i have held with fascination, when i was young, all of my toys.
a parallel universe of marvels. imperial is the mood of these ecstasies!
i remember my cheap svelte revolver back in 1998 bought from the festive bazaar in the marketplace at the dreary heart of Bocaue when i was consumed by the thought of brutal force and how swiftly, in the hands of men meant for twisting open the doors, welcome death or the metallurgy of it.
i used to run off into the sunset toting my gun high with pride shunning the Sun, and the reprise of my carousals is my mother soldering in her white hands a "walis tambo" and summoning me homeward with a churlish grin on my face, triumphantly ecstatic over my rendezvous.
now my gun has withstood the tatterdemalion of dog days and in one corner i felt its brokenness as it yearns to be retired early in the peak of my youth. happiness wears down like a chip on the old linoleumed floor and i tinker with it to unsheathe the grime of the unspoken stucco concrete.
i placed it in a box, my black revolver, together with the toys that i once laughed with when only bliss is as simple as a juvenile love, or the easy picking of a santan over the fields where i ran off into the viridian laughing with the verdure of the world that i once knew as something so beautiful and intricate.
i heard my black revolver went somewhere behind the macadamized wall where i dreamt of having a basketball ring nailed to. only i knew how to play my revolver, and now that i am caught within the heaviness of all things that mean greater than all other joys, no other days could ever surpass how i made a hero in myself mighty with the tales that i keep.
good ole black revolver, 1998.
A poem I wrote as a tribute to the simpler forms of happiness and how unmistakably I have made a hero within myself when I was young.