Ikaw na babaeng sumasayaw sa dilim,
   Ikaw na nakakapit sa patalim:

Di ba nasusugat ang porselanang palad
    Na kasing lambot ng puwit ng sanggol?

Sa matalim na kutsilyong kinakapitan
      Ano mang oras hahatulan ng lipunan?

At sa higpit ng piring mo sa mata,
     Pasasaan pa't mabubulag ka na

Ikaw na babaeng gumigiling-giling,
   Iba't ibang laway ang pinanghihilamos gabi-gabi

Ang sugatan **** puso'y walang gamot
    Ngunit ang kandungan mo'y sagot

Sa mga problema ng mga lalakeng–
      Naghahanap ng panandaliang saya.

Ikaw ba, babaeng hubad,
   Naranasan mo na ba ang lumigaya?

Kumusta na ba ang anak mo sa una **** nobyo?
     Balita ko'y di ka na niya kilala.

Hindi ba't may tatlo ka pa sa probinsiya
   Na pinagkakasiya ang padala **** barya?

Naalala mo ba ang bilin sa 'yo
     Ni Karla na siyang una **** bugaw?

"Huwag **** bigyan ng puwang sa utak mo
      Ang sasabihin ng Inay mo.

Sasampalin ka niya, di ng palad niya,
     Kun'di sakit na dama ng isang Ina.

At iyon ang pinakamasakit
    Sa lahat ng puwedeng sumakit."

Ilang ulit mo na bang tinanong ang sarili
   Kung saan ka nagkamali?

Kung ilang liko ang ginawa
     Para mapunta sa hawlang 'sing dilim ng kuweba

Na pinamamahayan ng mga paniking
     Takot sa liwanag na magpapakita ng mga galos

Na bunga ng mga gabing kinukurot ang sarili,
     Tinatanong, hinihiling na sana'y bangungot lamang

Ang buhay nila sa dilim,
    Pasasaan pa't nasanay na rin.

Ikaw na isang mabahong lihim
   Ng mga mister na may misis na bungangera

Ha'mo na't sa iyo naman sila panatag
     Sa mga suso **** malusog, pinili nilang humimbing.

Ikaw na pantasiya ng karamihan,
   Ano ba ang pakiramdam ng pinagsasalsalan

Ng mga nagbibinatang hindi pa tuli,
      Ng mga lalakeng di kaya ang presiyo mo,

O ng matandang libog na libog sa mabango **** kepyas
      Ngunit nanghihiram ng lakas at tigas sa ******?

Saan ka na ba nakapuwesto ngayon?
    Sa Malate, Morayta, Quiapo, o Aurora?

Ilan na ba ang napuntahan mo?
  Ilan pa ba ang bibiyayaan mo ng iyong alindog?

Sa Makati Ave, Pasay, o sa Parañaque?
      Ha'mo na't langit pa rin naman ang dala mo

Kahit na alam ninyo ng Diyos
    Na nakaukit na ang pangalan mo sa impyerno.

Ikaw na babaeng walang pangalan,
   Ano ba ang itatawag ko sa 'yo?

Ilan na ba ang nahiram mo sa tabloid
  O sa mga artistang iniidolo mo?

Kathryn, Julia, Nadine, Meg, Yen, Anne
    Yna, Katya, Ara, Cristine, Kristine, Maui

Daria, Pepsi, RC, Susan, Gloria, Lorna, Aida, Fe
    Vilma, Sharon, Nora, Maricel, Dina

Ikaw na babaeng 'sing nipis ng balat ng sibuyas ang saplot
   Di ka ba nilalamig sa pag-iisa mo?

Ikaw na babaeng marumi,
  Sadsad na sa lupa ang lipad, saan ka pupunta?

Wala ka nang kawala sa dilim,
     Pasasaan pa't malalagutan ka rin ng hininga
        at  magpapasalamat sa biyaya.

Ikaw na babaeng bukod tangi,
   Ginawa **** lahat pero hindi naging patas ang mundo.

Lunukin mo na lang ang mga hibla ng pagsisisi
    Ipagdadasal kong huwag nang magdilim sa hawla mo.

In contrast with the cold morning air,
The house was cozy and warm
As we all arrived to participate
Like worker bees starting to swarm.
The smell of pork and refried beans
Permeated the room.
The champagne bottles were chilling on ice--
How much did we consume?
Sally brought some egg McMuffins.
I thought, "Something's amiss:
Egg McMuffins and NO pan dulce!°°
What kind of party is this?"

But I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada.

The giant bucket of masa°°° awaited
Marisa's kneading hands.
While she kneaded the dough, the rest of us
Listened for Sally's commands.
After a brief champagne toast,
Our assembly line started.
Everyone had a job to do;
It wasn't for the faint-hearted.
Spreading the masa on the husks
Was a messy task.
I wondered, "How many will we make?"
But I was afraid to ask.

It wasn't very long before
Everyone in the casa
Was practically covered from head to foot
With fluffy tamale masa.
We spread and stuffed and folded and wrapped
While Sally entertained us.
The conversation, laughter, fun,
And champagne all sustained us.
The wonderful smells of lunch also
Encouraged us to work hard
Lest we be known as shirkers and our
Reputations be marred.

But I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada

After a few hundred tamales,
The masa was getting low.
I said, "Yay! We're almost done!"
But Alice said, "Oh, no.
That was just the pork; now we're
Making chile and cheese."
Blurry-eyed I held up my spoon
And said, "More hojas,°°°° please."
On and on we continued to work
Like hive bees making honey.
But it was worth it, for these tamales
Are more valuable than money.

Alice, Yvonne, Kathy, Yolie,
Aida, and Sally know why--
As do Marisa, Rebecca, Karen,
Marisol, Nancy, and I--
We always look forward to getting together
For laughter, fun, and cheer
And this spirited, heart-warming gathering
Whenever December is here.
Homemade tamales can't be beat
When made in our special fashion
With love, care, conviviality,
Warmth, goodwill and passion.

I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada.

__
°tamale-making party
°°Mexican sweet bread
°°°dough
°°°°(corn husk) leaves

- by Bob B

"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.

Aida* on stage,
brown queen's divine voice must climb,
for love redefines.

Oh dear Aida ! Ma soprano lyrique
Je te mordille le lobule de l 'auricule
Je grignote l'hélix et je fouine dans l 'anthélix
Je visite ton auricule.
Ce soir je suis chaton de lynx
Ténor lyrique
Je te danse ma marche triomphale
Je suis Général cinq étoiles
Radamès l'Egyptien
Et je m'entortille la trompette dans le labyrinthe de tes cheveux
Comme dans une pelote de laine
Et je miaule et je ronronne :
"Aïda, mon éthiopienne,
Fille d'Amonasro,
Ci-devant esclave d'Amnéris, ta rivale,
Je suis ton esclave patenté
Ensevelis-moi vivant
Quand le moment viendra
et pends un de mes osselets à tes boucles d'oreille
Pour chanter ma mémoire "
Et joignant l'acte à la parole
Je t'administre un gentil piercing de mes griffes.
Et pendant que je te fais mon piercing
Toi tu joues aux osselets avec mon marteau,
Mon enclume et mon étrier.
Tu me dévores le vestige de mon oreille
Et tu me dis : "tu m'aimes maintenant !"

Je n'entends plus que le bruit de l'eau
Qui se mélange aux violons et aux cymbales
De l'orchestre philharmonique
Qui m'envahit comme le déluge
Et je te livre tous mes secrets

Et je m'accroche à tes cheveux
Soudain bleus avec des reflets verts
Comme tes ongles d'ailleurs
Tous verts sauf les pouces qui sont bleus
Pour combiner avec mes oreilles noyées.

N'est pas chaton de lynx qui veut
N'est pas maîtresse de chaton de lynx qui veut
Il faut accepter d'être lacérée de coups de griffes
Certes le félin se retient
Mais il a beau retenir ses griffes
Il est encore gamin
Il ne sait pas qu'il blesse
Il ignore que tu saignes
Il est innocent, le petiot,
Il a tout juste un mois bientôt
Et aux innocents les griffes pleines.

Et tu es maternelle
Tu lui prépares son lait
Et quand il pleure la nuit
Tu l'accueilles volontiers dans ta couche

Heureux les chatons de lynx
Gloria in excelsis deo
Car c'est enterrés vivants avec leur muse
Qu'ils connaîtront le paradis.

My Eyes See
What is no longer there
Your hands pull on my body
Like spiders weaving a web
Here in the moment
But which moment is it
What's real
What's illusion
What's pain
What's love
Hearing the screams
coming from everywhere and nowhere
I try to focus on the road ahead
But I can't make the shaking stop
I can't run
I can't scream
I can't cry
I can't breath
I can't be
Anything
I am caught in this spiral of nothing and everything
Consuming and wasted
Thoughts of yesterday
Haunting my today
*copyright Aida Soto

i've painted the cradle of an *** to sit on:
a garden bench...
i went with her for groceries -
we did it in a spectacular time: under 2hs...

ciul: which is a silesian word...
it's pan-germanic and it's... like welsh:
if there's velsh...
           because we would be inclinded to
talk about: sub-groups...
       gvara: talk...

ciul: it's a blunt word... it's not a ******
word...
                has any son ever been
a source of pride of a mother?
             i do wonder what the ****** mary...
would have to say...
oh i'm sure she's simply
"puzzled" by the final stance...
         'no matter mother... unless i be
crucified'... because a belief in
the "ultimate cuck-warrior of silence"
via joseph...

too much... too much...
but i sat through her homeschooling...
we studied the operas today...
from gloriana... through aida...
madame butterfly... turandot...
tosca... carmen... and of course: norma...

maria callas...
            when my grandmother has these
bouts of my mother drinking gin...
i must be the most... obscure "citizen"...
but i swear i wouldn't put someone
to the torture of opera...

        like it was a lesson...
hardly... because i don't remember
that she asked about... la traviata...
of course i made the sort of mistake that's
most associated with...
playing a *** note on piano:
how dare i not recognize the voice
of pavarotti?! how dare i?!

father was sitting with us... for a while...
he clearly was attuned to my torture...
do good: a woman scolds...
do bad: she might as well applaud...
unless: it's not bad enough...

so he went up while i smoked a cigarette...
took a shower... climbed into bed...
coming up to 34...
and as i walk the streets i see them too...
i'm guessing hovering on the circa
plot of 39... third child in the "bargain"...

yes... but what of all those...
and me: shuffling in the shadow of "failures"...
whimsical contest... as much...
of course... by now i wouldn't be
sharing a flat with...
a drug dealer that would get his "details"
from a university hospital...
or the likes...
i'd be either settled... or hanging...

on the "way forward" or...
in that 20+ year ping-pong between:
"the native land"... to go back...
back to a 20 year hiatus?
          no wonder i stopped giving myself
the thrills over horror movies...
somehow the romance started
to trickle through...

a study of opera with a mother...
who... wants to study all the operas...
but not... la traviata!
she's drinking her subtle gin...
my father can't make out whether
it's a lobster being poached
or a fish being gutted... being excused
from drowning when gasping for air...

mothers... with a mother like that...
oh... i would most certainly bet on
a poker-hand of a wife and mother-in-law...
yes... i'm running from this home
as fast as i can: into the forest...
under the bridge... into the gutter...
into... "adventure"!

- thanks be given to where thanks are due...
if only my name was: Norman...
perhaps i could get away with hiding
a clown... and a circus...
perhaps i could live a duality...
and have... a string of failed animal
experiments to boot...
like pouring salt on slugs...
one of my ex's said that with glee...
like that one time i saw these two boys
smear frogs with lipsticks before
setting light to them...

           an oyster for a heart...
a brain for a sponge...
      sometimes i don't think sanity is anything:
beside the stage-fright of actors
before they step on the west end stage and...
hey presto?!

      of life i have only known one constant:
the insistance to capture every instance
ex-,
             out from every and back... folded...
into none...
and then repeated...
          
     somewhere far away:
                  there's an escape pod with fiction:
scribbled on it... hardly unlikely...
      perhaps these old relations were alway so:
this supposed in-breeding anti-cosmopolitanism
and -ism global -ism...
in check ran the lineage:
with the martriarch or the partriarch...
the uncles and aunts...
        perhaps even the neighbours...
    
                        once upon a time...
so much for looking for alien life-forms...
      such eyes piercing this veil...
brought back... a stipend for unearthing more and
more alien aspects of our own ontology...
plato and the shadow theatre of a t.v.:
cave perhaps a home...

                 what a simpler lesson to be learned
from simply being beat...
or kept on a leash... in a darkened corner...
perhaps simpler...
              all this intricacy for "detail"...
for being: less pedestrian...
      or whatever the hell would suffice...
to have to move the hands...
as if one were a ****** conductor:
in... "appreciation" of classical music?
                    
          will not tears suffice?
                can i sometime cry at beauty...
notably: melody entombed?

'i'm a citizen of the world' never said any
classical greek man...
the nation and the diaspora...
        or rather...
playing ping-pong between england
and scotland and poland: for...
a better count of 26 years...

         from under the iron curtain:
to be subsequently thrown under
a silicon veil...
                    rummaging on a bad idea...
and then: watching this idea
migrate and... somehow:
for the sake of all of europe:
these abortion testimonies from poland
are shelling us back toward
the stone ages...

    excused if (a) ******...
              (b) ****... fingers-crossed...
(c) the life of the mother is stressed
as the imperative...
       (d) that the catholic church can
profit...
       what christianity would be like...
if... what islam would be like...
unless in eastern europe...
      the baptism of poland happened
in 966...
        islam emerged in circa 600s...
        
                       and lithuania was still
a pagan kingdom...
        until 1387...
                    the battle of grunwald took place
in 1410...
         the fourth crusade... and how barbarossa
never made it to jerusalem and was
mistook for a great big pickle...
   and... for the better use of christian steel...
the muslims were too powerful
and there was no need for a scapegoat
of europe: back then... what a tiny place...

and of course the mongols and their leftovers
in the crimean peninsula: that tartar steak
that tartare sauce...
            that tartar deep-fried dumpling:
   czebureki (чeбурeкі)...

welcome... an inward... therefore "backward"
looking people...
how confusing... inward implying:
reflective without a reflex of change... etc.
   "backward": a return to / perhaps even
not closely associated with 'from'...

"from" the brgain ****** of burroughs shooting
up a dotted line and ditto:         "                   "
cans of paint-thinner bullets onto a canvas....
and somehow coming up with the cipher:
Tangier...

      somehow better to be strapped to a world
that is always: looking away...
a cindarella: a somewhat distant cousin:
excuse being "victim":
it would take both **** germany
and communist russia...
and still it would take about the same
amount of time to quench the so desired
freedom of the fwench...

ping-pong and somehow,
not a lot of Dickens...
           if only these words were
the worth of the words made into an "item"
for an editor... or a journalistic sludge
of... cheap ***** and bourbon...
and... oh god... memory: should these
be words of testimony...
         a very fine, fine... vanity project...
bad ideas on toothpicks while
all the sophists walk on stilts!

          that mention of: 'he('s) about to convert!
weielding etymology!'
           the WWII fight between saxon
and bavarian cousins... the mass graves...
the somehow slight praise of elevating
the sombre loot... when a sparrow would grace
the pits... a sparrow...
nothing more... no great parting
of the red sea... no... plagues to the count of 10...
just a sparrow...
the crow was writing with the ink
letover from the *****-juices of a plucked
'un from the lore one...

but the sparrow... just a brief hope
for the power of man's industry of imagination:
a figment: a phantom!
that it almost feels right:
feeding the lie...
when god "created" the octopus:
(i.e.) gambled drunk and blind...
man would have the sparrow as his...
choice: for a synonym of soul...
and that when god was: gambling drunk and blind...
man was... "somehow" sober...
and petulant in prayer...
            and counter to being petulant in prayer:
very much concerned with seriousness...
and hierarchies...
that man was somehow sober...
and dancing when he walked... on the "sly"...

you too care for the measured step?
i too care for it... very much so...
a sparrow is its own...
it doesn't the depth of a god's squid...
nor the privacy of man's adventure when...
baking bread...
a sparrow is a sparrow is a sparrow:
and the crow... is but the elder...
sribble-meister!
a crow's beak would touch wood...
knock knock would ensue...
a crow's beak would touch stone:
an earthquake!

                           and so it was written...
but a sparrow?
                 what was given unto gabriel
and subsequently unto muhammad...
               can you... please... recite me...
the quran over a mass grave of german soldiers
from world war I near Ypres?
but the reality is... comes a sparrow...
once a year... and sings...
and therefore plucks one soul up from
that ground... that ground of communal
fermentation...

that's it... i have not hunger to write any more.

"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.

"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.

Two hearts, many paths
secrets, oh the secrets I keep

Emboldened my desires
Which are, oh the secrets I keep

This dark thing

Blood runs through, a surge

Life of another

Say those words

Take them back
So we can live

Let me,
I can make it better

What we never were
Is what we never will be

I never let go

To look at those places, the ones where we go

Keane's words stay here
As we watch Khalid grow

(Aida Oluwagbemiga)