The world

supposedly ends tomorrow.

An imagined apocalyptic devastation
of cities burned to the ground,
shells of what once were bodies
strewn about.

Say the world did end,
do you see in the midst of its gory wake
our destiny --- what's left of you and me?

Perhaps we shall live to tell
how the end of the world was not at all
devastating nor apocalyptic.
Rather a time of punctuation,
a muted gesture of pause,
the all-stopping ---
dreams buried,
desires put to rest.
the falling yet not failing.

Instead, the coming
of triumph's end.

Wherever you will go

soon.

Yield

Yes, said the Heart. Yielding to the explosion of words --- harsh, terse --- sentiments kept far too long, clamoring for air. Yes to everything. Stop, said the mind, seeing reality (presumed, perceived) on but one eye, oft guilty of watching, not really seeing. Insert the truth wrapped in a desperate embrace, the plea, the refusal in face of what could be (unimaginable!)

...that I'd almost lost you.

Fearfully ask: What are the chances you'll get another chance like this again?

Take this: the story of a girl molding her heart in the small of your palm.

---
Because the events of yesterday still weigh heavily on my heart. Because I know I'm not the nicest person, that I can unleash hell especially if it's the wrong time to mess with me, that I am lacking in a lot of aspects but please, please know this: I assure you I can and will fight for you and what we believe in and in what we promised each other in the time we have been together. You know you have my heart. Always.

Vivere Libero

Soon. On my wrist. Or some other body part. But soon.

I apologize. This is going to be a jumble of thoughts. You see I've been trying to write but other than a few flimsy verses, I haven't coughed up anything worth posting. Oh, my taciturn tongue. And what mass of sentiments I have ---

Stand still, my love.
As I have.
Stood still to allow 
the molding of our bodies
(to fit through the cracks
of our broken, mending hearts).

Ayayay!

I feel as if all my words (and some semblance of control) have left me in the middle of the night when I was too tired to care about them. Hence, this. Bummer [insert anger management here]. And the problem with anger is that it leaves no room for imagination.

I seriously wish I could give this intersection of indecision a roundhouse kick to the moon.

In the works, though: Photo-poetry of our Bohol-Cebu Trip. And this I am really excited about! Yes, holding on to anything that will make my spirit bright.

Driftwood and daffodils

Into the wind, down the stream,
LIFE...

lightly and utterly will soon become with infinite care

the story I will write.

---

With apologies to e.e. cummings. And because my life's soundtrack is fast becoming a compendium of human clamor, drowning the seemingly clear goal I had drawn out for myself when I was young enough to believe that the world, ultimately life, is what you make it no matter the circumstances. Relatively young and no longer prone to believing too much, we are but reactors to predetermined fate. The choices we make are not really ours.

---
Some pretty depressing shit, huh? Ok, 2013, we need to talk.

---
Oh, and the weird thing is, I really can't think of a place I'd rather be right now.

Sense and Sentimentality

My apologies but it was not love.

It was an itch in my pants --- how unfortunate that you had to be the one to help me scratch it.
And yet, calling to mind a beautiful reason neither you nor I could afford,
I fell into the trappings of it.
Finding ourselves pantsless, the itch had nowhere to go but up,
the way smoke billows like waves licking the heavens,
how you tend to study the sky, regardless the weather,
rather than write on the sidewalk that would eventually lead to me.
Still, you belong in lines drawn in the sand, fleeting, teasing,
your presence an erotic joke cast by the shore, gone by nightfall.
By then I shall have been asleep, dreaming dreams that disappear in the morning.

So no, it wasn't love.
And yes, no need to look miserable when we kiss
or pretend to care about the hurt, an ache I'd rather miss.

---
Because I had just begun reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

One more stone

Cast
cast away
cast away with metaphysical precision
cast away with metaphysical precision from your perch above the clouds
cast away with metaphysical precision from your perch above the clouds and proclaim:

"Yes, I am without fault. Without sin, holier than thou."

In the streets
far, far below from your perch above the clouds
people stumble in their lives, bleak and heavy with imagined desires
hacking away at a domain in which they wander
fanning their hands in exhaustion
because -- and you scoff at this -- they lack the means nor the right
to cast
cast away
cast away with metaphysical precision.

Grumpy, meandering thoughts

"Oh, look," said the Universe disapprovingly. "Tata is happy again. Better fix that." And so I fell, once again, into the throes of a truly terrible cold. My third for the year, and how truly horrible at that that I finally dragged my lazy bollocks to the doctor. To which, adoring V quipped as we stepped into the waiting area of the Las Piñas Medical Center OPD, "You're 35% cured! Going to the doctor just speeds things up."

Coughing incessantly, contending with mild headaches and a stuffed nose have made me philosophical: I can't blame the bug for wreaking havoc in my body. The little critter, like all of us, just wants to live or to be more apt, fulfill its purpose. How unfortunate for the little bugger! Achieving what it ought to be at the expense of others.

Stop.

All sorts of crazy have been crawling out of my woodwork because what I've been attempting to write hasn't pushed through so, hello, here's a totally useless scene from a sporadic writing life.

Step back in time and PARTY!

Lez get our groove on!

A throwback to the decade of peace and love, disco dancing, crazy clothing and groovy music.

With girls, girls, girls to boot!

Lez Go Retro!

Scool Bar

614 Julio Nakpil Street, Malate, Manila

17 November 2012 (Saturday)

Advance Reservations: P200.00

Regular Price: P250.00

For more information:

Mobile: 0917.555.1426 || 0917.707.9662

BBM: 2699FD56 || 27D03DD3

Facebook: Lez World

Head on to Sapphic Lounge for information and all things lesbian.

Matthew Says

Must I always concede to the world?

Ask, often you do not receive ---
like the time she caught you peering from half-lidded eyes:
half-wanting, half-shy to start something of meaning
or the time she held out her hand to you hesitant to claim what was given
and so you lost the opportunity, drowned yourself in wine and whispers of reproach and longing, bouncing against a wall of ambivalence, her not caring. Anymore.

Seek, what have you found?
A felt-tip pen buried in a book to mark a page
filled with words that sparked a dozen exchanges over time and space;
a feeling, intense, demanding to be felt yet nameless;
that incident in the bathroom fading into memory,
fading into Must Forget.

Knock, who opens the door?
Choosing to keep it closed, deferring to Archimedes and buoyed by blood
displaced by the organ, which has lodged itself between lock and key,
every twist and turn
vomiting words instead of what you drank for dinner.

Again, must I always concede to the world?
Perhaps there are battles that mustn't be fought
nor beliefs that must be taken with a grain of salt, i.e., the silly belief in the stars
and what they tell us about the past and distance,
radiating from the dark expanse of night ---
how conceding, sometimes, is just the thing you need to get you going.

Sulong

Panalangin ang bawat minutong
pumapatak mula sa mga sandaling
kinulayan at hinulma ng mga
mapagmahal na palad.

Kinukumutan ng titig
sa pagnanais na hilumin
ang anumang bahaging
kinukulang sa halaga.

Ganito ang pag-ibig:
Babaybayin ng pandama
ang bawat pangyayari,
lalanghapin ang bawat pagtatangka.

Ipaglalaban upang
maging katotohanan
ang bawat maaari.
Ganito tayo: mandirigma.

Lalabanan ang panahon
at pagkakataon
sa matinding paghahangad
na mahalin din tayo ng tadhana.

What

Begins when everything ends: Love
vestiges of lust, evolving with a hint
of truth; written in many, many forms
of blood, from blood as ink, ink of blood
drip, drip, dripping from a heart
worn, aching --- ready to relinquish
its claim upon your sleeve.

There are many measures of love.
A heart contrite, for one. And two, a hand
reaching out into the eye of the storm
that exists for us both: similar and not the same,
differing in minute details: the intensity perhaps,
what it picks up along the way, debris, the chip off
a shoulder, baggage lugged  from one continent to another.

Love
has been written about elsewhere before
rewritten and rewritten but can never
claim to be rewritten no more,
perhaps by myself, wary and yet dauntless ---
as a way maybe of moderating desires or
questioning them:

Do I love you, for example; or
Do I love me with you that's why I do love you?
You and not you when you are with me?
Or what you do to me?
Now that I've shrugged off the fear
of what could be and may and will happen,
I will let love be[gin].

Cease to maim

We have stopped
speaking in knives.

Afraid no longer
of mines still buried
in the ruined city
of our affections.

Seasons

Goodbye...

When you walk away too fast

I am transported to a time when

my life knew of only two seasons:

Winter and Fall

when tragedy hung loosely around the edges of things.

Yet there is a stillness:

my mind is filled with quiet

distilled night terrors subdued into

ominous dream sequences

where Beethoven played in the background.

The next time you walk away too fast

I will push the oxygen in my lungs

to exhale the petty worries of yesterday.

I will stand still and smile...

See you tomorrow.

Mayakovsky

Stumbled upon Frank O'Hara and thought, "Hoom. This guy loves like everything and nothing in his works." A writer and a curator (cool!), his tone is both casual and spontaneous, which I think very few poets have mastered. Us, writers, we take life and a lot of things (even the small stuff) seriously to a fault. It's hard to find works that simply simplify and yet unfailingly move still.

Been reading a lot --- Yeats, the guy mentioned above, some local bloggers/poets --- and just started doodling some (this is what I call my imitation of art; I don't think I'm any good but I've managed to produce decent sumthin' sumthins').

I have a theory --- If you really are good at what you do (writing, et.al), you wouldn't need all the shit that comes with life and love to produce something decent. Nor do you have to keep fucking things up on purpose to experience exquisite sorrow as fuel to regurgitate a few heartfelt verses. Here's a thought: Just keep doing what you do.

So, in the spirit of self-preservation and enjoying every millisecond of my Days Have Finally Gotten Better With You Know Who You Are aka V (See subtlety isn't one of my strong points. #SMH), I will keep writing, churning out prose, poetry, prosaic on various topics regardless of how I'm feeling at the moment. Understand: Writing is hugely personal and you guessed it, meanings are in people. Also, I will keep doodling and will undertake that something ambitious soon and by that I mean something that's 24x30 and will find itself vulnerable to the world in a semi-corner office.

In the meantime, enjoy Mayakovsky ---

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky” from Meditations in an Emergency.

You no longer

Doodles in between editing jobs.
Because I will take on something ambitious soon.

You are no longer you.
Each time evolving, morphing.
No one thing. Nothing.

Gone

Gone are the days when I ---

a. unwittingly

b. consciously

c. was made to

d. made my self

e. a combination of each and all of the above

feel like a ---

a. Jonathan Safran Foer paragraph

“I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.” ~ Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

b. David Levithan definition

depleted, adj.: There is a difference between feeling empty and feeling emptied. There is loss from the losing, not the not having.

No longer crippled by blindness, defined as another bout of disappearances; sad songs you can't help but listen to over and over again such as that melody playing in the background when she receded into the loam; being the only one awake when everything ends; and What? What? Where? Where? said the mouse as it flew across the screen in search of you.

Words that come to mind when I think of you: redundant, beautiful, smoke, mess. To hold and to let go. Truth: Despite everything, I enjoyed having you around. Still do. Motley. We are quite something. Whether to laugh or cry or both, I don't know. Har dee har har.

Memorabilia left in the wake of another ending: a note from a distant country kept too pristine, an empty bottle of wine, cigarette lighters (there are two, you lost two -- perhaps, pun intended), the bones of a poem that will not see the light, a translation lost in definition, the weight of a shrug, and the sound of a body forced to forget.

Willingly. Leave me alone with my oxymorons.

Let her sleep

Water slips through the slits of her fingers as she keeps

her gaze to the vastness of sky; she wonders how 

she dreams and in what color --- cerulean, sienna,

or that plain block of brown --- do they come in, her dreams.

Or maybe she slumbers in silence, void of images, a blank slate

which clamors to be filled, splattered with paint: a splash of red

for passion, a smear of carnation, signaling a silent, burning love

she longs to send her. So she whispers to the night, willing the wind

to carry her words to where she sleeps, dreaming in snippets --- a fingertip tracing

the outline of a scar from when she once tried and failed, a hesitant echo,

silence golden and yet wishing to be taken back with the words 

I love you, darling. And somehow, that is all that matters; her resting,

caught in slumber for when she awakens so it begins. Again.

Yen

I need to come up
with new words to describe you
my darling, my little delicacy ---
this is what I call hunger, desire. The strange need
to rip you apart with my bare hands.

I imagine how you would tear: shining, shimmering
invisible threads holding my human[e}ity together.
Resplendent like the sun -- you are enticing -- existing
to feed a hungry, pernicious creature like me.

How I long for you, my sweet.
Your eyes are pearls and how you smell like a December dawn.
Cold and crisp , alchemizing to warm and comforting
under my nimble fingers.

And yet, you remain remotely beautiful
within some surreptitious corner ---
Oh, sweetheart! How you forsake me:
keeping yourself hidden, tucked in some distant creation.

Strangely feeding my hunger, the yearning
making my blood boil. No words to describe
desire or how you make me feel at three in the morning:
when in need, I taste you and have you move against me.


---
In pursuit of abundance in writing.

Kulay

At sa pagtatapos ng Buwan ng Wika, ito ang isang tulang inaalay ko sa kanya -- ang natatangi -- na nagbigay kulay at nagpasaya sa buhay kong dati ay magkahalong maputlang abo at puti. 

Mahal,

Habang binibigkas ng mapupula mong labi
ang mga katagang --- Mahal Kita
pansinin ang paglaho ng ulang sing-itim
ng imbornal na barado,
ang paglisan ng kung anumang takot
na nananahan sa pobre kong puso.

Salamat, Mahal,
sapagkat sa iyong pagdating,
iisa na lamang ang kulay ng langit,
ng lahat na nababalutan ng iyong pag-ibig. 

Pagnanais

Kay daling lumaya
sa kinakatakutan kung
ito'y nanaisin.

On the 66th

Anniversaries. More fun in SGV? Hoom. You be the judge.

The verdict:
Anniversaries. More fun in MarkeTeam.
Cheesy name, I know. Different strokes for different folks. Live and let live. Walang basagan ng trip.
Defensive, aren't we?

Interesting occurences:

• Someone wore the exact same outfit as mine. Alas, I wasn't able to have my photo taken with her a la Us Magazine's 'Who wore it best?' I am a shod I know. And no, I am not claiming I wore it best. This little devil inside me is nodding her coconut like crazy though, arrogant bitch that she is.
• My immediate boss has gotten himself into a major funk months prior, thinking he wasn't getting promoted. Surprise, surprise! He did get promoted. Funny how we found out a mere couple of hours before the event. Someone did a little jiggy.
• I might've drowned myself in coke and rum, and maybe a couple glasses of vodka. Truth be told, a girl's gotta party! Ergo: The system has been in dire need of alcohol as I have been a pretty good (read: sober) girl for months now. Har dee har har. 

Conclusion:
We are camwhores. No two ways about it.

Kambyo

Diretso't sigurado ang mga hakbang mo.

Walang takot, kahit aminadong masikip

pa rin ang pasilyo ng puso ko.

Lakad lang, Mahal, 

pasikut-sikot man ang mga daanang ito

at walang nakakaalam sa maaaring

maging hantungan nito.

Pero nandito ka na rin

at narito din ako.

Pakiusap, huwag ka munang lumayo,
huwag munang kumambiyo.

---

Naks.

Bagong Kabanata

Bago pa muling dumilim,
aking lilisanin ang lubak-lubak
na daan at lusak ng iyong alaala

patungo sa kung saan
Siya naghihintay,
siya na may dala-dalang liwanag.

May kung anong saya
ang sumalubong
sa aming banggaan

kung saan magsisimula
ang panibagong kabanata.
Sabay lalanghapin

ang mga bahaging bagong buklat
upang matuklasan ang muling salaysay
sa kasaysayan ng bawat

tibok ng pusong
tahimik na nakadiin
sa kasalukuyang pahina.

Bagamat walang masabi
hindi mapigil ang panalanging
Mahal, sana ikaw na nga.

---
And you thought I had nothing for you.
To she who makes me smile a lot, a lot.

Task Planner Thoughts

Rewriting to remind me that it gets better.

"April 2, 2012, 6:44 p.m.

Stuck at work and hating every minute of it. I've been enveloped with disappointment all day. I am mostly disappointed at myself, how I let things get the better of me, how I am suffering the effects of how I react to some things, how I let them affect me so much. But truth be told, I am getting by the best I can --- one foot in front of the other. There is no other way. [Insert expletive here], I am too old for this."

In other news:

I owe this blog a poem. Or two. Is it happiness if it takes you away from the things you love to do, i.e., writing? The curious result of this exquisite feeling is that I am bursting with words and images, ingredients for a poem or a painting, but no way to rein them in, no means of capture in the hopes of immortalizing them. Happiness, I guess, is the poem, the story I do not write.

But write I will. There is no way to silence the words. Some stories need to be told. It's just the way it is.

Stay tuned.

I make the rules

"Vanity is becoming a nuisance. 

I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet."

You don't have to read this.

There's not much in this except me.

But what the hell --- my blog, my rules.

   

Photos courtesy of Wilfred de Vera

On second thought: Here, have a poem.

Under One Small Star

Wislawa Szymborzka

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.
I know I won't be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

Pa[gta]tapos

madali na para sa atin ang lumayo
sapagkat patapos na ang ating kuwento.

ating bibitawan ang huling alaalang
marahil sadyang walang puwang

sa paraisong hinulma
mula sa pirapirasong puso.

bubuksan ang palad bilang pagtatapos
at hahayaan ang muling paglalakbay

ng mga kapalarang iba-iba ang tangan
sabay papakawalan ang galit kung bakit

sa paglaho ng mga alaala
hindi mabura ang sakit.

---
La tristesse durera toujours.


---
For Belle. Believe me, sometimes one word is all it takes and the poem will write the greatest story. Merci!

Ask yourself:

All the hard questions.

Like what do you want to be, what does the morning decide you will become? A raindrop, a mermaid, a fallen feather off a clumsy dove mid-flight? Whose voice sings in your heart right now? What words do you find your thoughts clinging to over and over and over? What story did you erase and which chapter did you start with? How many ghosts inhabit your head at this very moment, and how many of those said supernatural forces are you willing to entertain?

Just right now you offer your hand, fingers dancing despite the cold coating it, despite the rain, reaching out with hesitant palms wide open, an aria aching to be sung from the quickening beat of your pulse:

1. How long do you have to wait until another verse arrives?
2. And how do you intend to welcome it?

These words

When what you have

is the absence of words

to fill the dry, expectant parchment ---

you tell me how you have tried

to fill the gaps with fixtures, pictures, a trip to some distant country,

smokes and sighs of longing  

to find the words

older than our own still elusive,

the quill poised, the ink quickly drying.

To this, let me tell you --- I dreamt of a poem

taking flight from the tips of your fingers

springing forth to bleed unto the page.

In my dream, the poem found itself awake.

And you, powerless in its awakening, 

can only stare at tall walls turned short,

narrow ends opening to wider streets offering no resistance

to the words surging, hurriedly whispering ---

We’re here. We're here.

Here. In the arms of an imaginary wind.

The words telling of movement,

promises a return.

---

Trust that these words won't fail you.

List

Writing these down before I forget. Books I am lusting on. Books that my friendly neighborhood bookstore do not carry. Books that I am charming my friend[s] to get me:

1. A Man Without a Country ~ Kurt Vonnegut
2. Breathing the Water ~ Denise Levertov
3. The History of Love ~ Nicole Krauss
4. *A Lover's Discourse: Fragments ~ Roland Barthes

Because I am so over you Nancy Drew.

---
*Thinking of stealing this back from my aunt. Har dee har har. But how?

Pop Quiz

TRUE    2. Things they say suddenly speak to you, i.e.,

“I love you’ means that I accept you for the person that you are, and that I do not wish to change you into someone else. It means that I will love you and stand by you even through the worst of times. It means loving you even when you’re in a bad mood, or too tired to do the things I want to do. It means loving you when you’re down, not just when you’re fun to be with. ‘I love you’ means that I know your deepest secrets and do not judge you for them, asking in return that you do not judge me for mine. It means that I care enough to fight for what we have and that I love you enough not to let go. It means thinking of you, dreaming of you, wanting and needing you constantly, and hoping you feel the same way for me” 

~ Jonathan Safran Foer 

It's not every day one scuttles around objectively in one's heart. Going at length attempting to explain how it is to live a curious four-letter word, and failing miserably. Then he goes to show you how it's done.

Which makes me think --

Ask: Do you really need to afflict the same cruelty you so suffered?

Decide: All the cards have been dealt. Except for one, its edges dull and worn from being kept in your back pocket for a long time.

Consider: How many things -- wondrous and amazing -- have you let go for something real and easy? It is not kindness that call for the need of walls or extended pauses.

Understand: You are not separate from the world.

Ruminate: Do you even remember the name you called out like a song in the beginning? How far from the chapter has she gone?

De novo

Say we surrendered to the act of forgetting. Allowed the slow 

passing of our senses, lost in the movement 

of fading into absence -- wave adieu 

as they exit the broken doors of our hearts 

to slip through the slits of our fingers. 

Say the first to leave is sight, a wave of nihility in its wake 

save for a fog of apology as it clothes our world with darkness,

to have touch and taste follow suit. Straining for sound 

we get nothing for hearing has thereafter left 

with nary hiss nor hoom.

Say the last to leave is our voice, forfeiting

our right to ask of the world 

that has nothing left to offer.

Nothing left to tell of our story 

that we are not given time to remember.

Say would you be willing to want this? 

To go as far as forgetting, no longer

be bound by memories deceitful?

Would you? Forget and be

something else, someone else

with me. Shall we?

Make it new.

Ano ang naiwan?

Mistulang nilamon ng ulan ng iyong pagkawala ang baga

ng damdaming minsang umawit sa kagalakan.

Walang takas

ang nalulusaw na mga ngiti,

nangingisay na mga kamay na walang mahawakan,

at nangangalawang na bibig 

mula sa dumadausdos na tubig

ng kawalan.

Tanging ang usok na dala nitong pagbulusok ng puso

ang naiwan sa iyong paglisan.

---
Into the abyss.

Turning

Morning

What is there to lose?

Rueful and sheepish, I am when it comes to a dialogue where you are the central character. I remember distinctly how you uncorked the bottle to have laughter and words spill out, unbridled, instead of wine. We laughed and laughed some more, exchanging our versions of sadness. Or something like that. After sifting through each other's shit, what did we talk about? Nothing much. But always, some sort of insight was gleaned through the labyrinth of innuendo and allusion.

"How ironic." 
"Irony is sexy."
"How can you say such a thing? Feigned ignorance is condescending."
"Now that is condescending. But to be strikingly unaware of say, beauty or one's apparent coolitude? Now that is sexy."
"I get you."
"I know you do."

And for a moment, it felt like everything was right in the world.
Alike in our differences, the night offered an overwhelming sense of being overtaken by joy. It was as if the city and night and you and I, midst a wave of people, were united in a kind of profound identity.

So I plummeted, reveled in that lighted moment, when we seemed to understand ourselves and the world and, for a single instant, knew the loveliness of living beings.

But the moment vanished quickly, and we are almost embarrassed to admit that it has ever been, as though in doing so we betray a willingness to believe in what is not true ---

Because

there are those who cannot reconcile

how joy may come 

from where we do not run from life,

from where we learn to break out of the prison of self.

Because

some find it strange how 

perhaps joy is most likely to come

when we forget ourselves in service,

or in the pursuit of a great dream.

Because

most fail to understand how

we are most likely to experience moments of joy

if we can admit that there is more to life

than we have yet fathomed.

And because

we refuse to consider how

moments of deep exaltation are born out of

uncertainty and challenge and peril;

how we are blind

that there in the universe is light,

a stuff,

a tissue,

a substance

in company with which one would never be lonely.

Noon

I keep to the shade, quiet places where I can sip my coffee and look at the world. You bask in the sunlight, always in a flurry of activity, paddles untucked, never at one place at one time. You wear your heart in the outer folds of your sleeve, sometimes in your back pocket or at the tip of your nose but always where everyone can see it. I have kept mine hidden in my cobwebbed cage of blood and bone, only to claw its way out when you revealed yourself to me. It's been somewhere since, never within my reach, enjoying this cruel game of hide and seek. 

To be continued...

Night

Cont.

I stay cocooned in my nest surrounded by people made out of paper while you keep to dancing lights and the haze of smoke.

Be that as it may

You and I will forever

remain equals, still.

And I must say, there are things I love:

Love that we battle

in secret, drawing our swords of

prose and poetry.

How you challenge me

to say the least, more

than I do myself.

Yet the question still stands: What is there to lose?

Say I lost my heart

somewhere in the folds of your skin.

Say you chanced upon it

would you, would you

consider keeping it?

And this

briefly explains the writing:

"Poetry is what happens when nothing else can."

 Charles Bukowski

Whereas I have found a way to silence the truth in my heart. With patience to forget.

Forget the season where we blossomed. Forget the words that wound; misread missives of almost adoration. Forget the desperation to believe the promises read between the lines. Forget the place that welcomed us too easily with music and beer. The w[h]ining and the dining.

Forget the place where it all began -- offering memories and the sound of a name all too familiar. Forget the mismatched interiors gloriously kitsch. Forget the firmament rendered uneven by waves of beings desperate for connection. Like us, perhaps?

Forget the night. And the passion it brought, how it urged us to curve seamlessly into each other. Forget how it seemed like our bodies knew the map of our souls before we touched. Before we met. Forget how that felt. Forget the scribbles, the box, and the bottle. Forget today. And tomorrow. And everything. Forget that magical place. In between some kind of forgotten wonder.

X marked the spot where we stood, and Y stands for all the unanswered questions we collected like coins to get to this point. Forget the coins, currencies of feeling. Forget the song, the sound and the girl you could not possess because you came but did not see. Forget the flight, the tentative unfurling of gossamer wings.

Forget the hunger to see, the longing to hold. Forget the girl whose hand you were afraid to touch. Forget the questions. Forget what have we here. What we had. We are but bobbing heads eagerly awaiting that some thing to believe in.

Forget everything.

Forget because forgetting is the first step to stop the scarring.

Forget.

Because we wound ourselves --- again and again -- by remembering.

No hearts

And yet

I've said this far too often

how one day we will be nothing more
than bits and pieces of dust

swirling in the vast expanse of sky

without direction. 

Nothing.

No arms for reaching nor

hearts for feeling.

So this I tell you:

We are running out of time

to claim this brightness while we still can.

Because, really,

What else have we got than

you and me?

---

At 1:38 a.m.: Dissatisfied with this poem. Seems like a quilt of verses, scraps and spillage, almost there but not quite. A deletion seems necessary so ---

Unang Kaganapan

Nilakbay ng mga salita ang karagatan

ng tunog at tulang ikaw at ako.

Tumagos ang mga ito sa banayad na usok ng sigarilyo

na pinunan ng alak gamit ang mga sarili.

Hindi mapigil bagamat tipid ang pagtingin,

ang pagtitig sa kung ano ang maaari.

Nasa laylayan ang pananabik.

Dahan-dahang aalisin ang pagkakatupi hanggang sa mahanap ang balat.

Itong kiliti, nakakatakam.

Nakapaglalaway.

---

Dahil minsan tinanong mo 'ko. At alam kong hindi mo na maalala. Tagay na.

Dahil minsan kitang minahal

hindi ko magagawang talikuran ang mga alaala

subalit sisimulan ko ang maingat na paghahakbang

palayo sa iyo

kakalimutan ka ng unti-unti

at sa pagkawala ko ng tuluyan

hindi mo na ako maaring balikan

marahil mananatili bilang huling habilin ang tulang ito;

kumakatawan sa mga araw 

na sa panaginip na lamang muling masisilayan.

---

Hello and goodbye.

Red Flags

uttering her name you fell completely
unaware how the sonant curved into a warning
planting a seed of sadness in your heart
only to blossom majestically

its thirst quenched with tears ---
tendrils enveloping the organ
powerless to contain the burgeoning
darkness within

like a flock of birds with fractured wings
struggling, beating mercilessly
through your cage of blood and bone
poised for flight

in the stillness of the night.



---
Night terrors are the pits.

Mula sa Musa

Para sa Manunulat --- 

Isang malalim na buntong hininga ang sagot ko sa pag-agos ng mga salita mula sa iyong pluma.

Dahil sa unti-unting dumudulas ang mga sandali, parang hindi ko kayang pasanin ang kalungkutang mararamdaman ko kung sakaling dumating ang araw na hindi na ang aking anino ang lililim sa katawan mong magbibigay-buhay sa isang tula.

Natatakot ako na sa bawat indayog ng [mga] buwan dala nito ang mga alaala na ulap na lamang ang nilalaman.

Natatakot ako na hindi na maaari ang mabagal na paglalakbay sa bawat araw sa kagustuhang bawasan ang lawak nitong distansya sa ating pagitan.

Nababalutan ng takot itong aking pag-amin na nais kitang mahalin — sapagkat 

anong sagot 

            ang maisusukli mo 

                                    sa akin?

---

Muted gestures and imaginings. Often it is the writer who captures the words behind beauty and inspiration, bottles up the emotions, and unleashes them on the page. Do you ever wonder -- what of the muse? 

---

True to my editorial colors. Original scribbles from The In-between. Because I'm bored and would like to put the 'use' in amused. Hehe.

True or False

Directions:

Write T if the statement is True and F if the statement is False.
Fine, we'll throw in Maybe in the picture. So that's an M.
Answer as truthfully as you can. No second-guessing; no erasures.

Same shit, different package sorrows are. Agree or disagree?

________ 1. Some days you really believe the world is unkind when What You Can Do is different from What Will and Can Happen. And so you knock on all pieces of wood you can.

________ 2. Things they say suddenly speak to you, i.e., *Comma, n.: Is this the effect we have on each other, the power to force a pause, but not to end the sentence? Or **Songs are as sad as the listener.

________ 3. You're not supposed to say anything. So you write something like this. Or hold her name and a vestige of her face between your palms, holding it for the longest time until the most opportune moment.

________ 4. Believing you can tell the world to behave, owning the vast expanse of the Universe, and deserving every ounce of happiness --- only to be tied down by invisible strings reminding you that above all else, you're human.

________ 5. You hate getting all hot and bothered. For nothing.

________ 6. It's called a triage. You believe in annihilating things, people and feelings for what you perceive to be the greater good. Some nights, you worry --- what do you know, really?

________ 7. You give in to the memories and smile, you silly twit. But you know there really is no escaping the memories. And they give you the sweetest smiles. So what the hell. Revel.

________ 8. You want to get drunk. Again. Oh, and not necessarily to feel a little love.

________ 9. When sleeping gives you the break you need but never the answers you seek.

________ 10. You kind of want to hold her hand or poke her. Just to feel she's close. Just to make sure she's near. Just to be sure of her.


---
How did you do?


---
*David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary on Twitter
**Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Got a kick out of this poem, et. al.

She doesn't know, but I know
Allen B. Samsuya, Anthuluge ~ Easy Does It

She doesn’t know but I know

how she still has the hots for me —

How she keeps her hair kempt

and smelling of warm gin

and citrus so she’s sure

she intoxicates me

despite the distance she claims

to have between us. And how

she wants me to take her hard

against something, a wall perhaps,

or a closet, or a king-sized bed.

This, I can tell by the way she walks

away — the shape love takes

when nurtured in secrecy poised

on the curve of her waist.

But she walks away, anyway.

Being writer-ly:

Inspirations [sort of] notwithstanding, I've been trying to write more. Experimenting with languages and dialects to see where I'm most comfortable.

Current assessment: A toss-up between Filipino and English.

Loving the challenge I get from writing a tula and at the same time, playing around with length in English is giving a hands-clasped-behind-the-head satisfied feeling. Sadly, something erotic doesn't this way come. It seems being sensual is better done than written about (but this is just me).


Sometimes wishing I can translate to the sound of letters how my body curves at your touch, how a sigh slips from my lips at your caress, and how we dance to the edge of the world and explode midst a slew of stars...

that sort of thing.

Life, lately:

Been feeling a bit under the weather. The mad, mad combination of sun and rain and gloriously polluted Ayala has taken its toll on little ol' me. Work is something else, too. Physiology will buckle somehow when caught smack in the middle of shitstorm season. And so we sigh, roll up our sleeves and get to work (nonetheless).

Looking forward to the rainbow this June. A 45-minute plane ride will usher my feet back to Iloilo for a week of celebrating birthdays, meeting up with friends, and playing with my rottweiler Pucci. Some alcohol-filled night-out or two is also in the works. Perhaps, I can squeeze in a day at the beach if I'm lucky.

Oh, yeah.

Atin Ang Gabi

Ikaw, ako,

kape at kuwento.

Dala ng magkaugnay na hapdi

itong higpit ng pagsalubong sa sandali.

Ito ang naging simula:

Minsan tayo ay tumigil sa paggalaw

at nanatili sa iisang lugar.

Hinayaan ang banggaan ng mga kapalarang iba-iba ang tangan.

Bumalik tayo sa nagdaang panahon.

Ikaw at ako, sila --- ang pinagsaluhan.

Binilang ang araw ng pagsasama

nang sabay tapon sa mga panghihinayang.

Ipinaaalala sa atin na wala na rin namang silbi

ang pag-inda sa lungkot na minsan nilang dala.

Tiyak ang paglaho ng kung anong bahid ng alinlangan.

Hindi natin sila kailangan.

At naganap ang hindi inaasahan: Napunit ang langit

sa pagsiklab ng sandali.

Ating ipinagdiwang itong minsang pagtatagpo

sa pinakamahabang gabi.

Ngunit walang katiyakan

itong pananatili ng mga sandali,

bagamat magkatabi at masaya

hanggang sa tahimik na pag-uwi.

Sa ngayon nababalutan ng pag-unawa itong pagsasama.

Isinantabi sa kaloob-loobang sulok ang pananabik.

Maselan ang pagbitaw sa mga salita.

Walang nangangako sa takot na walang maaako.

Hanggang sa muli,

mananatili sa kalagitnaan itong tagpo.

Di tiyak ang pagpapatuloy o pagtatapos

ng ating kuwento.

The Story of Remembrance

1

is the ceaseless attempt to forget.

2

When all that is left is the sound of wanting ---

the soft whisper of loneliness

aching to be spun into song.

Your name escapes from my parched lips;

a sigh barely heard for it has been too long,

far too long.

I give it another try.

Chords for want of stronger sound

straining.

I must utter your name

so there will be no forgetting.

3

On days when the past knocks on my front door like an old friend, I do not quite know how to react. Or if I want to welcome it at all.

But it comes bearing gifts; and almost always, I cannot resist. How can I when they come in such beautiful, ornate boxes? And when, deep inside, I am hoping, encased in perhaps an intricate decoupage of gold, green and silver, I will uncover You?

4

Today I stand before the place where I met you.

My hands are formed into cups nestling the box I have chosen.

This box: striking in its beauty feels oddly heavy in my hands,

its weight shooting daggers of hope in my heart.

I am itching to open the box, anticipating our reunion.

Already my mind is racing ---

How are you? Do you remember me? What do you remember?

Tell me, tell me.

In my haste, I almost didn’t hear the moon.

Its mellifluous voice, mocking, calling me foolish

for believing too much,

for believing in so many things.  

5

It is said that dust is formed from our skins and that if we stay in one place for a long time, an eventual mound of dust shall have formed at our feet.

If this is true, and if by some unfortunate circumstance, the wind comes our way, what will become of us? Particles in the wind, we spin away from each other bearing versions of our story. Away and away, the distance erecting walls between us. What once was ours shall have become yours and mine.

Open it, said the moon. And I oblige.

Nothing.

Save for a thin coating of dust.

I waited too long, I told the moon.

6

Dust in the wind. You and I.

If so be the case, do we still hold the right to ourselves? Do we not become properties of the wind --- our story becoming the wind’s own?

7

The moon was witness to our story and its beginnings. And she tells me in dulcet tones that with each of her motions mapping our days apart, underscoring the absence of sight and sound and touch, a memory is taken away.

The smoke wafting from your half-opened lips, the color of the night, the feel of your palms on the small of my back as you steered me to our spot by a palm tree. Or was it a potted plant?

See how the details are easily forgotten? The moon whispers.

8

I empty the contents of the box into my hands but I am not careful enough.

You slip easily between the slits of my fingers to be blown away by the wind.

9

What am I to make of this?

It seems so unfair when all I want is to talk to you so desperately.

And so I whisper stories of my day to the wind hoping that somehow it gets to you. 

Who are you, Woman?

I do not know the woman

I only know of this ---

She is the hand resting lightly on my shoulder,

becoming the language no longer needing

the soft swish of letters.

She is the song that lulls me into a dream,

where upon waking, I find the sky is mine for the taking.

She is the rain masking my tears,

leaving a trail of kisses as I take back

my heart in need of mending.

She is the words I weave into a poem

bespoke of courage and strength.

She is love forged between weak links,

supped over broken phone lines and

hurried text messages.

She is my mother, the woman I do not know.

Save for her beauty, her serene acceptance

of the daughter who will not have become her.

I must surrender what little I know of her

what little I understand,

when what we have

is the absence of sight.

And what we try to do

is fill the void with sounds

of bodies being forced to injure/endure

shared time and space apart.

----

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I may not say this as often as the gods or you or me would like but you know I love you, right? Oh, and I'm sorry if I do not answer back after a particularly horrid night at the office. It kills me, you know, how to the ladies I love/particularly like I am so available but to you... Shame on me. I am working on it, Mama. I am. Because all this time --- It's been always you and me.

Someone beat me to it

Finding the words before I did ---

We talked about nothing in particular, but it felt like we were talking about the most important things.

 Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Yep, there are things I sure miss.

"Hey, you," said I, as I wave to you in dreams that vanish in the morning, snippets of which hover in the air as I make my morning coffee.

Anyhoo...

Trying to a write a poem with se[x]nsual undertones. Progress report: Not very successful.

This may not see the light of day or am I the only one who thinks writing/revising a piece can take forever? This rediscovery is (still) scaring me but reining it in. And trying my hardest to catch up. Or keep up?

Of course there are the questions: Must everything always be tested by time? Must things always take time? Time to heal, to evolve, to make sense of? Time -- that which I do not have -- is slipping away like a missed train I want to be very much on.

Obviously, patience is not a strong suit. Also, a penchant for stating the obvious. Minus 5.

Starting to get sick of the voices inside my head. Three words: Not good enough.

I have been feeling better --- and worst. One more so than the other; guess which. 

But, trying to make a conscious effort to see the glass half full. As in 'seeing' -- really -- and not merely 'looking'. To inject some sense of "Yes, I understand." Which means getting over Things Not Going As Hoped, Things Not Happening, and Being Too Hard On Self.

Fighting off this anchorage. Let go -- it's ok -- let go.
Fight.

For now, a poem by e.e. cummings -- because words are elusive sometimes, like butterflies.

Lady, I will touch you with my mind.

Touch you and touch and touch until you give

me suddenly a smile shyly obscene.

Lady, I will touch you with my mind.

Touch you, that is all,

lightly and you utterly will become

with infinite care

the poem which I do not write.

----

I love updates, don't you?

Bagong Buwan

Sa sandaling iyon

Umiral ang isang tagpo

Nang kinuha mo sa aking kamay

Ang isang tala at ibinalik ito sa kalangitan.

Ang sabi mo:

Mahal, ako lamang

Sa gabing ito, ako lamang.

Sabay tayong maglalakbay

Patungo sa isang banyagang dalampasigan

At doon, mag-aabang ng panibagong buwan.

Kung paano sa mga sandaling iyon

Umiral ang pag-asa, hawak kamay.

Hindi natin namalayan ang paghilum

Ng mga kung anu-anong sugat

Na dala-dala ng nakaraan,

Habang tinatalunan natin ang mga alon

Ng walang pag-aalinlangan.

Ang ating mga tawa umaalingawngaw

Habang tangay natin ang isa’t isa ---

Hudyat ng umuusbong at namumukadkad na simula.

---

If you listen, ever so closely, you will hear my sigh. The sound of feathers, my choosing to nurse this ache happy.

Inspiration[s]. Sort of.

Tell me about it. I've been spewing words for weeks now. And I'm as surprised as you are. But amused nonetheless. So who could have caused this? Some list.

1. Someone of all trades. A master of one. Or two. Oh, alright, a few. Fine, several. It was good while it lasted. Sweet escapes. Quite civil given half the chance, no longer chummy. Questions. Kaput.
2. Epic: One of the most amazingly talented people I know. A mean combination of prose, poetry and photography. May wield more, I'm afraid to admit. Or maybe I have, i.e., reason for unsound sleep, flying.
3. Silent. Fleeting. Most likely. But then we'll never know for now. Feathers all around still.
4. Smiles that make me forget how dark the world can be. Sweeping. Primal and unadulterated conversations that could go on for days. Progress report: Nil.
5. Constant like change. 
6. Some kind of wonderful.

It should not come as a surprise that all of them are women.
Men, you ought to shape up. But I couldn't care less. Har dee har har.
Save for 5, I'm currently keeping a safe distance for my own good. And theirs.

Haiku-happy for days now. There are words but they speak too much of the truth. Only a haiku because the poems must get shorter in the attempt to not risk anymore of what's left (if there are any). Oh no.

Lose yourself in art ---
in poetry surrender
in song abandon.

and because the heart has indeed grown fonder but has learned its lesson and will opt for silence:

Windblown refugees
wandering with empty hearts
mistaken for stars.


See what I mean?

To silence

At night, she bellows

the sound barely audible

unheard ‘til the morn.

“I would like to know

what it will take to make you

fall in love with me?”

In the morn, humming

she sings laments of longing

the tune without words.

“Winged the span of time

Yet your footprint remains etched

right here, above my breast.”

That thing with feathers,

hope, discloses everything;

revealing nothing.

“Within the confines

of my heart, I begin the

task of vanishing.”

You

You are the wave that
quickly retreats the moment
it touches my feet.

I am a Jonathan Safran Foer paragraph

• when sadness takes another form
• of longing and loneliness
• of escapes and forgetting
• when confusion is a necessary good
• in which I cannot stop writing
• but I must

Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn't the world, it wasn't the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

So many words in the English language and yet, they still manage to fail you at the most opportune moment. You may be interested to read this.

And then I came across The History of Love to find that "When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?" which greatly reminded me of my e-mail signature from two years ago, "Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words?" 


There's a moral to this, I swear! Or I can always say "Deja poo! I've heard this crap before!" but something tells me enough is enough, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and get your act together." 

Whatever

Hindi ang nalaman mong hindi ka papasang cum laude ang pinakaayaw mong pakiramdam sa mundo. Hindi rin ang nalaman mong hindi ka makakauwi sa semana santa kasi maraming trabaho sa opisina kahit pa mahigit isang taon mo nang hindi nakakasama ang mga mahal mo sa buhay. Ang p-------------- pinakaayaw mong pakiramdam sa buong p---------------- mundo ay iyong malaman mong may ibang gusto ang babaeng gusto mo, iyong tipong inamin mo na sa sarili mo na alaala pala niya ang isa sa mga pinakainiingatan mong bagay. Parang bumulusok kang bumagsak bago ka pa magsimula; parang pinatay ka na bago ka nabuhay. :)

How do I tell you

I'm sorry.

The misleading volume of my words has gone out of line. And I know I have got to stop speaking in flames that give birth to knives, and maim quite successfully.

I'm sorry.

When friends press for stories, I like to laugh and pretend like you were the one sent to me by angels at the moment I needed reprieve, and that your job here with me is done when the reality was that you were the one that had potential, which is infinitely more painful for reasons I cannot even begin to explain.

I'm sorry.

A part of me will always ache for you, I suppose.

On nights when I am lonely and just a tad proud, I remember our conversations and the way we could go on for hours just talking about things not meant to be discussed. In our little space in time, we did disappoint each other (like the time I promised I'd call but forgot) --- because people always do --- but at least it would be in ways that we both understand.

I'm sorry.

I've never resented you for having a home inside my heart. I built that myself. It's here to stay, I think. Others may occupy it but their names and faces would be stored in some other body part; a space for each moment. But never where you are.

I remember how it was with you. Exchanging our versions of sadness. Some days I still hear you --- the funny sound you make when you're laughing, about to laugh but not quite.

I'm sorry.

I think I need to learn that the trick is to keep it quiet. Yes, I think this I learned from you. Keep quiet and smile (how you won me over).