"jansport" poems
*Namis ko ang mga panahon,
na naglalakad ako papunta at pauwi mula trabaho
Sumasakay sa jeep, mukhang tanga, nagaabang sa kanto
Sulyap ko si kuya, nangungulangot ng patago
Nakatingala sa langit, ngiti ko'y tila ipinako*
Masaya sumabay sa takbo ng mga tao
Kita mo lahat ng ganda at panget sa mundo
Maging avon man o ever bilena ang gamit
May lunes parin na maiiputan ka ng pato.
*Namis kong mag tsinelas palabas ng bahay
Ngayon 3inches na ang taas ng yapak ko
Pati din ang jansport na laging nakasabit
Ngayon para akong magtatahong walang buena mano*
Madaming nabubunyag sa aking biyahe
Malalagkit na sulyap ni kuya sa pasahero
Ngayon nga'y may pisong nalaglag sa tabi
Dadamputin sana ni ate kaso naunahan ko
Hiwaga sa'kin, saan kaya siya patungo?
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Tonight I went to a house warming party,
Just to be nice,
When I really should have been at home,
With my hungover head on ice.
I didn't like most of the people there,
They bored me in fact,
Especially the cliche hippies with long dreaded hair,
Clothes, barely intact.
As the night went on,
The washed up ****** ****
Came through the gate.
One by one by one.
I don't have time for people,
They drain me.
Trying to be nice by buying minors alcohol,
But no one repays me.
The welcome wasn't the warmest,
I was patronised because of my mode of transport,
By yet another ****** ****
And his tattered up Jansport.
Eighteen years to realise,
That the public and I don't get a long.
Eighteen years later and I can guarantee,
That i'll be singing my own funeral song.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Last night
I had a dream
that
a kid pulled a Mossberg
out of his black
Jansport.
Pulled it
out by its ears
and flashed
its shining
black pelt in my direction.
He let loose
two
thumping shots.
No pain,
no nothing.
Just a dull, pushing thump in my chest.
Death will come to me one day, and it will be like magic.
I will exist,
and then stop existing.
I woke up this morning crying,
because in the evaporation of a dream
I came out of it
sweating, shaking, hot,
and
knowing death was close.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
Hustle and bustle of underground merry plaza showcase, the underbelly, the underlife, the true essence of the show going on at 8, men speaking rhythmically, eating quickly, with waste boxes, recyclables, the news is digestible, a man forages for answers in his phone, digging with his thumbs, and another reaches through the speaker to try to hear the close, the head anchored up, the scarf hanging at the direction towards the sun, oh the glamorous walls and the anxious souls, oh the marble staircase and the jansport backpack, more cleaning services than surfaces, less times more money, more money, less time, time is like money, it freezes and then it flows, what was the expression again? Only the smell of coffee is lucrative, only the stench of ***** diapers, babies, in a place like this, where murmers are murmurs and eat isn't required but fufilled then joked about over digestion, a proper coffee break, he is of an ash tray the men gossip, not directly, but imply, stick to facts but hierarchies fill in like water into a ravine, never obscene, silent struggles to an invisible top held by Rockefeller who is no longer in this world, his spirit keeps some sort of hope driving noses into the pizza lunches, and the limitless contemplaions, the tough desicions, men around coffee are women amidst vultures, who has a higher grasp, whose the one getting cursed, overdone, overpowered, the cards turning in silence, literally in glances, a polite face turns to a disappointed hatred in seconds, perfect, like a diamond
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
Know know, the knowing, ever reaching, expanding, like ice, sticking, irritating, emerging with confusion, a hurt head, wondering, what happened? Jeeze it's impossible to find anything. The sun is blinding, reaching, the stops drag onward, reaching the city, reaching the city, my bags got too many holes in it now, but jansport holds up, mountain men making their next exit. Held up by their lack of nutricion, their eyes crusty and tired, not lumberous jacks but minstrels now, with a few driniing songs to keep from souring the mood. On and on and even flow
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC