Today the sun throws on his cloak of aquamarine plume, polishes his golden crown. Today he tires of courting the moon, fickle woman with so many suitors. So much song composed to call her down, there, where hawks perch and where the falcon’s cry pierces the sleek blue gem of sky.

Today the sun descends and his aquamarine cloak becomes a field of violets, a handful of rubies. There are so many sweet flowers to soothe the hurt of the moon’s constant thwarting. Even the sun tires of the chase. There are so many sweet flowers, and they open themselves like trumpets to show him their light, their own little moons of nectar. He pierces these fresh moons when he kisses. From his darting wings, his flitting tongue, poems to carry upon seawind and saltwind. Today, he promises them a salve of rain.

EL MÁS SUPREMO

EL MÁS SUPREMO

In the penthouse resides El Más Supremo, and none but the servants are allowed entrance into his suite. Barefoot, jangling brass anklets, they bring him the softest cloth and silks woven by virgins to drape upon his divans. Lazing about in linen robes, he gazes up at his ceiling, a clear dome filled with night sky. There in the stars, a tattooed prince, a many-headed beast slain by his hand. There, the string of pearls given to his princess. There, she waves away malevolent spirits by mimicking the ocean.

El Más Supremo sips chilled palm wine mixed with blue liqueur and the juice of calamansi, served in hollowed-out young coconut vessels. What meat has been scraped from inside of this shell, the chefs soak in this same azure cocktail, then sprinkle with sea salts and green sili.

What a banquet for El Más Supremo’s eyes, these panorama sunsets the color of orchids, trees of the beloved orphan spirit swaying in guava-scented breezes. Processions from afar bring tithes from pearl farmers and miners of silver. Those who harvest rice fields also come to bring tribute. They do not stop to ask what he gives in return.

From above he cannot smell the salt of their bodies, nor can he see the lines carved into their brows. From above, the numerous are so very small.

MANILA MANGO

MANILA MANGO

The Manila mango drips faster than my lips can catch it; in the manner of a Gauguin Tahitian portrait. The native girl with bare breasts points her eyes to the syphilitic man stealing her soul for art. “The bitch, she is,” he could tell his shipmates, “when she refuses my advances.” Another downcast look to her father, the chieftain, who moans when he sees her. The bitch, she is, for not coming home when she was told.