetimes together, you must agree
With that out of the way, let’s get on
With the partaking of the tender
Little we amount to each other

 

Bed In

No more tears; let’s do right by morning
No squinting now, it’s only sunup
No one’s too hung over to hear birds
Do their thing; let’s do ours one more time
Let’s away with the sheets and cavort
In bed; God and Serpent can wait out
In scrimmage, disrupting dew and sap

 

Fall of One

I miss the moment (not yet a song
But leading me on, as though I had
The ear for the imperishable)
Of you catching (already a dance
By fierce default carefree, but mindful
As when memory takes its first step)
You leave all up to me, the falling

 

III.

Blank Weather

The weather is very fine today
So calm, as though we need it this way
The first creatures must have felt it too
Without memory whatsoever
Of God on a raging roll to let
There be – here we are, rocking gently
In the eyestorm of eternity

 

To Miss that First Tree

I am given food – and I wonder
How long I should have my godhood on
I drink up the weather – but still I
Cling to no coat and swear by no code
To miss that first tree may diminish
All other trees – and there will further
No sitting be, but under the stars

 

My Lips are Healed

My lips are healed – and where are the words
I need to confess or prophesy?
It seems I have lost the urge to speak
I keep a heart instead to listen
Not for murmurrings from past hurts – no
Not for intimations to hubris
My only lesson to learn now is

 

IV.

Quack Advice for the Would Be No More

Now this day is not one that loses
Itself in details – there is a book
Handy that shows more than fifty ways
To live if it were indeed your last
You ought to leave well enough alone
A sealed prequel to pick up next day
The world knocks for quality ghostings

 

The Difficult Subject of Burying a Poet

First we sift through his things: say a comb
Toothbrush that beg notice from disuse
Next we plumb the family for truths
Lies: What about his fetish for bugs?
Did he do drugs? Did he do what at
All? Then we dig into his life’s work
(We prefer having never read him)

Rosendo M. Makabali is a technical writer in a government office and the employees cooperative.