as you lay in the mountain pass
breaths in heavy, choking gasps
trees bleeding
restless, reckless head throbbing
tell me


who did you see?

Onward, soldier.
Onward.

That’s what they all
tell me, but
let me
slow down for a moment.
There’s a little something I gotta
say,

Thank you.

To that swing set in Greenhills Music Studio
San Juan City,
without you,
I’d never have learned that sometimes
it’s the other way around—
feet in the sky and head on the ground.

Mrs. Arambulo, the swing set’s owner,
who made sure I was well versed in
sonatinas and arpeggio scales
before I found out they’d already made
a piano that didn’t need tuning, and

Ma, who’d test my memory by
asking me if I
could recite
whole paragraphs at age four,
she’s why I remember things like
the smell of pilmeni,
the color of our first house’s carpet,
and nine page spoken word poetry,

to everyone behind that old kids’ show, Bayani,
watching it in my
second grade HEKASI class
would bring me to tears each time — no kidding,
you all paved the way for my homeland’s history
to make its home in my heart,

my English teachers from
sixth all the way to eleventh grade,
who all believed and still believe in the words I put down on paper
and spew out on dark stages armed with imagery and the Spirit,
you made me fall deeper in love with the way words can be waves
or flames,

Dad, who taught me
to climb mountains, to read books,
to let myself run free among the nations
but to always remember to leave a part of my heart at home,

to the four little boys I met in Hong Kong,
if we meet again, I owe you a better explanation to your question,
“Why do you dance?”
thank you for asking me that, and I’m sorry for my cowardly answer back then
but I’m braver now, and
I promise it’s for more than just fun or exercise,
it’s for this God I hope you get to know,

and to every Philippine history teacher I’ve ever had,
keep teaching like that,
we need more young ones who’d be willing
to die for their homeland,
you taught me that there is so much more to this country
than its own people tell me, so
burn on.
and make sure they catch fire.

Onward, soldier.
Onward.*

I’m not sure where I’m headed,
but I’d rather be uncertain of the road ahead
than forget
where
I started.
I’ve told you mine, now

tell them yours.

If I could only sit still, I would write a million words about us, about you, about me at the bottom with my hands on that rock.
Scratching my fingernails against it so that I could go home and complain to you about how much my tiny hands hurt, and how I could not hold them in yours.
If I could hold my train of thought, I would type out a memoir about you and me and the time we decided to make love in a parking garage elevator late at night, my back against the glass. And who might’ve seen us while they walked home.
Their names and their faces, all those people that aren’t us. I would write about how when those doors opened, the world outside had changed and so had we.
If I could keep my fingers steady, I would dial your number on my telephone. I would cry your name into the speaker, and I would wait patiently for you to take me back.
I would be on hold forever.

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that by simply participating in our current culture of mindless, resource exhaustive consumer capitalism, we're directly perpetuating a model of conduct that will eventually lead to the loss of our habitat, and the decline of our species; one whose remorseless self indulgence now guarantees a rise of global sea level up to 10 feet?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that we live in a society run by people who we don't know, who don't care about us, but only their own short term gain, regardless of the negative impact that their actions may and often do have on entire generations of people, present and future?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that our economy thrives on war, and has since the 1940's, that the total for defense contracts this year has been $253,802,074,353, and that 19% of our federal budget goes to defense, with a meager 1% funding education, that we have a president who calls our congress "ceremonial," wins the Nobel Peace Prize, and then unilaterally commits acts of international terrorism without breaking a sweat?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that we're on camera all the time, that our government spies on all of our communications 24/7 as well as those of other countries, or that people who reveal these injustices are shut up in prisons for life, tortured, or exiled?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our police force is increasingly hostile to innocent people, that they carry AR-15 assault rifles to peaceful protests, and that they constantly abuse their power? I have never ONCE consented to search, but has that ever stopped them?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our lives are essentially meaningless in the grander scheme of things, that we all dance like puppets, and jump through hoops like dogs, working at jobs we don't like for people we can't stand, to earn money that often barely supplants our basic needs?

Doesn't it bother anyone else?
Doesn't it bother anyone else?
DOESN'T IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE?!?!?!?

An Old Oaken Bucket full of *****
Swindling me from a spindle of rope,
Sloshing with every cup I fill
to the brim, topped with a savory foam.

I dip into the treasure on most
weekend nights with a blurry sight,
the least bit of fright, and a cup
that screams “Let’s have some fun, alright?”

I carry that cup with a sense of pride
every trip I make to fill it with *****.
Too many round trips have lead to
a massive amount of mistakes made.

Being out too late, because nothing
good ever happens after midnight,
Locking lips with random women
and not re-calling any of them.

Convoluted conversations about
the string theory or religion, trying
to sound smart while I slur my words,
I successfully fail to make sense.

I’ve learned the circle of life revolves
around learning, so, how can I learn if
I never make mistakes and play it safe?
Safe to say, I’ll never make that mistake.

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Created her own prison
Locked all the doors so she couldn’t get out
She sat on the corner
Hid in the shadows
Together with the monster
She has become

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Found by a wanderer
Who saw her on the tiny crack on the wall
“Open the door and let me in,” he said
“I’m just a boy, what harm could you get?”
She stayed in the dark
Too scared to respond
Too afraid to open her heart

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Still terrified to open the door
But the boy had enough charm
To tear the walls down
He entered her life as if it was a walk in the park
Pulled her out of the shadows
And held her in his arms

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
But wore her heart on her sleeve
For the boy oozing with charm
Was able to earn her trust with just a smile
“Beautiful,” he called her
Reminding her of her worth
Promising the repeat it again and again until he could no longer speak

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Who trusted a boy who made a promise
Trusted a boy who made a promise
A boy who made a promise
A promise
To call her beautiful
Until he could no longer speak

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Who believed in a boy who called her beautiful
He didn’t lose his voice
Only lost his sight
To the girl he once promised to
Love for the rest of his life

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Who no longer believed that she could be loved by another
For he didn’t just break his promise
But also break her heart
When he found another
Girl to call beautiful

There once was a girl who’s too afraid to trust
Created her own prison
Locked all the doors so she couldn’t get out
She sat on the corner
Hid in the shadows
Together with the monster
She has become

A girl of only seventeen,
who knew you could make
so many mistakes.
Was it that long ago?
Your dress was always white
and you could sleep without
worrying or waking yourself
from muttering "no, no, no,
I don't know this person
I've become."
What have you done?
You crashed your car for the second time,
careless/stupid/thoughtless/daft.
When's the last time you didn't make
your mother mad?
You loved too many boys
you didn't know
because falling into bed
is easier than getting up again.
You smoke like a new bad habit
and your best friend's a
soon-to-be addict;
you said you knew you had sinned
and yet you still refused to repent.
The verdict is in: it seems
the world would be a better place if
you weren't in it.

On the crisp corners of the first page, fingers
Fiddle
Flipping…
Flipping…
Flipping…
Hooked
Each character, each line
Absorbed
In the world made up by human mind
Heart beating, mind racing
As each page is turned

Hypnotized
Mesmerized
By the beauty of each and every word
Printed on paper as rough as skin
Like paint splattered on an empty canvas
Creating a whole different world, where
“Every single dream is achieved,
If you believe”

Happiness
Is just one step away
One small puddle to hop over, or
One whole ocean to cross
Just one little stretch away
From holding it in between your very palms
And tucking it in the pocket of your jeans

You smile
Everything went perfectly
The main character achieved her goal
With just a small puddle to hop over

With a flutter in your chest, you close the book
Sitting back, sighing
“And they all lived happily ever after”
The end

But no, it isn’t
In fact, it’s nowhere near it

See, books, stories, movies, they are stamps
Stamps dipped in thick, dark blue ink
Pressed on the pages of our hearts
Permanently marked

See, there is influence
In each story, each plot
Every one of them has power
Yes, even the bad ones

Characters
Looked at as role models
Each one of them has power
Yes, even the bad ones

People read to escape reality
To run away from the truth of the life they live
From the problems, the heartache
When that shouldn’t be the case

Because a book is not a ship
That will keep you floating above the ocean
It is not a ship
That will bring you to that beautiful piece of land you see on the horizon
No, it is not a ship
That will keep you from ever caressing the waves,
From feeling the salt water in between your very fingers
Because whether you like it or not
You belong underwater

Daughter,
You are a fish,
A whale,
A shark,
A squid,
A shrimp
You are destined to swim
To glide in the water,
To breathe in the scent of the beautiful life that you possess
Stepping on the corals and opening your wide eyes
Even if it means getting your feet scratched and having your eyes sting red
Because that’s the beauty of life itself
It’s far from perfect
But we have a God who hits perfect and amazing with a bulls eye

Fiction is like a spider’s web
Four corners attached ever so slightly to life itself
And people hang on to those thin lines
Hoping to be part of the world the web has

Inching farther and farther away from
The grease of that kitchen counter
Dear, I’m sorry, but
You are not a spider

Books, stories, movies
Have set high standards and expectations
For hatred, for war, for love
People look for their Augustus Waters
Hoping that he’ll put cigarettes in between his teeth
And hope he’ll say that it’s just a metaphor

People read and watch and say,
“I want a love exactly like theirs”
And they search for someone exactly like the ‘one in the movie’
Hopelessly coming up empty

Darling,
Don’t try to write your own love story
Based on those that are in stories
Because your love story has already been written
By the greatest writer of all time
And will be even greater
Than Hazel and Gus, Tris and Four,
Katniss and Peeta, Kenji and Athena,

Fiction is not supposed to be an escape from reality
You are not supposed to be hanging on that web
Wishing for a life better than what you have now
Fiction
Is not a new house you look at, in hopes that you’ll live there someday
No, Fiction
Is a pair of glasses that make you see the beauty of your life even clearer