What 8 Tracks Can Do

Yes, because it is quite a long aftermath oozing into hiatus.
I am appealing to the audiophile in you in you in you.

Listen to an 8 track mix of light and somber songs
you can let go and unwind to until you're dreaming.

Fitting

I went to my favorite dress shop to survey the latest

styles on display. Two fully clad mannequins were up:

one flaunted a refreshing red summer outfit while

the other elegantly wore a long black dress. I walked into

the new arrival’s aisle and ran my fingers through the

chiffon pleats of the delicate red skirt and, at once, went on

to caress the dark silky frock next to it. A closer look

at the dress revealed careful hands must have sewn

the chic lace near its lining. I took the pleasure of trying on

the smooth black dress—and oh, how it thrilled!

The dark fabric embraced the shape of my body

like a second skin; it hanging softly on my breasts

and falling gently to the curve of my hips and round thighs.

By then, I made up my mind. The dark dress will be mine.

But how my undressing gently uncovered these things long gone by:

The comfort of slipping into cool darkness with his hands gesticulating

immeasurable yearning, to nights on the living room floor and stripping

to the TV on static. I pulled down the black straps on my shoulders and

inevitably conjured his tender fingers caressing back, his warm hands

slowly stroking my uneasy arms. Stripping down my torso to my hips,

I could feel him embracing, mildly touching, gradually descending,

as I lower the silky garment to completely slide down the dark

dress to my touchy thighs and legs. And how I made up reasons

as to why these memories need not be agonizing (I find little

gratification in others, this hasn’t been surpassed at all these days),

until I got dressed and went out of the fitting room. I soon fell in line 
behind this pretty lady who held the same dress as mine, only to stop

in excruciating wonder to ask whose body could he be holding now?

On Salvaging the Essential

How I wish I remembered all the details. 

What more can I be but content with what has passed? 

Love remains love. Let go, for love's sake.

September 2010

See Things My Way

I miss you, those words,
And I don't know what I'm saying.

Aftermath

And so it is, just like you said it would be

Life goes easy on me most of the time

—Damien Rice , “The Blower’s Daughter”  

There is nothing more there but air. Slowly now, letting go.

When the words escape you as you trade them for silent

                                       sighs, polite glances; manage ostentatiously

                                       with well-meaning pats on the back

                                       so awkward and trite. When you would rather

                                       retreat to the dim comfort of a familiar room, remove

                                       your dagger sharp stilettos, pull down the scratchy

                                       constricting pantyhose and undress your body

of layer upon layer of flimsy affectation (odorous garments clinging

like a second skin which calls for slow and careful peeling), strip off

                                       insincere whims, the fashionable valiance that dazzles

                                       both the earnest and the fool. Wipe your blood-stained lips

                                       pale, and remove the mawkish haze from your smoky eyes

                                       before they begin to mock you again when you meet

                                       the mirror on your side. Never mind the achieved failure

                                       or the sense of indignation and discontent that surrounds.

Tolerate the slow obliteration of your soul upon grasping

what it means to forget— the disintegration of your memories

                                       and memories that will never be made. Embrace the wholeness

                                       of loss. Let your guard down. You are closed in unswerving walls. 

                                       Trepidation ceases where you can crumble numerous times into

                                       yourself. Walk inside a room inside another room with reckless

                                       abandon. Make a proposition to survey the formidable without

                                       restraint: wander about aimless without the weight of eyes

casting stealthy agonizing stabs. Permit yourself to fall naked

on that welcoming bed and delight in its soft consoling covers

convincing the core of your being to say that

                                                                    it’s over,

                                                                           it’s over.

                                                                                   It’s over.

Overcoming

She was afraid of things that hide:

The black cat at the back, the rat

that escaped the trap, the tiny

tricky ants nibbling at her snacks.

She would tremble at the sight of

the slightly opened door to

the study that invites peculiar

shadows as seen only by

the corners of her eyes.

The vacant chair by the window

is worn because of the weight

of black entities and years of

neglect. She would feel peering

eyes studying her from a quiet

distance whenever she’d enter

to pull the books out of disrespect,

read the pages, and recognize

which chapters were left bereft

by many hands which browsed

what would slowly accumulate dust.

But a child would grow fond of

unearthing bright things in the dark:

Father’s gold watch, his once loyal

pen, and a stack of old records

waiting to be played again.

Not to mention discovering

a parallel universe where

traveling is merely flipping

through pages of C.S. Lewis

just before bedtime, closing

her bright eyes, and flying

boundlessly in her sleep.

Bright as Yellow Out of Sight

Daniel:                  Can’t believe it’s been years. Did you do it?

Claire:                   Yes.

Daniel:                  Too bad. I can’t ever see your paintings.

Claire:                   You can feel the images on the canvas.

Daniel:                  It’s not the same.

(beat)

Daniel:                  What colors do you like to use?

Claire:                   I’m fond of reds and yellows. My somber paintings are blue.

Daniel:                  What’s yellow to you?

Claire:                   The sun, at certain times of the day.

Daniel:                  I don’t understand.

Claire:                   Come with me, I will take you outside.

Daniel:                  But you haven’t answered my question.

                (beat)

Daniel:                  It’s warm and I can feel the cool air. Where are we?

Claire:                   We’re in yellow.

Daniel:                  A sunny day?

Claire:                   Breathe, Daniel.

Daniel:                  I’m breathing yellow?

Claire:                   Yes.

Daniel:                  I feel so warm and light. Can I taste it too?

Claire:                   Uhuh.

Daniel:                  How?

Claire:                   If you’ve ever relished the sweetness of honey, it’s yellow.

Daniel:                  Oh. Let’s have some today.

                (beat)

Daniel:                  Claire, what’s it like to paint?

Claire:                   It feels like dreaming, only I’m awake.

Musings

We might as well be doting on clocks

each time we begin to mind details worthy

of our recollections, no matter how

faulty this faculty tends

to become,

as it withers

with age. Our consciousness

would then only house the essential.

Perhaps we wish to venerate them

by clinging tenaciously to memory,

or even fervently ask, When

will I see you again?  as if looking

forward to everyday

like an oath

never

once

said.

And we know enough that this

will not come: twice around the bend

must have been too much of a plea.

What is enough could leave

these clocks wilting as they hang

to tick consistently out of

necessity and exhaustion; weary faces

with soft arrows reminding me

of your tired

yet yearning

eyes.

The space we had

remains arid and bare.

                         What is enough

                         always leaves

                         something behind

and does not stay.

After Dali

Persistence of Memory (1931)
Salvador Dali

Last One on the Table

She was a sickly child of seven when her mother told her about the importance of eating fruits and vegetables. It was a way to encourage her to become stronger. Not that feeding her kangkong or sitaw was a problem. Angela ate anything her mother served on that table whether she liked the taste and texture or not. The child practically ate anything, she swept her plate clean. However, she never got to finish lunch or dinner without everyone leaving her on that dining table. Angela’s dad and brother would go and watch TV or play baril-barilan right after eating. She was always left alone to finish a meal, always the last to go. And she didn’t seem to mind.        

On that particular night, Angela’s mom wanted her to eat faster. Her mom found it a bit annoying that she always had to wait so long just to clear up the table. She got used to collecting the other plates, utensils, and glasses to wash them in the kitchen sink, only to come back and find Angela still poking at her food.

To instill a sense of urgency on the child, Angela’s mother decided to tell her what her lola and titas used to tell her about women who always get left behind on the dining table.

“Angela, hurry up! Do you know what happens to girls kapag napagliligpitan?” She seemed passive, but her mom knew she was listening. She didn’t talk much. Her mom sat beside her and turned toward her with a pensive stare.

“Masamang napagliligpitan sa hapag kainan. Sige ka, hindi ka makapag-aasawa.” Angela’s mom, realizing she’s too young to give thought to what she said, suddenly felt careless. The child just gave her a dumb stare like that of a delicate cartoon deer.

The next night, her mom decided not to force Angela to eat any faster. Just when she was about to stand up and clear the dishes, Angela’s brother began poking fun at his sister’s slow eating habits.

“Hey, slow-mo! Hurry up! Sige ka, ‘di ka makakapag asawa.” Angela’s mom was shocked. Gino, Angela’s older brother, must have overheard her little talk. Gino would pester Angela with this almost every dinner time. She hoped Angela would forget it but it didn’t seem like she would quickly dismiss her brother’s insensitive banters. From then on, her daughter would sit through dinner fumbling hastily on her food for years to come. She stood when everyone was done with their meal.

Years later, her memory would be too fragmented to remember that part of her childhood. A grown up Angela would come to enjoy fine dinners with some of her friends. The restaurant got used to their group’s Saturday dinners that they always reserved a spot for them, one with a good long table.

“Who’s up for dessert? Trish, Mike? Kayo, Angela?”, asked Paula.

“Ryan and I want some! Hmm, let me see”, said Angela, now with her boyfriend, Ryan.

“Order some more cocktails! Kulang pa ‘to!”, a tipsy Camille insisted.

Ryan wasn’t particularly demonstrative, but he cared a lot for Angela. He was already her 6^th boyfriend after a series of bad, not so bad, and terrible break-ups. They’ve known each other a while but have been on and off their relationship. On that night, nonetheless, Ryan wanted to ask Angela a very important question.

“Hey, drink up! Wala munang uuwi!”, it was very much like Camille to assert her fondness for friends and good stiff drinks. Ryan saw this as an apt opportunity to pop the question to Angela. All her close friends were there. He thought it was about time they settled down. So, ask he did. And the drinking just went on and on.

Hours after the plates have been cleared, the last order of Mojito came from the bar. Most of Angela’s friends have left, and so did Ryan. Here now, she thinks of how to go home, “There must be a cab somewhere at this hour.” 

Proof

In her secret heart, Miss Mijares’ young dreams fluttered faintly to life
--Kerima Polotan, “The Virgin”

The wooden paperweight, though broken,
holds down slips resourcefully with one
wing mimicking a bird in flight. It lay firm
on her table, so were her ways;
not minding the years of guiltless
crosses and dreams locked
for another day. What she had
kept hidden might as well be forgotten
in rows of drawers and mounds
of filed sheets organized meticulously,
lest one should require proof. A record
is only as valuable as what it represents:
names, numbers, dates, and signatures
reserved for proper validation.
Its austerity is overwhelming
and quite often taken for granted
as she manages to keep it
compartmentalized with fasteners,
staples, and the weight
of a flightless bird. Thrice removed
from reality (but not quite),
in due course, it gave
the impression of life
whilst cupped by sturdy hands.

Late Dates: Second Coming

Orange Lori had been waiting an hour for Green Gerry at a coffee joint. Pissed, she swigged green tea latte and smoked a heap of red cigarettes to shake off frustration.

A creepy blue boy sat on the opposite table. She didn’t mind his occasional stares until she was certain the guy was on to her. Like he knew her. Finally, however, the late Green Gerry came. Orange Lori was so relieved she forgot about being pissed.

An orange girl walked in clumsily and skimmed the café. She was off to meet the creepy blue boy for the first time.

Smoke

The shadows of smoke linger
as if trapped in the invisibility of white
on white, its intolerable lightness
clinging on walls as we breathe

signals of distress;
vapors that conjure up

instances which take place
only in haze:

Once, I was told to possess 
an otherworldly suaveness. A man
spoke of my vampiric demeanor
"How your passion is so remote.."
His surreptitious glances
caught my strident stare.

Some ghostly smoke
swathed his eye,

divulging a dark apparition
from my soul.

In my projections

where misery is withheld

and appearances are pied,

my breath extinguished the

flowing folds of smoke--

Whose hands fanned
the scarlet cinders

beneath? Why
are we burnt?

 For Niño

Misogyny in AA Psychotherapy

Dr. Grey:      Tell me about the things you would rather undo.

Ms. Maudlin: I told you, it was a lost year. Shouldn’t you ask for what I should have done?

Dr. Grey:       I must really cut down your Prozac. You’re being apprehensive again.

Ms. Maudlin: I am not. And the dosage is fine.

                     (beat)


Ms. Maudlin: Let me see. There was Mr. Musician, Mr. Painter and Mr. Writer.

Dr. Grey:       You seem fond of these types. What do you suppose you get out of their company?

Ms. Maudlin: Nothing.

Dr. Grey:       Hmm, alright… So, in what group do you classify them?

Ms. Maudlin: Manipulative egotistic bastards.

Dr. Grey:       I see. And why do you associate with them?

Ms. Maudlin: I give myself away.

Dr. Grey:       Oh, right. You’re a—

Ms. Maudlin: Don’t say it, bitch! I know you think low of us!

                   (beat)

Ms. Maudlin: Dr. Grey, isn’t your husband a musician?

Dr. Grey:       That isn’t relevant.

Ms. Maudlin:  But don’t you want to know more about him?

Dr. Grey:        No, thank you. I think I know enough.

Ms. Maudlin:  Why? Aren’t you going to do anything about it?

Dr. Grey:        That’s it. I’m changing your Prozac to Valium.

Ode to My 8,000

Goodbye, 8,000 days—

the years they made will not go 
down my book unmissed.

On my 22^nd year, let the wolves,

snakes, and rats fester on

my pesky romantic schemes.

Goodbye, 8,000 unicorns, wizards, 

my timeless friends outside 

the unavoidable door. I am grateful 

for your transient wishes.

We drank to the final vestiges

of ignorance and recklessness

youth entitled us to live.

Goodbye, 8,000 visions and tricks

and what seemed like a bright idea

but was just another stolid plan

hackneyed too many times.

I’ve acquired the stuff of machines,

chased the green light beyond the bay

and drowned in the ebb of ambition.

Goodbye, 8,000 tales and lullabies,

to nights of sleep filled with dreams.

Goodbye, 8,000 sunrises that do not

sore my eyes when I wake.

Anesthetics and Everything After

You could never forget the comfort
and confusion caused by anesthesia
once introduced in your young veins:
Your blood was already thinning
from severe insomnia and coffee
usually served bitter black
as it easily found its way
through unlit places in your body
until it reached a chamber
situated in your heart. I
spoke so faintly it could only
be another temporal kind of
treatment for the ill tempered
possessed by a demented spirit.
They've the strongest of wills
and we have deemed it best
to restrain their hunger
while there is much time
to kill, figure out what else

is there that keeps us frozen 

inside, while all you ever
hoped for was a moment
congealed to last.

A Smoke with the Old Man After the Funeral

Little Miss Wistful:           I hope I’m not disappointing you too much.

Sir Dragonfly:                  Don’t worry. You never did. Mind if I take your wish stick?

Little Miss Wistful:          Go ahead. Sir, how come we never shared a smoke when you were 
                                      around?

Sir Dragonfly:                  Look kid, you know cigarettes kill. You should quit.

Little Miss Wistful:           I know, sir. But then, we all go anyway. What’s the point?

Sir Dragonfly:                  I used to say the same thing. Don’t steal my words.

Little Miss Wistful:           Oh. I’m sorry, sir.

Sir Dragonfly:                  It’s alright. You’re getting old, try to take care of yourself.

              

               (beat)

Sir Dragonfly:                  I see you took my night spot.

Little Miss Wistful:          I’ve been coming here to smoke since you left.

Sir Dragonfly:                 Stay as long as you want. Just remember to clean up.

Little Miss Wistful:          Sir, I took your camera too. Do you mind?

Sir Dragonfly:                 Take it. The place is yours now, kid.        

Little Miss Wistful:          So, I won’t be seeing you soon?

Sir Dragonfly:                 No.

Little Miss Wistful:          For how long?

Sir Dragonfly:                 Until the last day you write.

Little Miss Wistful:          But I’ve so much to write.

                (beat)

Sir Dragonfly:                 Hey, kid.

Little Miss Wistful:          Yes, sir?

Sir Dragonfly:                 Don’t forget to take my dog to the vet.

Little Miss Wistful:          Don’t worry, I will. 

Aimless

walk toward

the bend

a fleet

       of cars       

    caught             

     static 

         point to

                                       h

                                         i

                   the                 g

                                           h

                                            e

                                             s

                                               t

                         shiny

blue

building

                                     go

                down

                    stairs

                          and

           pass

    under

     to           to

         cross

           the

                          street     street

                stop  

and                             where

stand                              a

                                    tree

                                   once

                                  stood

                 

        and

is now

         m_ss_ng.

The Ritual

You tore a page from the notebook
which held last year's reminders:
places and dates you attended,
canceled, and purposefully
missed. Scribbled numbers useful,
others meaningless. Some names
you thought worth remembering.

Your steadfast hands pressed it
against a wall as you began
to fold it down into a triangle,
again and again, reducing it to
thick paper with three sides,
until you could fold it no more.

Before that, the flimsy fawn sheet
had you recognize words you didn't
write with your own hand. The clear
strokes revealed good intentions,
unsaid reservations, and an overture
to unexplored territories you knew
you'd never tread while each letter
maintained its depth and sharpness.

The folded points were too blunt
to cause cuts. You pressed it on
the table and saw it try to open
itself, the last fold, until it gave up.

Torn paper— spent, folded, somewhat
open. Still, useless. You just throw it.

Expecting 2nd Place

I’m half-way through the race

when I realized I’m wearing

mismatched socks again.

The left sock is much softer,

thicker than the one worn

by my blistering right foot.

I ran rubbing on the rawness

of these sores while my feet

burnt across the winding track.

It stung more apparently as I

came much closer to the finish

line, expecting second place.

This is one way of tolerating pain.

Keep rushing. Don’t think, until

you get there. I kept it numb.

Not without stumbling, I crossed it,

my face slapping the pavement.

Mismatched socks did it again.

(first verse from Jov)

That I Would Be Good

All over the place:

1.
It's strange to find that after all this time, I still can't understand why we hurt when the one's we care for are hurting. Maybe I've been denying this truth for a long time. Whether I came to accept it early on or not doesn't make me feel any better or wiser as a person. I simply cannot write over the fact that what happens in their life affects me as much as it affects them. I'm talking about how I feel when it comes to important people in my life. For a long time, I tried to project this solid shell. I just convinced myself I'm fine. With it came masks which were easy to wear. It has become part of my life. It's not about pretensions, it's just a way of coping. These are the kind of things I don't apologize for.

2.

I haven't really dealt with my emotions in a long time, and I guess it's just catching up with me. Bottling everything up helped me on the surface, but it's just not enough anymore. I guess it explains why I'm so guarded, why I limit potential relationships, and fail to have more fruitful friendships. I am selfish. I'd rather not give of myself. This has been the case for years. 

For someone who's passive and thin of blood, this is nerve racking. However, it is liberating. I know I should at least try to free my mind. I try not to put parameters on myself (there's enough of that in the world outside).


3.
I'd like to think I haven't lost my mind. I'm just possessed by years of pent-up emotions. I need to remind myself not to take that route the next time around because it has obviously greatly failed. 


4.
How do you trust something that changes all the time? Is the heart ever satisfied? Does it know enough to guide you? (Don't be all romantic Cor, don't trust emotional whims, you never won that way, you know you never will.) 


5.
Love is not enough. I will say it now and it will be true for years to come. It is never enough.

6.
It's difficult to be honest with others when you can't even be honest with yourself. I denied lots of truths and I only began to deal with them after having ghosts linger in my room. 

7.

I used to feel guilty for being selfish. These days, I think it's just a driving force that fuels me to live.


8.
It's difficult to negotiate within human relationships. It would be a lot harder if the mind and the heart never found a way to compromise. I tried to rid myself of this problem by eliminating the heart, only to search for it again. We were designed to work with both. We're so human that way. 

Substitutes

Surely something must have gone

Wrong,

things don't break without a cause.
Not that it's such a big deal this time.
Mother said I could always get a new
one, definitely better than the last.
On a weekend, get all dolled-up
to the shiny mall and stroll free until
one of them strikes your eyes.
There will be many arranged in
a row, giving you plenty of options.

Choose

among different styles which come in
every color, shape, and not to mention,
size. Try them all on and be sure to get
one that perfectly fits. As if it were
that simple to replace. I tried to mend
it with thicker thread, sewing the torn
lining but each stitch just made it

Worse.

My sister said some things never get
better, and so it's best to leave them
that way. In between the choosing and
longing, there was no resolve but to

Stop.



For Kristina

(revised from 2007)

Awaiting Dusk

Today, my eyes are heavy from the spell of dreams.
I cannot wait until the clear sky trades its bright hues
For nightfall. This firmament is turned day after day
By invisible hands; fiery crimson in the afternoon

Bleeding, soon revealing the purple backdrop
For dusk to commence. Mystified, I breathe in
These thoughts so fondly. Whose hands could be
So slow and subtle to stir such wistful wakefulness
In me? They make me linger long enough for eventide

To flush all lightness down the horizon’s drain,
Illuminating brilliant holes on heaven’s floor
Which my eyes map to draw webbed lines over
One star to another, peer closely into distant planets,

Study and understand satellites. I imagine
The moon’s faithfulness would yet again rouse
Higher waves in the nearest shore, as I stand here
Still, looking after broad daylight. I’ve no qualms
Recollecting that night, when once I grasped
What the slowness of subtle hands meant—

How they inched gently to release
The drapes upon my eyes, examined the lines
On my palms, and held the webbed spaces
Between each finger, to which they fit. How the night
Left my eyes heavy from the spell of dreams, lying
Ahead in the wake of the sky’s turning.

On the Pursuit of the Essential

I could study you all my life and still not find it.
-- Paz Marquez-Benitez, 'Dead Stars'

The Unrepressed Monologues of Ailing Kent

A.

'Lines', you say? I failed
Geometry more than you
brushed your teeth in
a week. Ever tried riding
that god-forsaken train
from Makati to Q. Ave.
buzzed like a bee?
What man won't forget
patience? Stand and hold
on to dear life as some
old fart keeps staring
at your assets, brushes
against your nape, push
just to be pressed in a
journey to Hades and back.


B.

The part where I have
to say something about
sex. Good news, kids!
It. Is. Fucking. Overrated.
Next please!


C.

Caving on a Wednesday,
It’s a sick trance on-board
metaphysics, extra-sensory
sweat on freshly dyed
ashen-tan hair and recently
contracted respiratory
infection. Hell. It feels like
getting run-over by a speeding
6-wheeler truck in EDSA, or
stepping on shit half-way to
rowdy Sara's under hammering
rain when I’d rather scavenge
for inverted triangular stones
care of Dr. Frankenstein,
Dr. Meredith Gray, as long
as it's free. Or even that big
bald gay, Dr. Phil. Oprah, you
are one lucky bitch. I am so
famished I could eat a live
elephant. Oh, is that a lizard?


D.

A tree. A spider. Spy here.

Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.

MJ, where did you hang
last night? My spidey-
sense is broken. Please,
come back. Indulge me.

Anita's Guilt

I shan’t have given you those fifth, sixth, or whatever senses,
I shan’t have chanted spells for you to know what it’s like
To feel the way I do. I ought to have just been content
Reading poetry or reciting Shakespeare’s Tempest with you.
I was tired of defining things all the time whenever you’d ask,
What’s a witch? What’s ‘like’? What’s ‘mind’?
So I thought it was best to bestow these upon you…

Oh, Timothy, you were more than just the Johnson’s scarecrow,
You’re more than rags and filth, you’re brain was well balanced
Though your head may be full of dirt. You kept me company
Throughout the dreary summer and you learned my ways faster
Than anyone has been with me before. Don’t believe me when
I said you were just some rotting spider’s nest. Forgive me.
I didn’t mean to hit your soiled shoulders, break your straw arms
And fracture your wooden spine to fall feet over into the stream.

I conjured you out of boredom, yet you grew on me
More than I’d wish to confess. You do not know how terrifying
It was for me to destroy my favorite creation, to let you go
When you have pleaded so much to stay. I recognized your
Tears on your faceless head, your sighs and strong resolve
As you stirred my heart out of callous selfishness.

Please forgive me, Timothy. I had to go away. Surely seasons
Will come to pass, even my great Prince will certainly turn to dust.
Do not fret for there will be no pain from now on. You will no more
Hold memories of the past summer, as I will forever carry yours.


After Keith Roberts’ short story, Timothy

Passing Through

And it came to me then that every plan

 is a tiny prayer to father time.

-- Benjamin Gibbard, “What Sarah Said”

Who leaves without pining to flutter back? Waking to warm sunrays through the windowpane,

We would write our plans on colorful stained glass, the promise of bright mornings, more days

For our wills seeking years to come. As these visits were reduced to waiting before you breathed

Out an entire story of the soul, a heavy stone must have formed inside my throat. Who chose the

Day, the time, the place? We sat clutching hands and embracing ourselves through one another

Inside spotless rooms with space so bare as to let minds fly leaving our stoic automatic bodies

When the eyes would turn white, when our glass plans would fracture and let harsh sunlight in,

Burning holes into our dreaming eyes. Until then, I have not for the life of me, grasped what has

Become of this containment after there are no pertinent words enough to pronounce the swift

Passing of sparrows snagged in flight; the incessant wreckage done by the exactness of flat lines.

For Mama Sol

See What I've Done

Air

i

Somewhere certain music plays gradually

Easing harmony and smooth rhythm

Like deep water through breathable waves

Swelling: a gathering of a hundred whispers,

Of lows and highs resonating a full chorus

And slowly letting go to begin a new song.

ii

In the attempt to capture the invisible,

We resort to amplify all four senses:

To touch, smell, taste and hear—

And those blessed with susceptible ears

Catch even the slightest sounds from afar.

iii

And I begin to mind how our songs fill minute

Fissures, shadowy bends, a hairbreadth’s length

Of a hole, the immense space—within

And between. When distance and proximity

Equally persist and mean nothing.

iv

Listen to the pervading wind whistling over

Vast oceans and heavenly peaks beyond

Pallid cliffs. It's unperturbed method of movement  

Bending fields, carrying seeds, and sifting earth

To scatter all elements, again and again.  

Il Signore

The Prayer of St. Francis

Il signore, mi rende uno strumento della vostra pace
Lord make me, make me an instrument of your peace

Dove ci e odio, la sciarlo seminare l'more
Where there is hatred, let me sow love

Dove ci e ferita
where there is injury

Perdono
Pardon

Dove ci e dubbio
Where there is doubt

Fede
Faith

Dove ci e disperazione
Where there is despair

Sperare
Hope

Dove ci e nerezza
Where there is darkness

Illuminarsi
Light

Dove ci e la tristezza
Where there is sadness

Gioia
Joy

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek;
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love

For it is in giving that we recieve,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying that we are born again
To eternal life.

Il signore, mi rende uno strumento della vostra pace
Lord make me, make me an instrument of your peace.

arranged by Ryan Cayabyab

Sad is Her Temper

Words create lies. Pain can be trusted.

--Audition, 1999 directed by Takashi Miike

I don’t appreciate it when a woman leaves

Without saying goodbye. I woke alone. You didn’t

Care to write a note. Were you always like that? Leaving

Without a trace? I had to search in dilapidated

Buildings, but nobody knew who you were.

That old man was laughing at me, mocking me

With his monstrous feet, telling me to go home.

You loved ballet, you say? You thought it dissipated

All that darkness you cradled. But darling, you’ll never

Dance. I should have listened when he said, Happy people

Can’t act—but as you lay there on the smoothness

Of white touching the sinister long scar on your thigh,

I could only give you love. It’s not my delusion alone

But yours. So, would you please just get to the point?

I’ve had enough of your seductive syringe and leather straps

Listening to that excruciating voice as you go deeper,

Deeper, deeper, deeper. You wearing sleek latex gloves

Matched with a girlie white dress was amusing

For you. Painful recurrence. Who wouldn’t grow 
Fond in repetition? This is how you keep appearances up:

Inflicting scornful punctures on my throbbing tongue, sides,

Underneath my eyes. How much practice have you had?

How perfectly you cut off feet with your trusty wire.

Oh no. No. I will not succumb to that alluring stare again,

Or the tenderness of your words as you speak so keenly about

Sadness and pain. That’s all you knew. It’s all you’ll ever know.

Winding up

Winding up bed covers stained with piss five grumbling stomachs the last aspirin consumed in the morning through mounds of reeking garments when to repair a broken faucet clogged toilette settle last month’s water bill clean with left-over bleach and soap just pour hot water or better yet just get last night’s fried fish and brown bahaw and catch the whiff of bacon and eggs from the neighbor’s adjacent window looking out to trodden pathways where hawkers lurk to strike a deal for the latest fabricated pair of Chucks nuts balls cigarettes mugged leather bags menthol candy and stealthy exchanges for cheap drugsdrugsdrugsdrugsdrugsdrugs along the crooked asphalt reach the junction and pass partial pipe-laying drills drill drilling drills drill drilling drills drill drilling stony earth liberating dust soaring debris caught in the eye tearing up silent sighs further upsetting the previously peace-less mind attached to a body racing in god-forsaken trains blasted buses scheming taxis hasty jeeps slapdashing private vehicles urging invariable departure and arrival to monetary tardiness and compulsory labor of the auto-pilot in you in you in you until the next dark coffee and round of stale cigarettes is consumed humbly getting by with convenience store heists the lottery and highly intellectual noontime shows for lunch

Scores of Assumptions

to exist entails

                        deterioration and loss

our hearts tirelessly

                        insist their ways and 

ache for

                        the same thing

love like a religion

                         i once had

the unheard of

                         is likewise essential

as uttered words

                         we are but a photograph

certainly fading

                         absolutely still

thus far        

                     kept




For Jov