pumasok sa kompartamentong bilang sa lahat
ngunit ipagsiksikan ang sarili, sumuot, at ipilit
dahil ang maiiwan sa españa ay hindi makakarating
makipaglaban, mang-agaw, ang akin ay akin

trenta minutong paghihintay
sa ilalim ng init, tiyaga ang kapiling sa umaga
bakit nga ba ‘di pa makikipag-balyahan?
asal-hayup upang mapuntahan ka lamang

sa pagdating sa istasyon ng sta. mesa
pawis ay naghahalo, amoy ay ‘di mawari
napagitnaan ng dal’**** dalagang nagchi-chismisan
‘di sinasadyang makinig, ako’y ‘di sang-ayon kaya iiling

sa hawakan ay higpitan lalo ang kapit
sasakyan natin ay paparating na sa pandacan
tumitig sa bintana at muli, bigla kang naisip
ngunit sila’y ‘di maibigay ang inaasam na pagtahimik

bakit nga ba ako nagtitiyaga?
sa masikip, magulo, at maingay na paraan
paalis na tayo sa istasyon ng paco
ika’y singtulad ng tren na ito

hindi makahinga sa dami ng taong nilalaman
kailan ba mapapadali ang ruta sa araw-araw?
magrereklamo, magsasawa, sasabihing “ayoko na”
titigil sa istasyon ng san andres

mananatili hanggang makaabot sa vito cruz
pasulong ang andar ngunit ang gana’y wala na
pagod at nagsasawa, hindi magawang iwan
ngayon ka pa ba susuko, eh ang lapit mo na?

nawala ang bigat ng pasahero pagdating sa buendia
nawala na rin panandalian ang sikip na iniinda
ngunit ano namang silbi ng ginhawa,
kung paalis ka na rin at nalalapit na sa paru-roonan

pagod ka na pero tiyagain mo nalang
ikaw at ang sitwasyon ay nariyan na nga
nag-inarte ka pa kung kailan nasa pasay road na
hindi ka pa ba nasanay sa araw-araw?

tumigil ang tren sa istasyong pinakahihintay
pawis, pagod, suot ang damit na gusut-gusot
heto na, sa dami ng nangyari ay narito na
sa edsa magallanes, salubungin mo siya

sumulat ako ng elehiya

ginamit ko lahat ng palasak na salita
ninais ko ang naunsiyaming kapayapaan: yaong hindi bayolente't nababahiran ng dugo't karahasan
mayroon pa naman sigurong mas malinis na paraan, 'yun, 'y-'yun bang legal at dinaraan sa reporma
'yaong tulad ng kay rizal! tama! yaong may diplomasya

tumigil ako pansamantala upang bumuklat ng pahina
napakarami nang rebolusyong hindi tulad ng inihahatag nila, katulad ng, ah! katulad ng EDSA!

nauhaw ako at tumigil pansamantala habang sa lamig ng aking kwarto'y rinig malakas na buhos ng galit ng araw
mabuti't nang buksan ko ang mga kurtina, payapang nagwawalis sa bakuran ang kapitbahay
may nagpapaligo ng aso't magagarang sasakyan
ipinagpasalamat ko ang bubong sa king ulunan. ah, payapa.

hindi rinig sa balita ang pandarahas ng militar sa kanayunan
ngunit batid ng karamihan, at ang solusyon ika nila ay armadong pakikibaka
nanlamig ako at namutla,

binaybay ko ang mga taong nakalipas bago ko marinig ang pangangalampag sa aming pintuan
pilit kaming inaakusahan, walang dokumento o anumang ebidensya

at dumaan ang mga imahe ng militar sa kanayunan:
ang daan-daang pamamaslang habang walang kalaban-laban

sa huli, wala akong armas na nilundayan

sa aking mga huling sandali, para sa sarili ko lamang,
sumulat ako ng elehiya

Magsusulat ako ng tula,
Ilulubog sa balde baldeng tubig,
Tila nalulunod na mga letra,
Sumasayaw sa imahinasyon ng bukas.

Ako'y batang naglalaro sa hangin,
Dala ang pait ng iyong alaala,
Ilalapit sa bukana ng langit,
**matapos lamang kita.

Sa sikip at kakapalan
ng iniwang usok,
mga langgam ay
di magkamayaw dito
sa kahabaan ng pila.
Hibik nang hibik nang
pumasok sa kaliwa
at sa kanan ng ika'y
nagaabang at tulala.

Tanda mo ba nang
dito'y nagkabungguan,
nakipagtitigan,
at nagtawanan sa
kawalan ng
ating kalikuran?

Sa hirap ng buhay
sinabi mo ang
iyong naranasan
at nangakong
hindi malilimutan ang
dating pinaggalinan.

Sa paglipas ng
apat na buwan
kahit bulong ay
hindi naaninag.
At ako'y nalinlang
sa pangakong
hinayaan mo na
dito'y matapaktapakan.

Sa dami ng mga trabahong tumambak dahil hindi mo pa nagagawa
Mga papeles na nagpatung-patong na
Yung lamesa **** inaagiw na dahil hindi mo alam kung saan at paano magsisimula.
At mga istoryang di mo pa maisulat dahil nangangapa ka pa.
Isama mo na rin yung katrabaho **** nakakairita na sa tenga.
Dahil crush niya daw si Justin Bieber
At paborito niyang frappe sa Starbucks ay Caramel.
Kahit mukhang ang afford niya lang ay Nescafe “Oo nga pala, French Vanilla” na iniinom ni Toni Gonzaga.
Pero wala siyang pambili ng sarili niyang tumbler.

Tangina.

Idagdag mo pa ang mga patay na oras na sunod-sunod ang mga buntong-hininga
Nahuli ka pa ng boss mo na nakatulala
Kaya hayan at napagalitan ka pa.
At dahil contractual ka, yung limang buwan na kontrata mo
Biruin mo, baka mapaaga pa ang endo.

Aminin mo na ang pagpatak ng alas-singko
Ay may kakaibang dalang saya.
Na parang sumagot na ng “oo” yung matagal mo nang nililigawan.
Nakulayan na rin yung mga pinlano niyong outing na buong akala niyo’y hanggang drawing na lang.
Parang pagbabalik sa Pilipinas ng kasintahan **** kumayod sa ibang bansa.
Parang ibinalita sa TV na hindi traffic ngayon sa EDSA.
Himala!
Kaya ang pagsapit ng alas-singko ay kakambal ng paglaya.


Wala sa’yo kung sa bus man ay tayuan
O kaya sa dyip ay makasabit man lang.
Basta makauwi ka lang.

Nakakasabik pa rin ang ideya
Na ang bawat pag-uwi
Ay kasing banayad ng mayroong sasalubong sa’yong ngiti
Mga ngiting papawi sa kangalayan ng mga binti.

Mayroong yakap na nakaabang
Ang mga bisig na nagmistulang pinakapaborito **** kulungan
Dahil doon mo nararamdaman ang tunay na kalayaan.
Mula sa pang-aalipin sa’yo ng lipunan.

Nakahain na rin ang hapunan.
“Mahal, ano ba ang ulam?”
Sabayan natin ito ng mahabang kwentuhan.
Simulan natin sa simpleng kamustahan.
Dahil pagkatapos, ay aabangan mo na naman ang alas-singko kinabukasan.

with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?

the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.

i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.

there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.

all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.

we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.

Here I scatter the ashes of our Wednesdays
and throw dirt on our names because we fell into a stupor of unsaid goodbyes and insincere apologies.

I take my time trying to unclench my fist,
after all, release is only sweet when you feel suffocated.

I always made sure to adjust my grasp to your comfort,
present my entirety as if you owned more than a half of what I used to be.
I remember you in things that have no heartbeat, but a pulse of regret and anger that devours it, and to think you swore you would keep me alive.

In Binondo, you taught me how to eat street foods, walk in the crowded places, sit still on taxi rides,
and feel beautiful even when you kept your eyes off me.
You believed in slow motion, and the magic of lugaw at 12AM,
I watched you in a fascinated haze.
Too unsure of the light.

In Fairview, I told you that I cry during movies and laughed at the way you spun me around in the theater. Hand on my waist for good measure. I showed you claw machines and photobooths,
at least remember me.
I held your hand the first time, bled on
a piece of paper you read on the way to Quiapo, and all the long rides have made me feel empty ever since.

In Ilocos, I gave you a warm kisses on your cheeks when you took me
to church the first time, head spun just at the right angle for when
I walk down the aisle in a dress with you waiting at the end of it,
not knowing that in 4 years, I’d come back at someone
else’s wedding, begging on my knees at silent altars to keep you
even with my faith hanging from my fingertips. You still left.

In Intramuros, I see you in every nook and crevice,
in the holes, in the walls with Lechon Kawali, in quiet places we
claimed are for ourselves. In street vendors, ATM machines,
and pedestrian lanes too dangerous to walk on. Nowadays,
I shut my eyes in the backseat, afraid to see a shadow of who
I thought you were whenever I am near.

In Pasay there are people to see and places to walk
through to cover the tracks of almost lovers, a pair of shoes
to buy, impatience on my throat, and kisses on cheek as a cure
for my silence and satiation for the hunger below your navel.

In EDSA, we locked more than just lips, ate street Palitaw,
knocked three times on wooden doors, even lit candles to be sure,
that we would keep each other for good. Someone must have
knocked harder, the wind must have swept our fire out,
and we were fools to think promises were as simple as padlocks
that rust and break in the rain. How I never told you that I pictured
us in a million other bus rides that night. The road could never
have been shorter than the infinite one you promised.

In Pandacan, you wanted a life with me  
with nights in bed, the sickening kind of happiness harrowing
the peace we always knew we had. You held me close
and by the early hours of the morning you swore you’d meet me
again when the clock strikes twelve on a different year. I think
you left your love for me in that two-bedroom suite, and
wouldn’t it be wise if I left mine right next to yours, folded
and hung before the stain of resentment covered it whole?

In between the hurt and madness, memories of us
unfolding without grace on the table, I loved you.

You knew what you were doing when you let go of me to hold
onto someone else that was never as sure as I was of you,
and I wake up in sweat at 3AM thinking I never really knew.

Now we are in places we’ve never been, and I dry
swallow the hurt that swells even when I no longer touch it.
There are spaces I no longer need to be filled because I got used to being hollow
even when I was next to you
and now that I don’t have to be there anymore
it makes it easier to forget you ever happened, and I will tiptoe my way out of these places until I no longer feel you everywhere.

There are times when
I feel that I have already forgotten about you
but those don’t happen as often
as when you pass through me like a feeling
going about your business
touching my core, wounding it
and moving away without warning.
I see you
in lights dancing in my room.
For a moment, what bliss.
But lights fade, too, without notice.

This morning I left the kettle screaming.
It is hard to listen to any sound
other than confusion
which is louder. Now there is a fly
on my fantasy book. How I want to **** it
yet how I want to let it linger a bit longer
to distract me
from trying to understand you
like a language,
but failing.

Have I told you about my wasted nights?
You used to know about those nights.
Now I only talk to you in memories.
One night I sat by the window
trying to feel only the wind,
but there you were again
reminding me of the day you told me
you were stuck for four hours in traffic.
It was a Friday night in EDSA,
I laughed that it surprised you.

Tell me about the ghosts in your bedroom
and I’ll tell you about mine. Tell me once again
about that dream you had when you were nine.
I promise I will listen this time.
Tell me you’re close by
or tell me you’re far from here,
just tell me anyhow.
For I have been locking my doors
hundreds of times,
but I want you to know
I still have my windows open.

i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.

ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
  it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
  only the children of the vandal.

iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
  of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
  blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
  to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
         we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
     to our locomotives.

iv.
  the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
   of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
   it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.

v.
  somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
   the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
   flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
    belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA

   and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
    yet i am

        not coming home.

Sa panandaliang pagtigil ng mundo,
Hindi mapigilan ang mga tanong sa isipan,
Na para bang mga sasakyan sa EDSA,
Buhol buhol at walang kaayusan.

Ang mapait na naranasan ay iiwan na sa nakaraan,
Akapin ang kasalukuyan at kinabukasan,
Patawarin ang sarili sa nagawang kasalanan,
Bitawan ang sakit na nararamdaman,

Hindi para sakanya at hindi rin para sa iba,
Para sa'yo; Para tuluyan ka nang sumaya,
Mga gabing puro luha at kalungkutan,
Balutin sana ng umagang puno ng kasiyahan.

Nawalan ka man ng kaibigan o kasintahan,
Mga memoryang hanggang isipan nalamang,
Pulutin at dalhin sa susunod na kwento,
Dahil sadyang may mga kabanata na hindi para sa'yo.

The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.

Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.

White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.

Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.

Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.

We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.

Soil—what ties us together is our history.

Akala **** hindi mo na makikita pa kahit kailan. Ngunit iniluwa siya ng gabi. Unang beses sa mahabang pagkakataon, kinumbinsi mo ang sarili at kinumbinsi siyang samahan kang maglakad ng mabagal sa maiksing kalsada. Hindi siya pumalag. At sa dulo, inalis niya ang tuyong dahong nakasabit sa buhok mo. At gaya ng dati, hindi siya magpapaalam. Ibabalik mo siya sa gabi, ika labing isang minuto makalipas ang alas onse, iniisip kung sinong magmamay-ari sa kanya balang araw. Uuwi kang mag-isa, wala nang traffic sa EDSA, wala na ring lumbay. Sa iyo ang huling halakhak pero ngingiti ka na lang at magbubuntong hininga.

these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
   as they    pick up a mound of the Earth and  throw at genuflected  roses.
these battered men   in parks   searching  for light
   and   my woman   is no longer with  me.

it’s all  vaudeville:  this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant  flutings,   these  unprecedented fluctuations.

opening  the yellow gates  to death
as the  automobile churns the  last of its exhausted snarl.
   we    are children   peering through   glass cases
as   death laughs at his   hopeless  clientele,
    sad,   desolate   progenies   in   working-classes,
in   parks,  in factories,   somewhere along Mendiola,
  or  just treading the waist-high  hellish   froths   of   Dapitan,
    there’s   always   death in   the nooks   of the quiet
and from   where birds    stir in  sidereal circles,   death
  with his hands    resting   on the   cage,   chases us  back to  our homes.

death   the changing of the   gatekeeper.
death  the   telling machine.
death   the dentist.
death   my next door neighbor.
death,   this boorish broken-winged   Maya twitching in  front
   of my dog’s shadow  shot out of the Sun’s  shameful recoil.
death,   my loud and loutish muse,
death    the   truant,
death,   the   copious  fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
   death,   in my   hands through   darkness    and  light,
death   through troves   of enigma,
      death   through   undisputed clearings,
death    the   long line  of red beads   in EDSA,
  death  the gates   of Plaridel,

     it’s the moon   following you,   trailing your measure,
i hold   my woman’s used   shirt,  pick up her photographs
    and there’s no tender movement left but  the still-seeking   lion
prowling   the jungles   of my  heart,   seared by  lovelorn undoing.
  
through   the  bottom of  the sky and the  unchanging roof-beam,
  the weathervane ceases to  a sojourn  and the  wind is  trapped
    in   a place  where we   cannot   utter any word  between the  gnashing
  of   our teeth – through the wasted   years,  through  the sleeping in  and out
  of   homes filled  with beatings,  to cathedrals swollen with  tribulations,
      and to   the vineyards     wrung   out   of wine,    my  lover,   walking  through  fire,
        sound     silence.

I.

Naalala mo pa ba ang mga sandaling tayo ay magkasama?
Sa isang pampasaherong bus ay nakasakay tayong dalawa.
Magkatabing nakaupo sa pang-dalawahang upuang malapit sa bintana,
At magkahawak ang mga kamay na nakangiti sa isa't isa.

II.
Mahigpit ang pagkakapulot ng ating mga kamay nang mga oras iyon,
Kulang na lang ay posasan tayo upang hindi paghiwalayin.
Ako naman ay ngiting-ngiti at sulyap nang sulyap sa iyo habang nakatanaw ka sa labas,
Hindi alintana ang mga matang nagmamasid sa napakalambing **** mga bakas.



III.
Hindi ko maipaliwanag ang damdamin ko sa bawat alaalang ikaw at ako ay naging tayo.
Nang minsang dalawang oras tayong naghintay sa EDSA dulot ng trapiko,
Malinaw na malinaw pa sa puso at isipan ko ang mga katagang isiniwalat mo;
"Okay lang na ma-traffic tayo. Ang mahalaga magkasama tayo."


IV.
Ipinagpatuloy mo ang mga tinuran **** nagpataba sa aking puso;
"Ang mahigpit **** hawak sa mga kamay ko ang gamot sa bawat inis na nadarama ko sa tuwing mabagal ang daloy ng trapiko."
Nginitian mo ako at masuyong hinalikan sa ang aking pisngi na ikinagulat ko;
at sabay bulong sa tainga ng mga salitang "Mahal Kita kahit hindi na umusad ang sinasakyan nating ito."

V.
Ngunit ngayon ay wala ka na at iniwan mo na ako.
Kinuha ka na sa akin ng Panginoon at hindi na magkasama tayo.
Pero hindi ko pinagsisihan ang mga alaalang tayo ang bumuo,
Mananatili ka magpakailanman, mahal.. dito sa aking puso.

All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
        Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
   Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates   the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
    clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
     Today there will be no siren nor
   simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
   against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
    Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
           forethought and afterthought.
   Dislimned – all; you, left
       in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
    in pursuit of light.

In Tibiao,
My childhood’s home
I remember riding on a karosa, a cart
Being pulled by my grandfather’s carabao
While watching the setting sun
As we go home
After his day’s work,
I, accompanying him.

Tonight,
Seeing vehicles
Plying EDSA, lugging tons of passengers,
With their back lights, neon red, glaring
I think of hundreds and hundreds of bull frogs
Being pulled on their hind legs
With their smoldering eyes
Looking at me.
The night
Is my grandfather
Walking me home.

The house she grew up in
Is written in her heart
A decaying castle in EDSA
Separated from others
By the torrents of the road

The orange glow of its afternoons
Is the glow of her mind and body
Its rooms replicated in the way she talks
She moves and makes friends

Like the triune God
Which emanates from who?
Theodora or the house?

Aton sa liwat handurawon
Ang isa ka maragtason nga tini-on
Tini-on kon sa diin naghugpong kita
Agud tapuson ang diktadurya
Diktadurya nga sa aton nagpamigos
Naghatag sg kahadlok kg pag-antos
Gamit ang kamot nga salsalon
Mga krony naghari sa gobierno naton
Ang kahilwayan sa pagpahayag
Hinali nga natiphag
Naglala ang komunismo kg terorismo
Kg pagbayular sg kinamatarong sg tawo
Gani kita nagsinggit sa mga dalan
Nga ang gobierno dapat na islan
Kg sang ginpatay si Ninoy Aquino
Kg sang sa Sanap Election kita ginunto
Minilyon nga mga tawo naghugpong sa EDSA
Kg nagsinggitan nga “Tama na! Sobra na!”
Sa tunga sg mga soldado kg tangke
Imol, manggaranon, babayi, lalaki, estudyante, mga madre
Matawag ini nga isa ka mirakulo
Kay wala sg gamo kg nag-agay nga dugo
Isa ini ka rebolusyon nga mahidaeton
Inspirasyon sg tanan nga mga nasyon
Amo ini ang legasiya sg mga Pilipino
Nga dapat ipabugal sa tanan nga tawo!

-02/11/2014
(Dumarao)
*written this Evelio Javier Day in Panay…aired on Bombo News Analysis in Feb. 24, 2014

Plaridel

Plainclothes this Saturday under the brusque heat – trees burlesque from shedding,
ripping orchestra of motorcycle: this one – too blatant to perform, to shrunken to
notice. What if I never reach you?

1.1 Crossing

There is an unrelenting transaction of birds in the surest sky in the surest day.
I can hear the rumbling of thunder behind its natal. If when found, discard.
It is easier this way unless inclinations are definite: the trance is to come,
shorthanded. Consider this day your being spared from.

2. Toll

I remember the identical traverse. It was when I was unsure of my birth. My father
had recounted and numbered how many slopes and trundles along the way when homeward
is turbulent, angled at such pace which could have given me another face. I have always
found it impressive that a person can wait for too long and waste away in hours that seek
no relevance when the daily is diminished.

3. Balintawak

You said that behind the marketplace is a dense crowd scouring for loose change. You wanted to supply them all with your adequacy that was rife and deft for sure in the turn of your hand almost a finger-exercise: that is your skillset. It will rain soon but the heat refuses to decline. You thought of the cumbersome bodies washed away by flood, and how at times, you remember them being randomly stacked at your doorstep, eroded by some wave.

3.1 EDSA

Space we have no need for want under a terminal day fully etched like unwanted visage making you remember something that was your flagrant disregard when asked about how
your day went, about a miscarriage of justifications, at work when facing absurd hours wishing to break away from that was our common bond – the long and dreaded silence because it made us always question what are we doing? Who are you? What for? Knowing for sure when to being but to end, indeterminate.

4. Familiar curve underneath a vandalized lamppost

In the console you pressing, discarding gravity at some point, managing to draw your way into and submitting to not knowing how to get out of, sealing an immediate sepulcher. We borrowed minutes, ran like fugitives when asked. An external shadow an intrusion so we had to cease for a moment but in the depth of our silence, somehow continued.

5. Entry to your home

Perfumed your garage was with autumn, or vegetation you said was your aunt’s prized possession. That it was my fault I did not turn you off as a switch is meant to be killed from the moment of discovery to dislimn the image and leave everything to study as specimen is meant to be dissected.

6. To go backwards*

         The only way home to where you were and I, scattered

Ikaw ba'y naka-usad na?
Baka kasing bilis mo ang usad ng trapiko sa EDSA,
Nakarating ka na ba sa'yong destinasyon?
Baka nantili ka lang sa'yong kahapon?

...

I have no interest in anything
insofar as a warm pitcher of spit.

there is a lineage of a plainspoken truth
that agonies itself, a slow ticking of clockwork.

all the pubs are filled with
the ugly and the beautiful.
so much the naked darlings,
so much the people writing,
and reading poems wrung dry
like unattended cornerstones.

when the flower dwindles,
the petals begin to shed.
I see people slower than drizzle,
tread the long line of existence.

as I write all words washed away by the shore,
all separated and lonely,
deeply departed as a parting hand of a wave,
all people continue their sameness.

inside me, a well-placed margin
divides flesh and bone.
overwrought the soul, untended to
like drops of water from a spigot left open.

sound of silence like the reproach of fires.
my mother loathes me for my heavy drinking.
my godfathers attenuate the smoke furling
above my brows back to its fetal nature.
somewhere, somebody is making a killing
in front of the billion-blooded.

misshapen. lungs struck harshly by a barrage
of quiet. i can barely keep my soul together
past the horrible billboards of EDSA.
the lampposts, the sun that looks like a lazy eye
magnifying everything that hurt.
I thrive with faces whose existences have nothing
to add me – damage further
I keep working up the old moon’s wane.

we will all fall to the ground,
we will all have our skin scraped out
of the body
and we will hear the paring of the flesh
sifting away from the bone
and it will hurt
like old haunts revisiting us

not because we are out of choices
not out of weakness;
the simple truth that teaches us
to be kind does not have its same potency.
there is an epidemic of death
crawling past hills crunched to the death
by the unrests of horses.

pain sends its
tired battalion of people
lining up across the turnstiles.
the ****** utter
the flimsiest of moans.
the soldiers beat their
wives to the ground with nothing
but bare-knuckled discomfitures.
I fear that soon enough,
what keeps the walls together may soon
touch the end
while I assault the windows

with photographs of slow mornings
reduced to slower evenings.
such falseness teems where
truth should have prevailed.

someone’s time is up
and death strays in the room
proud of its stench championing the perfumes
of boys and girls in the flesh -

we’re all next,
first one to go
finds the impasse all the same.

dissonant is what it was.

that foreverness of din.
criminal—
  aloft, eluding some captive way
    of emphasis.

  scraps of papers fold
and truth is rarefied. hammered
for its malleability is its common trait.

truth and always its never ever.
the men mumble words as if
  oceans whirl in their palates.
the women hide their thighs
  and think of fornications.
the children learn to pilfer
      stray coins in the keep.

dissonance is what it still is.

there's a slow moon over the aubade
     over the culled garden.
     over the cloverleaf curve
    in Balintawak. over no trove of truce.
  caterwauling noises flailing
      belch of automaton metal. mendaciloquent glower of lampposts
    to die early, abandoning EDSA—
we cannot name figures any longer
    of the same axiom, equation,
    salt, crossovers.

For an instance, we would meet and exchange passive glances
on the metro station for the very first time,
we're going to be looking at the same advertisement or propaganda poster,
knowing of each other's presence
but never acknowledging...
then we would ride the same train.
Perhaps we're holding on to the same railing but our fingers are never touching.
How I wish that was a busy monday morning instead of an easygoing
sunday evening,
so then I would've been smashed against you the moment I stepped foot in the train
or should've felt your body heat around me
at the very least.
Just like in the movies.

For an instance,
we would see each other for the first time
in a lazy corner coffee shop,
there are going to be about fourteen to twenty-seven people in.
There's you, me, the baristas, the harmony of your voice among the chatters of others.
Sadly, you were sitting with your back turned from me and fairly enoughㅡI am too, because we both hate looking at people's faces or being looked at while sipping our coffee.
Or maybe I'll choose one of the high stools for the time being, forgetting the fact that my back would hurt after half an hour.
I'll pretend to be productive while you're in one of those couches, and God knows what you're trying to pretend about?
That you didn't notice me as I walked by?
When you know so well that your whole atmosphere and realm just shifted for good?
Oh, this is why I like you in the first place,
you're a bit funny, too.

But what if we'd first talk on a record store?
You're rummaging through alternative rock while I slowly feel the new wave record sleeves run through my already dusty fingers, slightly tapping them too with the beat of the store's background music.
Not knowing of each other's presence,
I'll turn to the isle and see you there.
You check me out, you're preoccupied but you still paid me a glance,
before giving me a faint, subtle smile.
I'll smile back at you sweetly and my heart will then have to faint a bit, too.
Or we might both be looking for the exact same album, how idealistic.
But unlike the movies, we'll talk about it instead of fighting over who saw it first.
And who should get to bring it home.
We would both be surprised of each other's preference in music, possibly amazed.
Or perhaps a little in love already,
one foot down in the grave.
Either way, I would know right away we would touch and create melodies, just like needle to record grooves.

It could be on a mountain trail,
a near-death experience, on a hospital, on a beach or in the middle of the ocean,
a museum, my birthday, the airport, EDSA, your grandpa's death anniversary;
any location and any scenario,
there would be no better place
and no better moment.
Because the very moment and time
we would meet for the very first time
Would be the best way right away.
However.
Wherever.
Whenever?
No I wish, pray and beg it to be sooner.

Go out when the sun sets
Watch birds return to nests
When fishermen end quests
And farmers leave harvests
The time everyone rests
So now face to the West
See and feel where it’s best
Comfort is its behest
Blue – wall stars of U.S.
Blue – sea and sky conquest!

Go out when the sun rises
Witness birds begin quests
When fishermen cast nets
And farmers ready chests
The hour of work begets
So now turn to the East
Human faith melts mist
Red – motif of China
Red – worker’s insignia!

Go out when the sun’s highest
When shadows are shortest
Temperature’s hottest
Celestial lights brightest
Festive moment its best
Yellow – Philippine Sun
Yellow – EDSA One!

Philippines – now behold
People – not blue and cold
Culture – not red and bold

Our nation’s not that old
New age ‘bout to unfold
Glaring – yellow – sheer gold!

-11/27/2011
(Dumarao)
*First Incubus Collection

all the memories of qc
came back rushing back at me
the first time i rode toki to up
when we got lost under fire trees

who would ever forget philcoa
our first date at chemistea at maginhawa
i got late to my sched at palma
coz the line was so long at north edsa

Now is the time
Our moment sublime!

For so long our heroes and villains alike
Push our pride on the hike

Our insignia of light between red and blue
Feel what our banner wants to construe

Conceived on this day of Red gallantry
A march towards Blue serenity

East that’s Red, West that’s Blue
Philippines that’s Yellow is friend to both of you!

On EDSA you have seen our peaceful revolution
Worthy of worldwide emulation

The champions of democracy
Whose son now seated to pursue the journey

Has made clear the path
Against those who are corrupt

And so the weighing scales of justice
Shall have nothing amiss

-11/30/2011
(Dumarao)
*to be continued on December