Kismet

Kismet
(ode to serendipitous jeepney rides)

a silver globule.

the drop of sweat traced a sheer
tenuous path down her vulnerable throat.

as she swallowed what modest moisture was present
in her gullet.

it was sacrilegious. this damned
and damnable heat.

and the substandard metal of the galvanized vehicle
did not make matters better.

she fanned his face with a fin of bony fingers.
blue veins like cyanotic threads embroidered
her parchment skin. speckled by the relentless
years.

the visage of each, generously covered by sticky sheen.

the army of modern motorized monsters drudged along
the continuously narrowing cheaply paved roads.

this ride.
in a vessel of progressive and desperately pragmatic manufacture.
brands to the mind that you are
in the

here and now

of a very philippine context
(if the heat had not already done so).

you moved your thigh. well. attempted to do so.
our living corpses crushed together like
woven chain mail. bobbing with the ride. Subconsciously
cursing the tropicality of things

an expression of solid discomfort cemented in our countenances

you sniffed. as the dirty sniveling infant next to you
commenced with a caterwauling concerto.

my neck stiffened, fanned by the dry breath of
the fatigued civil servant beside me.
i ignored him. a concession to the fact
that we do not really need
any drama at this part of our days.

the old madam regaled her comadre
with such ribald anecdotes. how very risqué.
proving a relatively grand source of

entertainment to her fellow passengers.
the mother at the corner covered her
eager son’s ears. But the dame was oblivious.

resplendent in hot pink tights and vinyl nails
lips garish with cheap smearing rouge. a shocker.

i make an attempt. at spacing out. my temples throb.

congestion is Hell.

now him with the
bags of bananas bound
for some market of where
i do not really care to know
right now,

sparked a conversation with
our dear driver – el capitan
of our sun blessed (or sun cursed) sojourn

on how much the rising costs
of internationally tradable goods
have affected the lives of such simple folks as we
the veritable salt of the perishing earth.

how, they pose the question, can unfortunate juan
survive nowadays?

as if the urban noise wasn’t enough
and the trip too long enough

to endeavor to make your brain reason an answer.

the caterwauling babe had paused. his tremolo
now fading into a whimper.
the audience was most unwelcoming.
ungrateful philistines.

or perchance the dust and smoke exhaled from
the proboscises of the uncaring automobiles are to blame?

and the clamor of the denizens (human and mechanical)
of these urban veins and arteries are desensitizing. proof of subsistence is
commensurate to
the level of the racket one produces.

but to whom are we proving this? ourselves perhaps?

how many rides
like this

does one need to find out
that he needs to live?
and not just merely exist.

can we hear ourselves still?
and can one still find oneself embracing
a truth in the absolute crowd of contemporary

circumstance?