Excuse Me, The Hair Here

Excuse me, the hair here

Is pressed against the pouchy pillow,

My memory foam eyes bloodshot

With rambutan restlessness

Of today’s second innings…

I must emphasize:

I am and always will be an air-dried classic—

Blow-dried hydrogen bonds are fake to me.


Besa, Besa, are you ripe yet?

They split your pods open — spilling your

Intestines like flower cracklings ready for a

Spiced pinakurat.

Besa… besame.

You begged for coins but they gave you mad cheese—

They gave much more than you need:

The clam, the crabs in pricey seafood platter.

Now, you can give as many as you want.

Besa, Besa, that’s not your name.

I wish you knew that before you started

Breastfeeding your demons—

But would you save yourself if you could?

Maya Bungol

Maya says he’s a chirper at the cathedral

But eats a fellow man in shy slices

Like pies of rich worm-meat.

Bungol, all his adult life

He’s been drinking

Holy water

With his


Engineer of this Poem

Engineer of this poem, should you smile —

The poem, too, should.

The foundation: one firm dirt;

The stanzas: violent waves of an epicenter.

If a reader should see your poem’s face,

Be prepared for the reading of that smile.

The teeth should align and he should see