Papa Osmubal writes from Macau, South China. His works, visual and literary, have appeared in various publications, hardcopy and online. He is contributing writer to Chick Flicks, OOV (Our Own Voice), eK! (Electronic Kabalen), and others. He has work archived in University of Columbia Granger’s World of Poetry.
An Exchange With An American Animal Rights Advocate
In the Philippines, I told my friend,
we feed dogs with swill of fish bones
and rice swimming in plain water.
It is notoriously tasteless,
salt just does the job.
When they are big enough
we stew them with soy sauce and ginger.
Her face mysteriously turned red
and she suddenly rushed into the john
clutching her stomach.
(Her dogs are pampered
with delectable goodies manufactured
by underpaid, overworked Filipino workers
thriving on mere tiny fish and plain rice with salt.)
When she came back out
we were no longer friends:
she flushed our friendship down the gutters
along with her vomits.
There is nothing here, absolutely nothing
only a handful of camels and pyramids and sea of dust.
Whoever created these was a real genius, he says.
I nod my head in measured manner.
I am looking at the pyramids.
He is looking at the camel humps.
The floor is creaking.
It is mom again
emptying those buckets.
I cannot sleep.
Others count the perennial sheep,
I count raindrops dripping in buckets.
The Florist at Hong Kai Si (Red Market) Macau
The inviting smell of food from nearby restaurants
is not enough to suppress the smell of her flowers.
The clothes vendor looks at the flowers
then turns to look at the clothes he sells: what is in his mind?
The florist side-glimpses at a passersby,
crooning a song.
She momentarily interrupts her croon
to pick up the newspaper.
She folds the newspaper to the size of a book
and bashes the flies hovering around.
After putting the newspaper back down, she stares at a bee
that busily does what bees do to flowers.
Listening to the bee’s buzz, she covers her mouth with her palm,
And everyone is wearing their haloes.