gastrology

you send me a txt msg
with my horoscope in it.

it says:

with so many guns in this city,
no wonder
you’re shooting yourself in the foot.

and i believe every word.

***

there will be three more hours
of darkness
before the city lifts its head
on the morning set aside
for remembering
its softest revolution.

i brush my teeth with tea
and take a photograph out of the window.
the car horns
have already started for the day,
although it is doubtful that they ever stopped.

we hear reports that
crowds are massing
at the people power monument.
i’m drinking calamansi juice
and concentrating on the sensation
of ice rings on my tongue.

***

belt slung low
white teeth and orange shirt
i stuff chocolate cake
into your back pockets
and we walk down the middle
of the road
hand in hand
believing that we can
stop traffic.

prostitutes in ludicrous outfits
are soliciting all around us
we buy some shabu-shabu,
two bowls of halo-halo
and drink eighteen litres of water.

somewhere along the line
you notice
that i have
taken off my shoes.