Spoon

An erratic weather could not deter:

Budding, fleeting pleasure of a skewer,

No, no, not with last night's Burgundy wine,

But maybe the blood spurt of the first time.

Aside he casts doubts about her hide,

Finally engaging the evening tide:

Unwrapping himself from Chieng Dao's thick sheet,

Descending to discover gutts and grit.

Behold a child's eyes in an old virgin:

A surrender that warms up his tough skin,

A heart apounding thawing his sinews,

A woman who never forgets her dues.

Then he finds his way into her cavern.

With certainty, the bodies arch and burn.

Losing herself fills her empty chalice,

And he a boy, re-learning his first kiss.

Bangkok, 20 December 2015

The Mine Manager

Despite another mile of toil up to her hearth,
Quite madly he drilled miles deeper into the earth,

Manufacturing mistakes beyond the ore’s line,

Indeed exceeding the limit of time and mine.

Then the accused workers for stealing stones “got bust”

The fake hard rocks crumbled fast to worthless dust.

Why not? The cavernous mountain had long been barren.

Traces of rivers dried up in winter were sunken.

So desperate was the whip the master unleashed.

Abraded skin, that resplendent rubies peeked,

Until the flesh beckoned and turned into pit,

Until the horse bearing his weight pranced and shrieked.

Laying down — her back writhing, limbs unfelt, eyes shut —

She drowned in slumber, a rarity in her hut.

Like other battered bodies and shaken spirits,

Never bending, never kneeling to dreadful dicks.

Meanwhile, the master, Madame Defarge and her whores —

Boldly feasted on the virgins’ blood and labours,

A post-revolution moment - fragile, fleeting,

Bacchus himself left an invitation hanging.

Hopeless it seemed, all omens foretold unfolding.

But no! Fate made her move, with the ground opening.

Amid the dirt, boulders of diamonds shone through,

On their bellies, with outstretched hands, disaster brewed.

As broken spirits floated away in their dreams,

The cavern’s roof just gave way to the bright hell’s beams.

As the dregs’ fingers touched the surface of the stones,

Maddened earth overtook time to devour their bones.

Refined Thoughts of a Raging Mind

Note: This will be an evolving blog post, an exercise of a perceptive mind, that is a mind surrounded by "performances" which necessarily come with a post-industrial world, "performances" which sadly pervade even the spaces of freedom we hold dear. It is evolving as an anti-dote for treating the waste of a daily grind and liberating language from gutter-like conversations. Image from Wikimedia Commons, a painting of John William Waterhouse - Miranda and the Tempest

Vaginas fall in line for Cardinal.
Willing to kneel before his tyrant dick
Them who accommodate all his ring's pique
Never minding King Loius' notes verbale.  - 2 March 2016 

When the Mayflower sailed through the storm,
Pilgrims high and low vowed a new norm.
The sermons began with the tempest ---
When the heavens punished the souls' unrest.

But dedication turns into rage:
Women who read were thrown and tied at stake,
Hells' gate beckoned at Plymouth's shores.
Smith's mistress spat at the women's chores.
- 18 January 2016

Flipping pans to play with butter and fire 

Two farmer’s eggs subjected to the whip 

All with grace: served on a ceramic plate

Turned in by Julia Child with her pearls

A smudge there all across America could see

A glorious scrambled egg, all she cares.

But flipping scores over results undesired

— A judge asking for another trial and jury

Evidence was just too short for conviction

But when one jury penned a damning dissent

All glorious heavens unleash into hell

Crucifying the just, crowning the wanted.

- 19 November 2015

These days I think of myself as Jean Valjean, an escape artist on the path of evolution. Haunted though I maybe by Javert, I would never have to feel purposeless nor jump into the abyss of death. Instead I am hopeful that his suicidal future would mean one less scumbag soul on the face of the planet. So carry on with the evolution. Revolution will be upon us. 

- 17 November 2015

Kamusta Haiyan?

Kamusta Haiyan?

Dalawang taon matapos kang lumisan, ramdam pa rin ang taglay mong lakas. Pawang halik ng kamatayan ang pagdating mo sa mga baybayin. Sa libu-libong puno ng niyog na iyong pinatumba, ilang pamilya ang iyong ginutom and patuloy na ginugutom. Sa tuwing natatahak ko ang paligid ng mga bundok na pansamantalang nagharang sa iyo, sadyang nangungusap ang mga ito, kasama ng mga natirang puno ng niyog: "Ang kalipunan ng mga puno ay hindi nangangahulugang gubat."

Maraming nawalan ng mahal sa buhay, marami pa ang hindi nakikita  ang kanilang ka-anak --- hindi nayakap, hindi nakahingi ng tawad, hindi nakapagpaalam --- sa huli nilang pagkikita, pagkikipag-usap o pakikipag-alitan. Ngayon ay nananatiling balisa kung tatanggapin ba ang binubulong ni Hades o mananalig pa kasama ni Pag-asa.

Libu-libo ang naninirahan na halos walang seguridad maliban sa pinagdugtong na tarpaulin o natagping kumot sa mga pansamantalang ngunit tila permanenteng sitio. May ibang nagbakasakali sa pagtatayo ng maliit na tindahan. Pero minsan napapaisip ako: Kung lahat sa sitio'y walang trabaho --- maliban siguro sa panaka-nakang construction mula sa naglalakihang organisasyon --- at ang karamihan ng nagbakasakali ay nagtatayo ng tindahan, ano ang maaaring asahan?

Totoo may mga nagsama-sama at nagtulungan sa pananalasa mo. Maraming biyaya at aral ang nahulog na parang manna mula sa langit. May pagkain, tubig, binhi, bangka at sa ilang lugar, bahay. Ngunit marami pa rin ang patuloy na nagutom, nauhaw, nakaranas ng karahasan, at nabaliw. Ilan kaya ang nanahimik, imbis na magsuplong sa mga marahas na katuwang o mapagsamantalang kamag-anak? Ilan kaya ang nag-nais na ibalik ang panahon at iwasan nang tuluyan ang isang namumuong bunganga sa sinapupunan? Ilang mangisngisda ang gabi-gabing nagdarasal na sana marami pang patubig, palikuran at kalsada ang kailangang itayo, para lamang mailayo sila sa muling pag-asa sa paglalayag.

Ang pagsipol ng hangin ay ngayo'y may ibig ng sabihin. Ang kidlat ay hindi lang naghuhudyat ng kulog. Ang ulan ay pagbabadya, nagpapaalala sa iyong bagsik na nagsimula sa tila inosenteng ulan. Marahil ang kahandaan ng mga tao ang isa sa naidulot aral, isang napaka-pait na aral.

May mga organisasyon ka ring binuhay. Ilan dito ay napag-iwanan na ng panahon at naghihingalo. Ang iba nga ay sadyang pasara na. Dahil sa iyo, ilang proyekto at trabaho ang nalikha. Ngunit marami rin ang pagkakataon kung saan nanaig ang kalituhan, pag-mamarunong, pag-aaway-away, pananamantala at oo, pagwawaldas ng salapi at tulong na dapat sanang naiparating sa mga sadyang nasaktan mo. Ilang beses rin ako napaisip: Ano ang pagkakaiba ng ganid ng sadyang mapagsamantalang politiko at pulitikal na mga pamilya, sa paggamit ng kapangyarihan ng ilang taong ipinagkalooban ng tulong na laan para sa iyong nasalanta?

Wala akong sagot sa mga ito kung hindi maging mapagmatyag, maglahad sa templo at paminsan-minsan sumasangguni sa orakulo, sa mga kaluluwang nanatiling tapat, matulungin, makatao, sa mga nangangahas maglayag, magtanong at matuto, imbis na manatili sa pampang na pinamumugaran ng pangamba, panggigipit, kahunghangan at kataksilan.

Hindi ko alam kung ikaw ay gugunitain pa rin sa susunod na taon. Gayun pa man, salamat na rin sa pagkakataon ng pagninilay at pagkakatuto. Sana'y maghilom nang tuluyan ang mga sugat, na patuloy na naninisnis at nauungkat, sa pagkabigo na iparating ang iyong natitirang konsuelo.

stolen season

he spotted a star when casted:

the elements of persona and presence, 

so perfect for a critical chemistry ---

a demanding art commends.

at seven the lines are said:

re-read from the voice,

re-read from the memory,

re-read from the body.

every movement keen,

angles and curves lighted

shadows for her little hairs

brushing through his sinews 

her shins for him to smooch

the welcoming crevices:

the delicate neck,

the pool in the navel,

the valley of the bosom,

thrashed in the makeshift bed

a make-believe scene

every thespian’s night ---

the twin evil of daring and baring,

groping through the back light,

threading catwalks of risqué.

a balancing act:

spotlights and shadows,

discipline and creativity,

talent and desire,

reel and real.

mounting the perfect play, 

he burns the stage --- 

a respite since youth,

with a gift that thrives,

dormant for the daily grind:

the daytime slavery, 

winter cold bed,

as reality bites hard ---

a brood to be schooled,

grown and unaffectionate.

a mortgage to be paid,

a marriage soon-to-be unmade.

a virgin re-born at the gala evening

no, always, always this season,

their hearts pour onto hollows,

passions could only upstage, 

all sets, lights and shadows, 

as if it’s life’s last performance.

love aborted, now allowed.

reviews and guests regardless

returning artists are crowned,

standing ovation just so priceless. 

but in a living room of quilts, 

Dora waits for him who’s gone,

her old Romeo reliving his youth. 

maybe retrieving her Chaplin too?

but he dreads this curtain call ---

a harbinger of his old life,

days of enduring his wife’s dry spiels  

forever auditioning for his love.

A Mistress' Midnight

The clock strikes twelve,

The pendulum swings,
Presaging history's dullness.

Now playing the apothecary's phonograph:
A prescription post the countless confessions,
Coating anew the scars of the soul.

As an opium is for empty dreams,
A sedative towards a tearless sleep.
With the void of a starless sky ---
Spouseless Cassiopeia.
Under the full moon,
Too bright for a lullaby.

So unlike and unalive:
The pigments I trace on your skin.
The pointy nose wedged into my hollows.
The hairy limbs which keep us warm.
Your heartbeat from my breasts.

Thanatos unheeded by Hades:
A chronic painful numbness.
A prolonged lonesome company.
So much for the reality of time.

Guiuan, Eastern Samar
21 October 2015

Contested Torch

A beacon of light was lost, it seems with a death of an erstwhile feminist. Like many who were frustrated with gatekeepers in the country, she found and nurtured a space for herself elsewhere. And with her substance and persistence, her voice echoed back, so strong that she just could not be missed.

Rare is such a person that after her death, her protege could only sigh, "we suddenly need to grow up fast." While she groomed maybe one or two younger women - defended even against her contemporaries, she was generous in supporting the rest of the younger women --- both young in age and in the movements.

Unfortunately not all women have such self-consciousness over one's power nor the grace to respect the space of other women. Not demanding respect for the past or the old is the exception. The operative word is "demand" more than "respect".

It is even more appalling that some other women would be so arrogant to brag about themselves, their past entitlements and achievements, with hardly any regard to existing systems and people, including those who are supposedly in the path to discovering a new skill and a potential commitment.

Then there are the younger ones, who while espousing young feminisms, have not quite imbibed these. While their models remain the mothers of the movements, they expect their contemporaries to be of the same likeness as their idols.

Whatever happened to the I, identity, difference, process, becoming, subjectivity, location that both scholars like Stuart Hall, Avtar Brah, Luce Irigaray, Deniz Kandiyoti and even ordinary folks have imparted?

In the midst of such frustrating contradictions, there is solace among those who toil in the background, who could hardly care less of titles and entitlements. Such arrangement has generated ease for them and their colleagues, who have found renewed faith among themselves towards carving their own spaces.

Because for the more self-assured, it is not about passing the torch from the old to the young. It is about enabling the latter to create the torches that will light the paths they have chosen, paths that are littered with learning and daring, paths for self-discovery.

(Dis)placing Home

The long queues at the airport are once more shortened by conversations with strangers. While the day's headline was capped by Grace Poe's bid for the presidency and the re-emergence of citizenship issues, I met a woman for whom nation has not meant as much as providing food on the table miles and miles away.

Meet Minda, a 40 year-old domestic worker from Kuwait. While I kept myself busy recharging my phone and surfing the internet while falling in line before the check-in counter, I was disrupted by an assertive voice that asked, "magkano bili mo sa ticket mo" (how much did you pay for your ticket). As I was flying solo, I did not bother to turn and pick out a face behind the voice, until she nudged me. Surprised, it took me sometime to respond.

"Ang mahal ng ticket ko. Halos isang buwang suweldo" (My ticket is expensive. It is worth a one-month salary)." Minda earned a meager PHP13000 a month while working for an Egyptian family. It may sound high for someone from Cotabato, but not when you are supporting oneself in a foreign land and shouldering the expenses of so many others, from basic meals to utility bills, from education to rentals.

Not too long later, she gave hints on how life has been, referring to the never-ending suffering, "hirap" as a low-paid domestic helper in a conservative household. At that moment, she was like a child who was telling her parents how her playmates wronged her and at once a  grown woman whose certainty of not returning to Kuwait was forged by stone and fire.

"Nakumpleto mo naman eh" (You completed it), I remarked about her finishing her two-year contract in the end, despite the odds. Minda seemed to have felt the sense of achievement. But still not quite. For she knew that there was hollowness over a her self-proclaimed mantra, "tapos na ang pagtitiis" (the suffering is over). 

Two years of slaving, she was coming back to a nation, unbeknownst to her as a nation. It is merely a place where much of her journeys began. 

Comrades at the Crossroads

We give alms to the poor
after so much whinning over
every cent and second
many a managing Timons labour.

We march to a purple sea
sans the Magdalenes ---
so unlike our image and body,
so dangerous for our brains and skin.

We tap friends as judges and scribes ---
litigating realities with our own arguments,
selling ideas that are done deals.

We expand our arms but alas a yell:
"But please, please not them
of different red flags."
No blood on our clammy palms?

So purged that we break the Gordian knot
too heavy and rusty with histories.
undoing, unlearning
reclaiming ourselves, our bodies,
re-creating our memories.
  
12 August 2015, Nathaniels, Timog Avenue

Our Lady of Bantayan

Long after the church bells pealed,
She wandered through the night.
That tiny strip where all meet:
The guests and locals,
The mobile and burdened,
Juxtaposing commitment and contentment.
It is often an uneventful evening.

She entered the hut with coloured bulbs.
Mirroring melange and mimicry:
The East's curiosity and accommodation,
The West's adventure and respite,
The rest watching and betting ---
with cold eyes and ears ---
tempered with thousand troubles,
high hopes turned into heart breaks.

She put on a face.
A steady grin and presence,
Wiry locks, bony shoulders, sun-kissed skin.
All still inadequate to belie:
Ragged summer dress,
Reeking scorched earth.

She performed the drill.
Pulling up a chair towards the bar,
Grinning, pouting, unsounding,
Turning her head between elocuting strangers ---
unbothered by the scent of the streets,
unaffected by uneven exchange.

Much later, she rested her head,
Fed and sick in the stomach,
Soaped and stretched limbs,
Caressed and slapped face,
Never washed from the night's charity.

She stared at the ceiling fan.
Lost in its unchanging direction ---
a palliative to the pain in a humid hut. 
Motionless with dashed dreams.
Unfazed when the church bells tolled.

2 August 2015, CouCou Bar and Restaurant. Sta. Fe, Bantayan Island.

sad king triton

I am sorry that I snapped.

I am sorry that you never had 
time until the water came to a boil.

I am sorry that you ignored 
spent forces throw their weight, 
sowing discord and disempowerment.

I am sorry that you could not sever your ties 
to a past that prevents the new to take root.

I am sorry that in your own way of navigating 
through contradicting currents, 
you pushed my quietly trudging boat to the rocks.

I am sorry that you may not see me bloom, 
take flight or simply move on under your wings.

I am sorry that you broke my spirit.

I am sorry that I ever believed in you.

menstrual musing

typing away 

beating the red deadlines

on a back-breaking lane 

too narrow and shallow,

so much for 

sweaty crevices,

swerving interests, 

sneaky devices.

but unstoppable:

surging pain 

throbbing temples 

letting go of the brakes

now lying down,

under the playful moon,

closing my eyes to see you:

pulling up my dress

to rest your chamomiled palm 

on the belly in distress.

a speedy release into the warm folds

of a hovering but fleeting cloud,

away from the real stains on my cold sheets. 

19 July 2015