To Alabang

I.

We are made
for these clothes to affirm the wind
— the fabric flap
the mimicry
of mayas.

This is the blow or billow
the punch or the thief
possessing us
processing us

rip
-pling the viscous lake
that is our cheeks
until we’re stretched.

Trace the wind
to skyscrapers
deflating
with the breaths
of its workers.

II.

I’m playing a game of accusations with billboards. A man with a smile is a paid man. The price is before taxes and sex with your boss.

Stipulation. Subscriptions. Somnambulists. An accident: brain splatter.
The asphalt aisle intelligent, more than

the police probing it.

This is the red light saying do not cross the road
This is the flesh-drenched road, the blackness of night
remembering how light leaks to become blood

An investment ad with an American hunk reminds us
a face locked in color

is a face that wants your body.

III.

The city breathes at night, its avenue chests

heaving

in synchrony to sleepers

and nightwalkers

nocturnal, it

opens its crystal eyes.

The breeze metallic, the taste of rubber

when you speak.

The building guards, the friendliest

they could be maybe

that’s why burglars come

at this time. The city’s eyes: they don’t show

you the way.

You get lost in them. And so you wait

you wait, darling

take a seat, now

and throw your eyes into the void above

as you,

yes, wait

for the sweet & boring

daylight to come

guide you home.

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