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:
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.
The Grotto is dead
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
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
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
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.
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.
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