Today, a storm


Tripartite is how a storm convulses us from sleep

One, it annotates the walls of bed:

a slight powder of mist here,

a cologne of cold there.

The yakking feet mutter to

the mouths of head:

stay still, stay still.

Two, it anecdotes a weather report.

A chocolate milk coffee at bedside

A blooming hope for electricity

and blanket as your favorite tv show.

Sleep has the blood of storm.

Storm has none of the impurity of sleep.

There was an arrangement of the three parts

of how a storm convulses us from sleep:

a talking head,

a paralyzed prance,

staying still – and more:

a weather report we lick in bed,

electricity salvaging itself,

a necessary bond between

storm and sleep.

A fruitful melody screams in the head:

Stay still

Stay still

Sleep.

 

 

Oh Sunday


The Sunday is warm and we know, we are not, too.

The smell of the body unbathed is clinging to this shirt and the shirt cannot rinse away the smell. The blurry distance between this ‘good song,’ and all the afternoon’s avarice to a missing loudness – this is how we punctuate a lousy conundrum. We refuse living because we are told to be fearful; we refuse to move because we are prideful of thinking. The Sunday is beating away and we are all refused. The disarray is a fixture and all the voices of singers will not succeed in drowning out the colorless colors. Sometimes, Sundays are pernicious with latent flirtations and literatures hidden in musky rooms and the old collections of memories. This Sunday, tepid is the sun as clocks debate between 4:30 or 4:45. Tepid is the room without the lunatic, dancing companions. Tepid is the day now dying, now submitting to a chancy non-eventfulness. Microsoft word is very cold.

 

Lourdes Grotto

The Grotto is dead

 

A rewriting of the only non-danger


What is most dangerous about verses?
the most dangerous about verses is ink in paper,
something like: acrylic on canvas, finger on skin.
a whole world can be transposed in paper, transformed
from a vague cloud to a verbal clout in paper
still, darling of the universe and poets and penwomen
whose fervency lies at the potency of paper and pen,
the world is not a sheaf of paper, however thick, however unbreakable
the world is rock and grass and wood and streets and smelly rooms or cozy offices
the world is first, the word is second.
or sometimes vice versa.
provisionality is everything. wittgenstien was partly wrong.
marx was not entirely right
hegel coined the dialectics. but he does not own it.
nietzsche’s statement on god was eventually his own faith —
ultimately, where all of us could agree

 

Contact


See, a palm, a map

A territory, a navigation made through sweat, through subtle unevenness

You are cold inside even though

the sun outside is brimming with

itself.

One says, irony is a modernist favorite.

We can say, irony is what fuels us everyday.

The way we travel does not always suit with our destination.

Often, the more we speed up, the more we reach nowhere.

I hanker, I long, I want your tongue doing affirmations

Your bare skin shines with sweat.

A cat licks a skin

A hand surveys the sweat in another

 

 

Terry Eagleton and us meeting and copulating in the vacuous streets


I know, too. I am staying here because I am sometimes a fathefucking weirdo with seventyeight personalities, several abominations and resignations to Others and laws and expectations that make me brittle; that I am weak on my knees despite all my wordly brouhahas and lenghty rejoinders to an angst-ridden, yet collapsing civilization. 

But recognize too, no one can fall in love with words. No one. No, we do not have everything but words.Damn Jessica Zafra, damn cynically optimistic poets on the streets. We fall in love with materialities that chase even when we are silly awake and doing nothing but contemplating about empty vastnesses; we fall in love with sweaty palms we still nurture with our own; we fall in love with shadows whose contours whose forthcoming smell we recognize and die for to put in our chests. So, let us not make a fuss out of seeing each other in the spaces in this world wide web. Let us learn to dance with each other, in the roughness of roads, in the calmness of 2:33ams, in the ridiculous plasticity of everyday. Let us do away with our mantras of personal care and individual ethics, Terry Eagleton, in After Theory, sharpened my view of the objective. It is madness, almost mushy mendication for another aside from the subject, the self:

“To be concerned for another is to be present to them in the form of an absence, a certain self-forgetful attentiveness. If one is loved or trusted in return, it is largely this which gives one the self-confidence to forget about oneself, a perilous matter otherwise. (2003, 131)”

So we can always come to one another and lose ourselves, neither in dreams nor in rather crass-sounding ideological mystifications, but in the distantly familiar whom we just crave to touch, to touch with our sickness, or with our placidity. So come. Outside.

 

Rain is sometimes for poetry, sometimes for defecation


 

 

I know, my intercourse with the rain is limited to these:

I watch cylinders of fruit dance in the evening table

and we clutch hands as a rain intervenes,

Roofs patter on our heads

As angels blast these lines as a losing romantic

that is out of date and out of tune.

 

We in the archipelago is distinguished by the beers we drink

and the shapes of our comfort rooms.

In another land, I could imagine a dug hole in the soil

and everything improvised.

Stench must be forgiven.

Rain must be welcomed as it follows the

model of the flushed water.

Or one can think vice versa:

Technology is the toiled bowl; natural bounty is the rain.

Everything is embraced in nature.

And while I forego the mushy bluntness in rains,

others jubilate as it washes all the stink not meant for flushing.

 

In some places, this is alien.

Lovers in the morning*


It was you, same lover

Stretching past 6ams with me

The hiccups of the clouds

witnessing the tango of our arms

above my little head, there was

your breath, the soundtrack of

my first hallucinations

your smell, the movie to begin

this weekend’s marathon

below the soles of your feet

are the cream-colored walls of my room

what a pleasant breakfast

your kiss on my forehead

and all the way below.

*This is inspired by “Umiihip ng pulang hangin ang langit” from Pedantic Pedestrians II