MI ULTIMA ADIOS, AYON KAY ORIGINAL BROWN BOY

To begin with, my parents--judging 
by their first names, Prim & 
Rose, are less of a match made 
than, I'd say, cultivated 
in Heaven.

It's 825 pm & 
the name as it appears on my death certificate
Paolo Rafael Santos Javier.

That's PJ to you if you're K.O., 
Pao to my kamag-anak in Toronto,
Lu Pao if you're Papa, 
Paowie if you're Tita Eva, & 
always Kuya, of course
to Eric & Patricia. 
Rene--pare, if you can hear me, talaga 
pogi pricks my ears up.
But if it's you, Cacay, hollering, then
by all means, please holler 
pangit, MB, or, even better, OGB--
yours alone & short for the 
Original Brown Boy.

                                     *

Twenty-six candles appeared on my last birthday cake,
another wasted year of praying for a few inches more 
to add to an already-imposing 5'6 1/2 frame. 
I can't say I ever enjoyed a Calypso breeze on this day, 
though I've grinded the Lambada to a Bloody Mary once & loved it. 
I've been in Africa, been toilet papered once & hated it, 
been drunk, & in love so much with someone
it made me throw up. 
I've been privy to such a variety 
of near-fatal mishaps, accidents to merit 
their mention here, save for that 
morning in the 8th grade when 
an incoming train sent 
your OGB & his neon-green Huffy 
soaring above the rim.
What a distinction, ha? 
To be able to say then 
Paolo Rafael Santos Javier 
took a raincheck with Death! 
In Cairo, of all places! the land of the Pharaohs! 
Where the next day's local gazette 
spelled his name wrong in pre-hispanic script! 

     Someday, on my birthday, I'd like to get 
     a tattoo, preferably one engraved 
     in pre-hispanic script, preferably one 
     shorn of any relevance to this day, nor 
     to any one of my previous incantations 
     at 17 Galvez St, Fil-Am Life Village, 
     Las Pinas, MM.

                                     *

For X'mas is still sexier in New York, or 
is accentual the word I'm going for? 
Someday I want to eat fried calamari on X'mas Eve & love it, 
& hope that it falls on a Friday, my favorite 
day of the week to perform windmills on 
a brand new full-sized bed, in-between commercials 
for 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' & 'Iron Chef'. 
Neither of which ever causes me to say 'What the fuck?!'
through teeth clenched & nightly washed 
by Colgate or Pepsodent. 
For they need to be thoroughly cleaned after meals 
at Mr. Sushi, Cendrillon, Krystal's & Ihawan.
That I consider Lemongrass Grill the city's 
finest fast food restaurant ought to tell you that
I fucking hate carpet.
& that I failed gloriously at my learner's & driver's tests.
Over breakfast, lunch, merienda & dinner,
through a whorl of vodka tonics & Chardonnays,
I will continue to refuse any talk about her ex. 
That just might call up the farm team in me, 
the white ice on a white rink suddenly thinned 
by a roaring red Cordillera wind
as I give chase to him. 

But I'm a peacenik at heart, really, &
remain steadfast in my refusal to patronize the zoo.
If ever I were diagnosed with an inner child 
who owned a pub along Amsterdam avenue
he'd be the 1st to offer Snuffulafugus a brew.
Beast will remain as Beast & continue to be loved by Beauty.
Wil E. Coyote will settle for one of my excellent eggplant recipes.
*

In Heaven, &
                        not the Palawan Islands,
I see myself 
                                    spending half the year in 
Manhattan,
the remainder of it, 
the Palawan Islands.

I see myself 
with an ATM card that works again. I see my need 
to ever set foot in Vancouver again 
eliminated. 

To grace 
the same panel as Villa & Berrigan, as we debate 
on the place in the village to go for a falafel sandwich.
To never use the phrase 'That's not gonna happen.' 
To never have to offer a stuffed animal a blanket because you said it. 
To mean it each time I quote Eric Stoltz in 'Some Kind of Wonderful' 
that you look good wearing my future. 
& to always be 
  the one to receive 
              your 1st & final 
           email this week.

& the best thing in Heaven will always be you-know-what.

& if I cried into a raging sea
                                       let me do so from your balcony.

Now that I have read this you will refuse to hear it.
The time now being at the end of this writing 830 pm.

                                     *