i dream in...

i dream in percussions. i dream in rosy-gold haze. i dream of the dusk. and the dawn. i dream of the freedom of open spaces. with the wind singing to me. embracing me. warm drafts bearing me up ever higher. i dream of the secrets of forests. and the mysteries of woodlands. of the stories told by rivers and springs. i dream of the laws of the moon. and the teachings of the stars. i dream of feasts with heroes. and orgies with gods. i dream in warm reds and bright golds. and fertile, lush greens. i dream in percussions. and strings. and winds. i dream of colorful vibrations. i dream of flight. and impossible heights. i dream of the magic of words. i dream. quovaqoqoramalenuvamelathataneshissimonerrazizzianameloiane

The Hour of the Wolf.

Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Much like clammy summer days. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things with restless hearts in the deafening yet pregnant silence amidst the gathering shadows. Of Fortune. And Glory. Of Hearth and Home. Of Faraway Lands. And the Written Word. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things. While lying awake. In the pregnant silence of countless nights.

Every Maria.

He wondered if she loved him.

Really.

She was so distant. Perpetually
preoccupied.

He drifted away.

She stayed as she was. Mum. And
spare.

But in times when the
silence crashes down on her.
She would strain …

“I love you like I love my garlics,
my onions, my tomatoes, my
herbs, and spices. I love you like I
love the rough yet giving iron
skillet. I love you like I love my
gleaming copper pans. . .”

Ensconced by her stove and oven.
The kitchen she loved so much, now her own jail. And she her
own jailer.

Hoping the scent of her cooking
would call him back …

To dine.
To feast once again.

of beads and shrapnel.

we were a bad match from the start.

you were a monday child. herald of sorrows.
and i. i was born under the sign of the wheelbarrow. i always had to be pushed.
but what THEY never saw.
was how our shadows melted into one under the merciless april sun.
as we stood under the rickety skeletal electric poles.
waiting for the red and blue and green dragonflies to buzz by.

we grew up.
i marched off with the army.
and you were beckoned to a seminary.
your knee- and fingerpads. grew thick with callouses.
going through all those beaded mysteries.
genuflecting for my salvation.
a bead for every bullet i shelled out.

the heavens were busy with angelic mahjong.

all i had to send you were my medals.
and the shrapnel i ripped out of my own flesh. . .
my letters reeked of gunpowder and marsh gas.
though they were bare of any endearments.
we did not really need any. . .

we were a bad match.
yes.
but all be damned.
we are one helluva match.

this war is over.

i am comin' home. . .

and you will give me my absolution.

Cinderella

I worship Vivienne Westwood,
you exclaimed.
Cinderella,
were we but sixteen then?

When you would dress up in front of me.
In your salmon pink fishnets, canary yellow patent mary janes, and lavander shirt dress.
were we but sixteen then?

When you asked me if I think Clint Eastwood or Marlon Brando enjoyed blowjobs immensely.

And if the Queen ever spreads her legs.



You would demand intently of me to brutalize you.

Rape you.

"I want to be your whore".
- You would point out.
- between smoke rings and soda gulps . . .

we were so young then.



Slipping into our glass cage. All fragile and raw.

You treated me like a tampon.

AND I LOVED IT.

24/7.




Cinderella.

You're back.

We're not sixteen anymore.


But we can be.


Tonight. You would pull me back to your red and white calico bed.

Then we would fuck like cats until noon.








For now.

You would paint my nipples gold.

And we would say our prayers
- like the good children that we are . . .

boom!

will be updating this blog soon. hope you guys like the new look.

shit...sigh

how do you nurse a heart? make it unbroken when it never was whole. and is now more broken? how do you give it to someone else, when someone already owns it...and he couldn't care less at that.

desperate are the prayers uttered by one lost. gather my tears... for my hands can no longer catch them. for they are still reaching out for you...

crap pepe crap

we do not need to sing the song of dead 'heroes' to own patriotism.

it is not a badge of vanity and false pride.

so trite.

hail the glorified.
hail the overrated.

hail the epitome of the filipino.

the epitome of the filipino who wished to be something else.
something he would never become.

hail pepe.

one pepe is quite enough, thank you.

but who is pepe?

have a safe and productive rizal day.

A lesson in emphasis, not in punctuation:

A lesson in emphasis, not in punctuation:

WHO are you
who ARE you
who are YOU

nests

What is a family? What is a home?
When the lamps are already dimmed. Diffused.
The pillars already cracked. Powerless.
And the doves have all flown away from the nest.
Some enslaved. Others perished…
Tell me…
What is a family?

hither

HITHER. WHERE TEARS COME UNBIDDEN WHEN UNNEEDED. THE SAME TEARS DESERT YOU WHEN YOU DO. SLEEP THE NIGHT. SLEEP THE SORROW. THE LONELY SINGS NO LULLABIES. . . LET ME BID YOU A DREAMLESS SLUMBER…

bare threads

Ask me how a barethreaded tapestry feels, for I can tell you. Frayed at the edges, you are all unraveled and raw. To feel that the very ground you walk, stand on is no longer stable and solid. For it is crumbling away and its dust, treacherous. You have nothing, no one to lean on. They are just figments of your insecurities. Your sanity merely an illusion. And the only thing that is left for you to do… is breathe.
The air not even yours, just lent to you.
3 juillet 2008 21:32:01

SALVATION

SALVATION

break the world

in screaming glory.

Shout ye triumphant sons

And daughters

Of flawed wombs and negligible seeds

Pray

That we may all reach salvation

Tepid and apostate

Cry

In fury. in pain. in love. in the dying.

And scream in glory for the breaking of the world.

Then await

Him

Who shall come to rule and reign

At the breaking of the world

LIFE IS A PLAID

LIFE IS A PLAID

life is a plaid

the patterns at once seemingly

simple and complex

our loves our sorrows our glory and shame

all compartmentalized into blocks of

dulling color

the parallelism in our collective existence

echoed in each row

and column of woven

thread

fabricated singularity

our paths cross but we never

stay

still

life is a plaid

the patterns at once

interestingly lackluster

like as we know it

…or know of it


who would dare unravel our

shared knit

to enlighten us

and break the world

break the world

LISTLESS

LISTLESS

Write a song pen a
Poem
Pass it
On
Burn
It off.

Or bury it deep
Within
In the impregnated nullity of the life we are familiar with
We shrug nonchalantly
To pathetically endeavor, attempt at filling in
The eternal void. Constant hollowness. We identify
We say, with each other our lips claim
As our eyes elope with our hearts
And chase after all
And every insignificant fragile
Little thing…

So write a song pen a poem pass it on burn it off then bury it deep within

SUMMER’S FOLLY

SUMMER’S FOLLY

Summer fades, and autumn summons
You are my folly

The winds are silent
As they rush by
Grim

Uncaring

You are my folly

My ruin

Summer fades, and autumn summons

The moon takes flight
Without a glance
In solitude

The cup has emptied
And the hearth burns low
The shadows stilled

You are my downfall

Summer fades, and autumn summons
You are my folly

OF KING AND TEMPLE

OF KING AND TEMPLE

My temple is shabby.

Yet I am King.

For the world Is. Is Broken.

My Temple is Shabby. My walls cracked.

My pillars fickle, my roof weary.

My font is parched.

My torch is sapped. Soused.

My altar is drained and desecrated

The soul that dwells within is shattered.


Yet I shine with a light that is yet undimmed.

And my spirit is at once listless and grave.

So…

For I am King.

Lean on my pillars, seek shelter beneath my roof, drink from my font, warm by my fire.

Worship at my altar.



Though my temple is shabby,

I am king.

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?

dear gray wall:

dear gray wall:

it has been
relentlessly
humid and scorching these past few days.
of course. you know. you who have no chance to seek respite from the
sun’s arrogance. the sun
has burned away all our fragile

hopes – such nervous little things.
perhaps they burrowed underneath the ground.
nestling in the cool sod.

but i do go on. pardon. patient
eavesdropper to my dreams – suppressed yearning at the core.
my fleeting youth deserts me for what perhaps

you know.


your
dour silence consoles me
still.
constant companion of restless slumber
buttress of a leg, lover of a shoulder you
prop me up in more ways…

so many more ways
in distracted pondering the pads of
my fingers wander across your concrete face.
rough solace it tendered.

tell me

is it easier to live life as
life was lived by those
who went before
me…us?

Or would it be cowardice to believe
In the synchronicity of common experience?

you

you.

you know who you are.

you know what you did.

yet i forgive you.

still.

i pray for your happiness.

and success.

i pray that the karma you sowed.

you would not reap.

what do you gain from your games?

i forgive you.

yet i never forget.