[06V10]
we congregate on the streets,
trying to escape from sheets
drenched in sweat and dreams
shirtless beggars
whistling for a breeze
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 01, 2010
old ideas
cruel beauty
[01IV10]
the desert loathes not the barrenness that defines it nor does it pity its self-inflicted solitude.
but cruel beauty dreams, sometimes, on its bed of sand roses, of a fecundity that shatters the diamond-sharp silence blowing over its dunes.
like a nubian queen, it drinks from an oasis
whose illusory abundance soon grows tiring.
and so the desert wakes with sated lips dry and cracked, embracing its own arrogance like a lover.
___
somnolent seas
[01IV10]
i want to see you when your somnolent seas
are roused by the habagat wind,
and roiling thunderclouds hide a sand-scratched sun
enough of your placid submission,
give me your undisonant violence at its loudest
then let me have the pleasure of taming your tempest
[01IV10]
the desert loathes not the barrenness that defines it nor does it pity its self-inflicted solitude.
but cruel beauty dreams, sometimes, on its bed of sand roses, of a fecundity that shatters the diamond-sharp silence blowing over its dunes.
like a nubian queen, it drinks from an oasis
whose illusory abundance soon grows tiring.
and so the desert wakes with sated lips dry and cracked, embracing its own arrogance like a lover.
___
somnolent seas
[01IV10]
i want to see you when your somnolent seas
are roused by the habagat wind,
and roiling thunderclouds hide a sand-scratched sun
enough of your placid submission,
give me your undisonant violence at its loudest
then let me have the pleasure of taming your tempest
Saturday, January 09, 2010
sauteing in the sun
[09I10]
we spend afternoons sauteing in the sun:
marinating in human juices, skin crisping until golden brown
under a salmon-pink sky, violet-gilled and veined with light,
we breathe in dreams and await the rising of blue moons
we spend afternoons sauteing in the sun:
marinating in human juices, skin crisping until golden brown
under a salmon-pink sky, violet-gilled and veined with light,
we breathe in dreams and await the rising of blue moons
Sunday, December 20, 2009
tethered moon
[20XII09]
the moon, tethered to earth by its light,
floats on clouds meandering
in night's incandescent sea
the moon, tethered to earth by its light,
floats on clouds meandering
in night's incandescent sea
Friday, December 04, 2009
Boodle feast
My father's stories start when the flames die down. He sits, orange-lit by embers and the heat brings him back to the time when he played with knives and guns.
He took my brothers hunting when they were adolescents. My eldest brother felled combed blackbirds and herons when others hit nothing. Unable to wait for the next trip to the wild, my second brother would sit by the window in his room and lure Asian tree sparrows into traps made of thread. Dots of sweat would form on his nose as he sat like a statue for hours, moving only when a bird, tempted by a mountain of rice, would hop into the invisible circle of death he made in our garden.
My father is the kind of man he is -- one that holds bonfires and boodle feasts on his lawn -- because as a child, he sat in a hut with a slingshot while his older cousins went hunting for wild boar in the foothills of Mount Apo.
With the Aetas as guides, they chased a boar towards the creek and killed it with a single bullet. They threw the carcass in a pit, roasted it, and wiped its blood off their faces. My father partook of the feast, and he remembers how the cold mountain air solidified the boar fat in his mouth. The next morning, they looked at the leftover meat, bloody under the sun. Boars were serious; for fun, they would shoot bats or make arrogant doctors dance to the music of bullets.
And because of that, my father is the kind of man he is. He watched a spider weave its web and counted the number of insects it ensnared. He spat into a river and blew a crowd of needlefish to pieces with his rifle as they fed on his saliva.
Tonight, as I ate grilled pork belly by the light of a bonfire, my father told me stories. He did not eat meat. Instead, he feasted on a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of red wine, with ice.
He took my brothers hunting when they were adolescents. My eldest brother felled combed blackbirds and herons when others hit nothing. Unable to wait for the next trip to the wild, my second brother would sit by the window in his room and lure Asian tree sparrows into traps made of thread. Dots of sweat would form on his nose as he sat like a statue for hours, moving only when a bird, tempted by a mountain of rice, would hop into the invisible circle of death he made in our garden.
My father is the kind of man he is -- one that holds bonfires and boodle feasts on his lawn -- because as a child, he sat in a hut with a slingshot while his older cousins went hunting for wild boar in the foothills of Mount Apo.
With the Aetas as guides, they chased a boar towards the creek and killed it with a single bullet. They threw the carcass in a pit, roasted it, and wiped its blood off their faces. My father partook of the feast, and he remembers how the cold mountain air solidified the boar fat in his mouth. The next morning, they looked at the leftover meat, bloody under the sun. Boars were serious; for fun, they would shoot bats or make arrogant doctors dance to the music of bullets.
And because of that, my father is the kind of man he is. He watched a spider weave its web and counted the number of insects it ensnared. He spat into a river and blew a crowd of needlefish to pieces with his rifle as they fed on his saliva.
Tonight, as I ate grilled pork belly by the light of a bonfire, my father told me stories. He did not eat meat. Instead, he feasted on a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of red wine, with ice.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Male train
On the stairs, pedicure-pink nails. To my right, a shirt with cigarette-smoke accents. In front, a jaw ferociously chewing gum. Two seats away, crossed arms resting on a belly that juts out like a fleshy peninsula.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
exploded silence and kantian astigmatism
standing in the train after an exploded silence
[21XI09]
the crowd cannot touch me
but i am close enough
to read its thoughts,
breathe its yawns,
and avoid its exhausted eyes
___
in which the moon and astigmatism prompt a detour into kantian philosophy
[02XI09]
we were looking at the moon, my brother and i, and amid comparisons of astigmatic eyesight, conversation drifted into the realm of kantian philosophy. “bees can see a different kind of light,” he said.
“ultraviolet,” i answered.
he ignored my display of apian scholarliness and pursued his own train of thought: “the moon we see, it will always be dependent on our senses — even if you take a photograph or a video of it, it will always be different from person to person.”
(or species to species, if we consider the bee he brought up)
“i can see a blue ring around the moon,” i said, while thinking about the bee. “can you?”
“no,” he answered as he blew cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth. “but it’s almost like there are two moons.”
“will we ever know the moon — the thing-in-itself — or is what we know of it limited by our senses? does the moon — the-thing-in-itself — even exist outside of our understanding?,” i asked.
he remained silent and we both looked at the night sky, thinking about bees and noumena.
i briefly turned my attention away from the moon — a white disk ringed by blue flame — and wished on a star that my brother be given the chance to discover kant as i had: in college, sitting on an armchair, my mind open and waiting to learn.
(passe, i know, but on nights where an imaginary bee casts a shadow by the light of a gibbous moon, all is forgiven)
//originally a tumblr post
[21XI09]
the crowd cannot touch me
but i am close enough
to read its thoughts,
breathe its yawns,
and avoid its exhausted eyes
___
in which the moon and astigmatism prompt a detour into kantian philosophy
[02XI09]
we were looking at the moon, my brother and i, and amid comparisons of astigmatic eyesight, conversation drifted into the realm of kantian philosophy. “bees can see a different kind of light,” he said.
“ultraviolet,” i answered.
he ignored my display of apian scholarliness and pursued his own train of thought: “the moon we see, it will always be dependent on our senses — even if you take a photograph or a video of it, it will always be different from person to person.”
(or species to species, if we consider the bee he brought up)
“i can see a blue ring around the moon,” i said, while thinking about the bee. “can you?”
“no,” he answered as he blew cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth. “but it’s almost like there are two moons.”
“will we ever know the moon — the thing-in-itself — or is what we know of it limited by our senses? does the moon — the-thing-in-itself — even exist outside of our understanding?,” i asked.
he remained silent and we both looked at the night sky, thinking about bees and noumena.
i briefly turned my attention away from the moon — a white disk ringed by blue flame — and wished on a star that my brother be given the chance to discover kant as i had: in college, sitting on an armchair, my mind open and waiting to learn.
(passe, i know, but on nights where an imaginary bee casts a shadow by the light of a gibbous moon, all is forgiven)
//originally a tumblr post
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
the sound of me
[10XI09]
this is the sound of me thinking of you
i inhale a thought, exhale a verb
because breathing is insufficient
and only words will do
this is the sound of me missing you
the echo of a tear that only i will hear
as it falls in the night
and evaporates from my palm
this is the sound of me wanting you
a rustle of sheets, an intake of air
the contortions of my body on a bed
that feels empty and untrue
this is the sound of me thinking of you
i inhale a thought, exhale a verb
because breathing is insufficient
and only words will do
this is the sound of me missing you
the echo of a tear that only i will hear
as it falls in the night
and evaporates from my palm
this is the sound of me wanting you
a rustle of sheets, an intake of air
the contortions of my body on a bed
that feels empty and untrue
Saturday, November 07, 2009
hastily written on mobile phone and ephemeral memory
nlex
[05XI09]
shadow upon shadow
dark upon dark
black upon black
paniman
[23X09]
angry that i've been away for so long, love?
white-lipped and frothing at the mouth, you come at me, ready to devour
urgent fingers creep, claw, and grab at my ankles
don't be timid: cling and suck me in. take me away.
[05XI09]
shadow upon shadow
dark upon dark
black upon black
paniman
[23X09]
angry that i've been away for so long, love?
white-lipped and frothing at the mouth, you come at me, ready to devour
urgent fingers creep, claw, and grab at my ankles
don't be timid: cling and suck me in. take me away.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
parma
[02X09]
this fragile city —
already drenched —
would disappear in
a sparrow's spit
when the water-claimed
are returned to earth
and allowed to rest in
anonymous graves
bodies will decompose
into memories and
flowers will bloom
on bones and sorrow
this fragile city —
already drenched —
would disappear in
a sparrow's spit
when the water-claimed
are returned to earth
and allowed to rest in
anonymous graves
bodies will decompose
into memories and
flowers will bloom
on bones and sorrow
Saturday, September 26, 2009
ketsana
[26IX09]
above a floating funeral procession of stranded cars,
flesh and blood gargoyles shiver on roofs
the moans of their starving stomachs
are drowned by the rain
and they wonder if they die tonight
while waiting for dawn
above a floating funeral procession of stranded cars,
flesh and blood gargoyles shiver on roofs
the moans of their starving stomachs
are drowned by the rain
and they wonder if they die tonight
while waiting for dawn
Monday, September 07, 2009
white lab coats vs. pink leotards and tights
Scientific hegemony and the death of art
It's right around college application time that dreams of becoming artists or ballerinas are traded in for more practical pursuits like science and engineering. It cannot be denied that society and the current educational system lead children into thinking that they will earn more in white lab coats than in pink leotards and tights.
//an old intro that stayed an intro. i was going through my files looking for another unused hook and found this. i think it's rather inaccurate since the dream is traded in much, much earlier.
It's right around college application time that dreams of becoming artists or ballerinas are traded in for more practical pursuits like science and engineering. It cannot be denied that society and the current educational system lead children into thinking that they will earn more in white lab coats than in pink leotards and tights.
//an old intro that stayed an intro. i was going through my files looking for another unused hook and found this. i think it's rather inaccurate since the dream is traded in much, much earlier.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
why can't my body just bleed and let me be?
[27VIII09]
my eyes are dry
even if it's raining
inside my body
thoughts have turned to muck
threatening to drown
the rational me
i cough till i can't breathe
and spit blood on the world
my tears refuse to see
my eyes are dry
even if it's raining
inside my body
thoughts have turned to muck
threatening to drown
the rational me
i cough till i can't breathe
and spit blood on the world
my tears refuse to see
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
dishwashing thoughts
[15VIII09]
bathed in a lovely languid melancholy, i teeter on the cusp of an idea. thoughts that i can see only in the periphery, and in shades of shadow grey. my moment of discovery scored by a slow and heavy funereal legato. understanding is here, in the last closing of my eyes, in the final falling into dream.
bathed in a lovely languid melancholy, i teeter on the cusp of an idea. thoughts that i can see only in the periphery, and in shades of shadow grey. my moment of discovery scored by a slow and heavy funereal legato. understanding is here, in the last closing of my eyes, in the final falling into dream.
Friday, August 14, 2009
... ... ...
after the Japan exhibition
[10VII09]
i fill my canvas
with the view from my window
as i lie in bed
unwashed Weltanschauung
nonchalant observation
paint, dirt wed as one
___
a dance from tweet to tumble
[14VII09]
i saw her white hair through a window
and she made me see the paper through the paint
what if, like white watercolorists,
we had to write the spaces in between words and
make silence instead of noise?
___
eclipse
[23VII09]
the moon ate the sun
who blacked out in ecstasy
while we watched in awe
___
hawt, dawg
[25VII09]
hot and humid/ slick and thick/ smother fucker, pillow murderer/
___
[VIII09]
the weather feels like Rilke's Loneliness
and yet we must brave the blitzkrieg rain
that leaves the world wet
under a smiling schizophrenic sky
___
cellist transmogrified
[12VIII09]
i witnessed the transmogrification
of a snaggletoothed man into a demigod
body bending like a bow,
straining under the voice of a stone angel
his cello timed by the inhale
and exhale of his divine breath
[10VII09]
i fill my canvas
with the view from my window
as i lie in bed
unwashed Weltanschauung
nonchalant observation
paint, dirt wed as one
___
a dance from tweet to tumble
[14VII09]
i saw her white hair through a window
and she made me see the paper through the paint
what if, like white watercolorists,
we had to write the spaces in between words and
make silence instead of noise?
___
eclipse
[23VII09]
the moon ate the sun
who blacked out in ecstasy
while we watched in awe
___
hawt, dawg
[25VII09]
hot and humid/ slick and thick/ smother fucker, pillow murderer/
___
[VIII09]
the weather feels like Rilke's Loneliness
and yet we must brave the blitzkrieg rain
that leaves the world wet
under a smiling schizophrenic sky
___
cellist transmogrified
[12VIII09]
i witnessed the transmogrification
of a snaggletoothed man into a demigod
body bending like a bow,
straining under the voice of a stone angel
his cello timed by the inhale
and exhale of his divine breath
Monday, June 29, 2009
puka beach (old boracay thoughts scribbled in a notebook)
[30X08]
i remember tempestuous afternoon delights,
her openness and how she let me slip, sweat-laced, into her embrace
she kissed my feet, lulled me to sleep, then carried me away on the crest of her wave
i remember tempestuous afternoon delights,
her openness and how she let me slip, sweat-laced, into her embrace
she kissed my feet, lulled me to sleep, then carried me away on the crest of her wave
watched a movi, asked sort-of rhyming questions
[21VI09]
do you have eyes on the back of your head,
you with the yoga pants and don't-fuck-with-me walk?
do you have an enlightened mind, a prana-filled behind
that won't take any bullshit from people like me?
in our past lives, did we explode our base chakras
and make love downward-facing doggy style?
did we meditate on the mysteries of the universe,
munch on veggies, and fly on an astral high?
//i don't know what this is. it wrote itself.
do you have eyes on the back of your head,
you with the yoga pants and don't-fuck-with-me walk?
do you have an enlightened mind, a prana-filled behind
that won't take any bullshit from people like me?
in our past lives, did we explode our base chakras
and make love downward-facing doggy style?
did we meditate on the mysteries of the universe,
munch on veggies, and fly on an astral high?
//i don't know what this is. it wrote itself.
Monday, June 08, 2009
a reconstruction of a hypothetical conversation with no one in particular that was originally written on a rumpled piece of paper that i can't find.
"i miss writing to you. rather, i miss writing you — making you as i write because of you."
"i don't understand. say what you mean for once. stop fucking 'bloviating.'"
"it's a game that you know how to play, too. if i want to say that your ignescence frightens me —"
"'ignescence?' i'm too hot to handle, is that what you're saying?"
"if you want. but doesn't it seem, well, crude when you put it that way?"
"but it's what you want to say, right?"
"in a manner of speaking."
"you could just say 'yes,' you know."
//this was longer. i think our cleaning lady threw the piece of paper i wrote it on *again*. the first time she did it, i managed to fish it out of the garbage. maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.
"i don't understand. say what you mean for once. stop fucking 'bloviating.'"
"it's a game that you know how to play, too. if i want to say that your ignescence frightens me —"
"'ignescence?' i'm too hot to handle, is that what you're saying?"
"if you want. but doesn't it seem, well, crude when you put it that way?"
"but it's what you want to say, right?"
"in a manner of speaking."
"you could just say 'yes,' you know."
//this was longer. i think our cleaning lady threw the piece of paper i wrote it on *again*. the first time she did it, i managed to fish it out of the garbage. maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.
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