The adamant has spoken

Fingerprints have been eroded

by clean hands in a crime scene

The phone lines have disconnected

The weather reports do not report

The color of the sky –

pale orange on a pregnant

mid-morning, the handkerchief

has fallen to the canal,

The river reeked like a raccoon,

The bank accounts have been

reduced to an element of a story,

The passion of the Christ has saved

Earth from a dull decade,

The blood on the screen typified

how movies make money.

The sequence of sins told the

presumed predictability,

of a comma, and the gestures

we all don’t expect.

To be continued has died,

On its tomb is a reckless writing:

Do not rest in peace.

Continuations miff reality.

TV series will end soon.

In opulent verses where writers

are muted, the more ambiguity,

the more meaning.

The absence of breaks is

a manic illusion.

The ships are rocking the boat

and lives are lost out of hastiness.

or avarice.

Twitching bodies don’t know

profundity. Intellectuals

do not make sense. The economy

is in a waste land. T.S. Eliot

is in heaven. And Jesus Christ

needs new versions everyday.

The elocutions will never

cross the bridge.

Words are more opaque

than grisly cylinders.

Gaps are not bridged.

They run in sickly circles.

The more lines, the less dormancy.

The more words, the greater ambiguity.

Making sense is rigorous.

And often, rigor is purposeless.

Make things. Dress clocks.

Watch sweat, kiss soils.

Never write a treatise, an article,

Or a poem.

*This poem first appeared here. In the Facebook page of a Baguio-based group of writers working to bring literature beyond the walls of bars, cafes and the academy.

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