Settling Spouse

A pail of beer bottles becomes a harbinger:
A rare intimacy with a has-been rocker,
The heavy weight pinning me down on the soft earth,
As if all is well with being tied up with the hearth.

Do this. Pass that. Not there! He says with sternness.
So raw the voice of my lover in our own nest!
But through secret glances: who are you? I mutter.
Is this the ransom I asked time to surrender?

1 June 2016, Cordova, Cebu

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