"How do you write?" someone asked.
I'd say lines sing to me at night
as if from a nagging lullaby
that keeps on humming till it's daylight.
I'd say lines sing to me on long rides
when drowned in humanity
tides of thoughts fill my mind.
I'd say lines sing to me when intoxicated
with a strong emotion brought about
by winning or feeling defeated.
I'd say lines sing to me through a sight or sound
like a lei of sampaguita blooms
strung by tiny, innocent hands.
At times too tight or loose, too fat or thin,
too short or long, still fresh or withering,
or just right... and smells like a virgin.
These lines I wrote in two thousand and nine
Eight years after, I’m face to face
With an award-winning writer I wish was mine.
With all his joys, pains and sorrow,
His hairs and tattoos and burning passion,
Gaze at his hurt eyes like there’s no morrow.
He says stories come to him in his sleep
As if dictated by his mighty ancestors
And he, as their tortured scribe, they keep.
I beam and blush in ecstatic delight,
Astonished that we have something in common
Though we’re worlds apart at night,
When the wonders of this universe come to visit
Like the muse Absinthe to the drunken poets
Now I have a master, in my teacup to fit and sip.