The Tower



Tomorrow falls flat like a tomato dropped
from the ninth story window. I'm dangling
my hard earned cash from fingers
bent on hoarding every thread-bare sheet
tucked away in the linen closet just
because it still smells like your perfume:
oleander. I can still taste it:

the speed I swallowed to force time forward

instead of back. That day you turned towards the door

while I opened the curtains

and looked down.




View c.locke's Full Portfolio



Georgia stole the drugs in the glovebox

and traded them for passage. I don't
remember Texas. I barely remember

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

The Cupcake is a Lie



There was a café at the end of the road

where the patio trickled onto the sidewalk

and umbrellas opened like snowdrop petals

allowing only splatters of sunlight to decorate the plates

placed in front of posied forks and clinking glasses.

At noon we sat with people sipping rosé

and nibbling the edges of pastries:

you with your cupcake, I with my

tart. Your mouth full of mischief, you spoke

with your hands to clear my head and

there was something like sweetness

on your fingers. Words sifted between your eyes and 

a token of my innocence saw the sun

when icing stuck to your bottom lip. 

I barely noticed the tremor in your fingers

when you raised your glass to toast the afternoon or

the acidic taste of the powder I wiped off your nose with my thumb.



View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Looking Back (For Gina)

Looking Back

          (For Gina)


You have a halo around your head.

Did you know that? I’ve always been jealous

of the way it bounced after you like

the smiles you threw over your shoulder

back in Georgetown. Do you remember

when you knelt by the stream bisecting the town to feel the water

against your skin?

You pulled your hand back,

fingertips numb, and graced me

with dimples splashed into that teardrop of your face of yours.

It was there that you collected pebbles like hope

you could take home in your pocket

and on the bridge joining west to east you snapped pictures

with a real camera because

this trip is special. It was our first trip together

where we didn’t keep a Pez dispenser stashed in one of our purses

and I loved you

for it. How many times had I been on the back of your motorcycle

with cotton in my stomach, the world blurring inside my helmet?

Everything was harsher,

back then; all razor blades on glass, drifting sharp turns at 3am,

Dolly wrapping bones around your sternum. Years ago. A lifetime.

But that day –

that day the world was soft with the protection of the mountains

rising above our heads

and river rocks stuffed deep in our pockets to keep us from drifting

back the way we came.


View c.locke's Full Portfolio




Do we have to count the stars? 
Or can we merely dance beneath them?

Numerical representation of such beauty
taints them just a tad,

     don’t you think? About forever

and a day ago when Orthodox traditions were left by the roadside

to fade like the candy-apple firebird

you left under the Florida sun; dissolved

like morning dew on the pavement of my mother’s driveway

where I stood leaning on the gate. I listened for the storm

of that engine to take me away;

for a little while, at least. You pressed your forehead to mine
     reality is not meant for people like us.

So we compensated with jagged half-moons

and traveled through time-lapsed sun movements

across the same manicured lawns and

highways that led to the threat of

vacant tomorrows. They unfurled before us

like cereus cactus flowers at night, like roadkill at dawn. We opened

then; eyes wide, stretching out our limbs like stars,

gathering the dreams we almost let die from between blades

of grass. Perhaps
tonight will would enter the constellations. Perhaps
tomorrow we will come down.




View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Good Businessmen, Narcopoliticians, & Narcogenerals









Good Businessmen, Narcopoliticians, & Narcogenerals

Big business cartels

Criminals using money

For their good children

May Bala At Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)








May Bala At Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)



Droga ang laro

Ang kalakalan namin

Bawal ang baril—

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited Commentary, 11.29.2019 - some typographical error correction & spacing, and a word "misidentification" was doubled, therefore I supplanted it for the correct/intended word; Reupdated on 11.28.2019 - the previously misused term "kalakaran" was not what I was really intending to direct my wording for the English meaning for kalakalan (it was neither mistyped).  The word that I've used was simply mistaken (i.e., to be taken to mean "trade").  But when I have finally been able to confirm that mistake (just recently, whenever I attempted to review my poems), hence I replaced the word with "kalakalan" (to mean "trade" to denote it correctly).  


I apologize for this misidentification/misrecognition/miscommunication.  It was an honest mistake.  Thank you for reading on.

View tula's Full Portfolio

May Bala, May Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)








May Bala, May Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)



Gusto rin nila

Ang pagdami ng droga

Magtatanong pa?

Hindi Digmaan Ang Droga (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)








Hindi Digmaan Ang Droga (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)



Gusto rin nila

Ang pagdami ng droga

Magtatanong pa?

View tula's Full Portfolio