Good night moon, good night

Allow me to be frank, tonight

You see, in other nights, I am not frank

I settle for commas, when periods only feign sureness,

And poems, they sound better with commas,

commas create rhythm, periods halt everything.

like that. i sugarcoat my adoration of the night,

with commas that not only mutter but balk

at the destructive force of  words.

but my frankness, it has no truth at all, not just

Truth — even truth, it lacks.

I am the mask that pretends to be the face

the rawest of illusions, the most deceptive

But you, and your cohorts of  ghosts and

smoking warriors of penhood,

you know the face, the inventor of fake

frankness. words, words, words.

there’s no point for frankness when we do not know

the point of truth.

look at me in the eye and don’t listen to what I say.

frankness in words, is no match

to the faithfulness our deeds can have.


I am sad for you are not here

And i wander tab after tab

To occupy myself with trivia and images of athletes’ s sweat

I am good at rehearsals, my spontaneity is often disastrous

but they are the more honest

Plans, I will throw them away

I will scare myself with the ruptures

the 6am sun create in my skin

Only to unplan the day, and sleep

until its 10pm or so

full moon, bright and all

and my inner dracula will crave for



incoherence, thank you.

but words are bloody because they kill,

the spaces between them, among them, surrounding them

I lost my nerve and poetry cracks the lines

of  sanity. My words flip

out of control, and hooray, more bloody destruction!

So good night, frankness don’t cheat us.

Schizophrenia is normal because I do not know what i want.

Present tense verbs are elusive, and delusive.

I crave for blood, poetry is destruction.

I want “us” at each other’s calmness

To paraphrase someone else’s

finale: We won’t speak, but at least we’re at peace.

Good night moon, good night,


A rut in a rut. For I

4pm is lost, my zeal, your soft pouch, my pillow for long travels, “us” in the sea of fragile, but violent circumstances

But i am fragile too, as i speak, I gasp for breathe, as I type this down, I can’t look at the mirror

My palms are dry, as soap and detergent mix, and danced with my own soil

My hands dry, and the bread is losing her curve, and its 4:21

PM. pm me, please, if you want to. only if you want to. if you don’t,

I’ll stay quiet, in my own, almost-decrepit motel of boring white walls

and friend’s used dress that will stink, in a month.

It’s 4:52 for me, and for you,  your last class perhaps. And the many more to go

as I traveled more universes, with you.

5pm. time flies and we are yet to slide away.

there’s wonderwall most of the time.

thank you, you have saved me. im dead.

To Mideo Cruz, don’t worry not everyone cares

Perhaps this is what you wanted after all, at the beginning of the idea that is now an art installation being hurled and cursed at by people of various designations, so-called or else – art critics, devout Catholics, hopeless romantics, pseudo-artsy politicians. You get some prominence, or notoriety, some noisy trending in the internet, people who would either argue for or against you.

This is going to be a relevant topic, I’d like to believe. No, I am not going to forward any stance about your work itself, that being something I haven’t seen completely and personal yet. The internet won’t reveal that too soon and I believe that paintings do not exist in the internet. So I believe I would not have fair bases to comment on your work given that I am yet to see it first hand and on-the-flesh.

The hysteria hovering around your “scandalous” work, however, I see it as an opportune chance to remark on the large situation of art in the country today. Blasphemy, insensitivity to the Church and the religious, I care less about such judgments here. Those are matters of content anyway. And perceived content, at that. And it is a pointless discussion, what art should constitute because art should not be defined in terms of its contents. One is art not by virtue of what it says but by virtue of the manner by which it says what it says.

Art begins in form and is not selective in content. So that “Polytheisms” painting, and the brouhaha hounding it today, reverberates with a more significant point that we must reflect on about our society today.

This group of people raging into the controversy, they usually vitiate or defend the work based on how it affects their sensibilities, or their interests. Church people cries foul; the avant-garde leaning, freedom-loving artists or culturatis will tend to defend. But engulfing this debate whatsoever is the highlighting of art’s elitism. I sell balut everyday and, what does this controversy concerns me? How will I be able to give a sound outlook on that given that I don’t know much art or art criticism? Even intellectuals, they can be at a disadvantage. What if I do not have the money to see the art itself in CCP? How can I participate meaningfully in the discourse?

And that’s it. The discourses of everyday is not the discourses of all, but strangely a discourse for all. Not everyone gets to be involved in making and shaping the discourses but everyone gets vulnerable to being made and shaped by these discourses. The “Polytheisms” issue shall continue being confined  as talk among the elites, the art scholars, the Church, most likely the state too, and whatever resolution be reached, I do not see how a Negros farmer or a mother of 16 in a Pasig shanty can do anything expect to agree.

That is, if they care at all in this esoteric artsy talk.

A date with the 21st century Freud

I dreamt last night that dreams don’t happen. That everything is, just is. That philosophy did not prod Heidegger to write books about it and language is absolutely denotative. The dream almost did not end, or so I thought. But when I woke up, I knew the dream has ended.

Freud was well-known for his Interpretation of Dreams, revolutionary or mere-fictitious-on-the-surface, it unquestionably shook the currencies: what we repress when we are awake, they found themselves in our dreams, either condensed or displaced, they come out in the open in our dreams, and perhaps making us feel better when we wake up.

But those were just theories, and theories are always arguable. Years will generate new theories, making modifications, making adjustments, destroying establishments. Many have reworked Freud but today I seemed to have gathered enough pluck to ponder on him and his work, and write them here.

Everyday is like a dream. While in Freud’s time, the need for repressions are said to arise because of the society’s codes, today, the tricky permissiveness of the society changed repression into selective denial. When I wake up for my 7am class, the world Freud describes seems to end on one hand, yet seem to continue on the other. I wake up and drag myself to the dream-like world of Harry Potter, Chowking Lauriat and teenage crushes where the beautiful seems to be the only choice since we deny its opposite. Everything is bearable because this is a dream-like world and it will console us, make us forgetful of all our worries and failures.

And in analogy, or in other words, the dream-likeness of things, our need for consolation and the miseries of life, they are also our jokes and pretensions, our need to buffer reality, and our real thoughts, feelings, predicaments. We just find them unbearable but we want to make ourselves believe that we can bear them somehow. The misery is that we can never fathom the world, or other people, even ourselves. And what constitutes that small parcel of a thin line that we can fathom but the concrete miseries of life. They are not hard to arrest because we experience them right in our every walking and waking hour.

So we dream the days away. And dreams no longer go with sleeping, but in the vastness of everyday, everywhere – awake and alive, in the market or in a motel. I won’t tell you I’m mad at you, I’ll just say I don’t feel well today. I won’t tell you are annoying me, I’ll just tell you you’re jokes are not funny anymore. I won’t call you a janitor; I’ll call you a sanitary engineer. We won’t call ourselves exploited Third World countries, but developing countries.

That is amusing at first, then frustrating when it starts getting into your vulnerable sensibilities. We consciously create these dreams because we want to relegate the shouting miseries in our midst into our subconscious, if not the unconscious. We want to forget them, even only for a while, an hour or two. And oh, it would be better if we do not knew them at all – but this is close to Ignorance is Bliss.

And so hooray to the blissful life: Bieber singing “That should be me” and making us feel that we are not alone in our heartbreaks, SM reinventing carnivals so that air-conditioning and a shot at the glamour of life is achievable even without spending, and SM sales somehow making the glamour of life more buy-able.

There have been a lot of words created to designate this phenomenon: escapism, apathy, false consciousness. There could be more to come, going farther from what is being signified, but names, we do not need them. Especially if they name our persistent/voluntary/conscious turning away from and refusing to confront the realities in our eyeballs.

Oedipus, almost.

Tonight, I have my latest tragedy. Oedipus might be toppled from the top of the list, but almost. I am quipping, then again, only to make this thing more bearable, if only somewhat more bearable. You see, and you know it, this does not interest us, the sentiments of people about life, about the inherent cruelties, about failing and falling as midnight announces another end and another beginning at the same time. Unless you care about the person, unless you don’t have anything decent to do, unless you look for some wonderful word-weaver amidst Pnoy bashers and cheap romantic hints, unless you read for form and find me cute because of the way I write.

No, I am not kidding. And I am not after blog views after I post this. I am in a heck, promise. Monday passed as if nothing, as if time has been frozen and earth was dead for a day. No, it won’t happen. So I find myself now, having frittered away a good half day counting stars in the room’s ceiling and transcribing the drizzle’s boring sound. Isn’t that tragic? Barrenness, laziness, unproductivity. And I can turn to coffee, even just for the littlest poetry I can get, and more words I can create. But I want a new day, I tell you, with no expression in the face, with no agitation, just a feign blandness. I want a new day and I want a new set of hours to burn, places to see, faces to ignore, or ravish. I can get stuck in the bed for a day but that bored me already on the 12th hour. Turtles, they turn to their shell for protection or warmth perhaps when its winter. But they don’t dwell on that for beauty. The shell is not beautiful, err, the shell has limited beauty. I want beauty, I want some action, I want some periwinkle in the ennui given by gray and green hues, I will look for it outside. Today I stayed indoors and find myself whining about the boredom. Get drunk and get a life, the faring is done in the danger of the daily traffic and the rawness of Session Road. Not indoors Kitty. Not indoors. And stop playing Cyndi Lauper’s Manic Monday. Mondays are boring, not manic, most especially if you spend it cuddling yourself in bed and making failed attempts at verses.

And sorry I talked to myself. Tomorrow, Tuesday will set fire on my feet and I will only live what I have not lived today. I hope to see you, then pamper me with your flirtatious look and perhaps I can ask you for dinner. And this boring Monday can be forgotten.

Jokes, sarcasm, they are the most honest

We both pan the flames of our sarcasm, in chilly nights for instance since we fear of outcomes we don’t want to happen. Sarcasm is slanted irony, the dictionary defines and which I tailored for the purposes of this note, for the description of the way we would elude our inner truths just to get by riverside walks.

You see, sarcasm can be romantic after all. The way I would deflate malice in my meanings because they are just malice after all, nothing more. When I talk to you, I tried to be the sincerest of all, the most honest of all. Like I want to hold your hands and call the moon as witness to our dance with the night. Or I want to sit beside you in the tensions of everyday, and assure you journeys along tribulations will never be made alone again. Or I want to hear you talk about rooftops that nearly dilapidate because of the storm or the wind, or the clutter in your room from Monday to Sunday, or Samuel Beckett and persistently waiting and hoping despite the hopelessness fate designates.

But there are times, there are several times when I need to resort to sarcasm. I am sorry I have to make already partial truths more divided, farther from what I truly want to say. I am sorry I have to downplay my emotions, distort my messages, turn to euphemisms. I am often selfish, wary of misinterpretations. In other times, I underestimate you. You might not be able to confront the things I want to say, their weight that can pull off your feet and drag you to a terrifying netherworld. I might not be able to share hours with you again, if that happens. So I turn to sarcasm.

We could agree on the never-changing weight of the world, always obliging us to bear them and not fall to the ground. And in carrying a weight we will never ponder, we only have the slightest assurance that we will stay, flanking each other all the way. We turn to sarcasm to buffer the weight of the world; and on each other, we turn to sarcasm to protect the thinnest of strings that bind us, neither entertaining the idea of departure nor slacking off and merely enjoying the connection. I like to be with you is happiness and trust in one statement. But happiness and trust are not stable, and to keep us from falling apart from each other, I know we’ll eventually master the use of jokes and sarcasm to ultimately pan the flame that burns between us and keeps us happy and trusting.