Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.

Rushing,
mother and child ride along.

Greasy, *****, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.

Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes

His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…

He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration

I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.

He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.

I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.

I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.

He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.

The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.

What do you do,
what can you do?

The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.

Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?

That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…

Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…

What can you do?

Sa loob ng jeepney, akoy may kursunada
Ang babaeng gustong makilala, medyo suplada
Biglang tinanong nya ako, “bakit may itatanong ka ba?”
Kaya sagot ko, “wala akong itatanong, pero may kaba”

Kaba sa dibdib, dahil sa binigyan ako ng pansin
Mula sa binibining suplada at di ko yun akalain
Na magpapasaya at bububuo sa mahabang araw
Nang minsang napatingala sa kagandahang natanaw

Dagdag ko, “Magbayad na tayo”
Sabi nya, “bayad lang walang pang tayo”
Sinabi ko ulit “Miss, pwede namang pambayad ang ngiti,
(bakit?) kasi yung 500 mo wala silang panukli”

Sa loob ng isipan koy tumutula,
Sa labas ang mga mata koy natutulala
Nabighani ng ganda at napahanga
Di ko napapansin tulo laway labas dila

Ngunit sa mukhang tila nakasimangot
Napansin ko sa mga mata’y may lungkot
Kaya Ang magpasaya, kahit papano ay aking ginawa
Nang Minsan sana’y dumampi ang ngiti, at magbigay ng tuwa

Ginawa ko na ang simpleng galawan
Inaabot ang bayad, upang kamay nya ay mahawakan
Gusto ko din sanang malaman ang kanyang pangalan
Baka may pagasa kung sya ay liligawan

Wala man akong pera, mahalaga masaya
Wala man akong pera, basta katabi ko maganda
Wala man akong pera, basta wala akong sakit
Wala man akong pera, basta kami ay nagkalapit

Aking naalala, aking naalala.....
Wala pala talaga akong pera
Ni piso isa, wala sa bulsa
Pano na? Pano na?

Kaya ang ending ng love story,
Mamang tsuper I’m sorry
Pagtumigil na tong byahe,
Takbo sibat, handa na akong mag 123....

Dalhin mo ako sa lugar na alam natin
Alam ko naman na ikaw ay tapat at totoo
Magkano ba ang pagsang-ayon mo sa akin?
Kahit kulang ang sukli, babayaran ng buo
Hindi pansin ang pag-andar at oras sa biyahe
Sanay naman ako na sumakay at umabante
Ang balat ay basa sa pawis at masarap na init
Sa ingay galing sa iyo, katahimikan ay napunit
Tulad ng mabagal na pagpunit sa daanang masikip
Makakaraos rin sa huli, walang lugar ang inip
At sa sukdulan, parehos na pagod, hinga ng malalim
Sabay tayo nakarating, sa liwanag at dilim

Para lang sa tabi,
Manong, ako'y may nakalimutan,
Pakitabi na lang sa tindahan ni aleng bebang.

Araw araw ikaw'y lagi sinusulyapan.
Sa likod mo ako'y lagi nagaabang.
Isang lingon mo lang araw ko'y nagkakakulay.

Isa kang bituin sa kalawakang walang ningning.
Komersyal sa tV na puro drama ang naririnig.
Hangin malamig sa tag-araw na sobrang init.

kaya para lang sa tabi,
Manong, ako'y may nakalimutan.
Pakitabi na lang sa tindhan ni aleng bebang.

"Iha, ano bang nakalimutan mo?" tanung ni Manong
"Puso ko po 'nong!" sagot ko.

Ako'y bumaba sa jeepney,
Tumakbo at ikaw ay hinanap,
Nakita ka ako'y bigla sumaya.

"Hoy, ikaw ibalik mo ang kinuha mo?" sabi ko.
Ngtaka at napakamot ka sa iyo ulo.
"Miss, nagkakamali ka ata." sagot mo habang ngumingiti sa akin.
"Paano ako magkakamali sa tao kumuha ng puso ko".

Ikaw'y ngumiti at ako'y nsilaw.
Doon ngsimula ang istorya natin dalawa,
na noon'y pinangarap-ngarap ko lamang.

I saw an Ulila
Whilst riding a Jeepney
Half-Shoed,
Half-Footed,
Saying, "BAYAD!"
An Endearment for Pay
Yet my Eyes affixed
On his One-Footed Shoe
But due to the Wear
Of a Day's Sweaty Trod
Begging for his Family Dinner
Hoping he could have a Full Meal
And Smiles
For him and his family
And still waiting
For his Final Stop
And still scraping
His Hard-Worn Scar
Thus the Ulila
Handsome to Beg
Despite his Birth-Marked Nose
Which was actually blood
From a flavourful fist-fight
And Soil,
Paints his Tender Body.

Thus the Ulila,
Swollen in his Eyes,
Suddenly remembered
He had nothing to Beg
For since his Time,
Was centred on Smiles
Greeting people,
Wishing them the
Best of Cheers and Holidays
And his Reward,
Sheltered and Soft,
Reaching the end of his Bay,
Cried, "PARA!"
An Endearment for Stop
And disembarked
Full of Flavours and Joy,
Wondering,
If he could Share such with his Family.

Then the Ulila,
Felt a Weight,
And Jingles in his Body.
Thinking of his Thursday's Stones,
He took some out
And all he found,
Were just some Worthless Pesos,
Given secretly,
By the Passengers he Entertained
In the busy Jeepney.

Thus Smiled the Ulila - The Selfless Urchin-Boy.

Araw araw ako'y naglalakbay
Sa jeepney at tryk, nakasakay
Madalas naglalakad sa tulay
Nakasilong sa dahong makukulay

Nang dumilat ang ulap at nagmasid
Aral sa buhay ko'y dumarami
Bilang ng tao at hilaw na kapatid
Ako'y saksi sa kanilang pasanin

Matatandang panot, hayop na pilay
Batang walang saplot, naka-bitay
Babaeng may sanggol na alay
Kumakatok, nanlilimos ng karamay

Binuksan nila ang mga mata ko
Sa katotohanang pilit tinatago
Mga bangungot sa bawat kanto
Nabubulunan sa hiram na piso

Sa bawa't yapak ng aking lakbay
Dama ang kayamanan ng tao
Higit pa sa laman ng aking bulsa
Ang gintong binuo sa katauhan ko

*Taya!

i ventured out to visit a church in the far northern Nova
and to visit a farther church in the newborn Bagong Silang

and later i would return to my home
the lowly pub of Tacio
in the ruthless, wondrous Cubao

pero nakakagago ang trapik
isang oras sa quirino
lima sa perbyu
isang milyong mga naghihintay
sa ilang milyong mga vios

but who am i to complain
i had a good seat on an airconditioned bus
and a front seat on a jeepney

kung di lang mabaho sa harap
perpekto na sana
isang paa ako sa kalye
handa nang tumalon at makalimutan ng drayber

the whole country was in cold rain
colder than any winter
anyone could've imagined
the foreigners would agree with me;
the ones in the malls didn't have red skin
and they looked like they were glad to finally wear the clothing they were destined to wear

pati si ate nagbebenta ng basahan
naka pang ski
akala mo bakasyon sa estados

i didn't have a good prior week
medicine failed me
i had an itch in my head
i couldn't write anything
i felt my angry filipino palaboy scream out passionately for beer and conquest

kung beer lang pala
sa expo nalang ako nanatili
pero 85 para sa serbesa negra
walang coaster walang mani
mas mura pang pumunta ng nova
at maghanap ng beer dun
may extra pa pambili ng pang sigang

i am not particularly religious
but i loved the old church
inside the market
and all of it's ironies

ingay ng power drill
budots at kpop
presyong divisoria
sampu sampu
bente trenta
at iba pa

it emanated all around such a holy place
and as much as it saddened me
i had nostalgia for the sound of the busy city
echoing inside a cathedral

pina alis ni kristo ang mga nagbebenta sa loob ng tahanan ng kanyang itay
pero nanatili ang kanilang mga boses
mga sigaw

diretso ako sa sakayan papuntang Philcoa
sa harap ulit ng jeep
naisipan kong umuwi nalang
ngayong nabisita ko na ang talipapa
hindi pa puno ang mga upuan pero diretso na rin si kuya drayber
pagkat mahina pa ang ulan at trapik

i often think during the noisy silence of rain
and this time i thought
about the lengths i would go to
just for escape
for inspiration

beer and conquest i thought

bakit ko nga pala ginawa to?
sa tingin ko'y tinamad na kong magdusa sa loob ng bahay
mas nasipagan pa kong mamasyal sa ulan
naghihintay ng kaginhawahan sa kalye

sa tingin ko'y naintindihan ako ng jeep
at ang kanyang pagkinig ay ala masahe sa aking likod

the jeep understood me
and so did the ride
there was little traffic
and the rain was softer than before

and in that massage i received from the seat of a rumbling jeepney
was meditation

sa lahat ng byahe ko
ang aking isip ay palaging sa labas ng bintana
madalas natin ginugugol ang ating dilat sa pagdaan ng mundo
sa kapaligiran ng ulan
sa lamig ng ating balat

"in all of my travels
my mind is always outside of the windows
we often spend our sights on the passing of the world
the presence of rain
the cold on our skin"

i haven't thought of that before

di ko pa naisip yun ah

masulat nga

and i took a piece of receipt paper out of my coat pocket
and the rain did not tamper it

the rain is soft
the wind is brisk
the traveler feels the world once again

and he wrote down
for the first time
in weeks

masahe sa harap ng jeep

alas otso ng gabi.
nakatayo't naghihintay sa tabi.
mga letterang pilit inaaninag,
na ilaw ng poste ang tanging liwanag.

isa, dalawa, limang minuto,
hanggang umabot sa alas otso imedya
Nang sa wakas sa harap ko'y huminto.
nagmadaling sumakay kaya't ikay nabungo ng di sadya.

ako'y komportable sa pagkakaupo,
habang ika'y ngalay sa pagsabit.
nang ika'y nakaupo ako'y iyong kinalabit.
ngumiti ng kay tamis sabay sabing "bayad po".

natulala't nabighani sa iyong ngiti,
kaya't sinadyang madampian ang iyong palad.
puso'y di mapakali tila ba kinikiliti
napakasarap sa pakiramdam, walang katulad!

sa sumunod na araw, di nag atubiling magmadali,
pigil hininga sa pag aakalang ika'y makikita muli
pagdating ko'y hinanap ka ngunit wala ka na
tila ba sinasabing hindi tayo tinadhana.

Wala akong pera pang-cab
Kaya mas prefer ko mag-jeepney
Ikaw ang hihilingin
Kung sakaling makatagpo ng genie
Lagi kang nasa ulo ko
Parang paborito ko'ng suoting beanie
Mahal kita Sheki
Kahit na size mo ay mini

“Congratulations
You managed being five feet above the ground”
Said a man who
Can’t contain a slight, sardonic sound
The situation:
He’s reading eating magazines from the coast of Spain
And yelling himself blue
For the jeepney won’t hurry in the pouring rain

He smashed his head on the glass
Wishing for a train
It nearly cracked / but his
New cadence sounded quite sane

“Congratulations
You took five before you smoked the first one down”
Said a man who
Complimented me for sinking above the ground
“It’s estimation
I might trip before a wheel enters our lane”
I yelled the truth
At this moment, his presence started to stain

A boat that had already passed us
Yelled, “All aboard!”
We weren’t sure it would float
But it had a great deal of cords

Then we clambered on
There was a myriad of golden spades
Two for every buried fool
That was forced to stay
The stench was concealed
By the satisfied old man
A woman muttered
That she was headed to Queensland

A driver viciously flung his arms
Into the air, in apt alarm
The intersection’s volley
Aimed for the starboard
Everyone reached for the mast,
Hoping to soar

“Congratulations
You nodded off before the lights started to blare”
Said a man who
Lied, ostentatiously impaired
I’m at the station
Then, I noticed to my side was a golden *****
I dug myself through
The mahogany and got on with my day
In the rain

In a city that never sleeps
At 1am the trains have stopped
But jeepney engines roar
You can see a few dressed in ragged
Shouting, sometimes laughing
Their dark skin burnt
By stinging rays of reality
At most times you will see a few going through
Garbage bags and bins for salvation
Just like how they go through
The bulks and ******* of everyday life
At 1am the most interesting people come out
Friends, lovers on a rendezvous
Waiting in line
Hungry
A 68-year old man
Ready to clean up and opens doors for everybody
A teenage girl sitting
Plain bored and disinterested
Until a much older man comes up
Asked a few questions
Then left together
Kids hitching on maddened wheels
Jump off and ask for alms
Ready to grab whatever catches their attention
Like how they hold on to questions
Which their parents fail to answer
At 1am you will see
Street lights and dark alleys
Stop lights blinking red to green then orange
And back to red again
People cross the streets
Cautious, guarded against shadows
Lurking on the darkest corners of the streets
At 1am you will see
The ****** and the blessed
The ill-fated and the comfortable
Mix up on the streets
You may decide to
Go on watching
Or
Put your cigarette out
And call it a day
But for people alive at 1am
Life goes on
In a city that never sleeps

-Malaya Sanchez

Ang pagkain ng croissant at floss buns
sa public places.
O ng saging o hotdog sa jeepney.
Ng chocolate ice cream habang naka-all white ka.
Ang umibig ng mga taong may mental illness.
O ng taga-malayo o magkagusto sa pari.
Ng taong hindi maaaring ibigin.
Ang maki-apid sa asawa ng may asawa.
Ang kwarto **** napabayaang linisin
dahil mas masarap nga naman ang siesta.
Mas nakakahalina ang tawag ng pahinga,
kaysa talak ng pagliligpit.
Ang trend ng salted caramel everything
dahil mas mainam ang may konting alat.
Ang nakaligtaang lakad sa government offices
dahil mas kaakit-akit ang gumala.
Ang buhay **** salat sa kaayusan
dahil mas masarap ang makalat.

Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness

This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm

This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men

A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears

A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home

The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return

This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men

I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep

the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
*this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city

She's back at it again. The amount of her friends' impatience towards her psychotic thoughts can never be equated to her very own exhaustion of her entire being. She, for the nth time, wants to leave the world.

She slams the door real hard as she walks out the room, which she shares with her three roommates. She's out of the room as she's out of her mind. She seeks for a space where she can fit herself. The innocent fire exit has no choice but to accept again, the traitor tears, the unending complaints, and even the stomping on the floor and the punching on the wall. From her view on the 12th floor, the busy streets of G. Tolentino and Laong Laan distract her.

"I can't even understand myself, how am I supposed to comprehend this blur?" she's now even fighting with her alter-ego. Everything is a mess. Everything is blurred. She hates herself for being four-eyed. She has no choice but to go back to the room just to get her glasses with 200-175 grade. Now, everything is clear. Not as clear as her life is going, though, but, at least, she can now clearly see the chaos that is the city of Manila.

Her eyes walk through G. Tolentino and the bittersweet memories of the off-campus practicum come rushing through her mind. She would ride the jeepney from G. Tolentino-Laong Laan all the way to Casañas-Dapitan. From there, she would walk three blocks before she could reach the public school where she would teach ninth and tenth graders. She was glad because of the warm welcome of the students, and at the same time, mad, because of the horror of the reality in the public school — the politics among the faculty. She shrugged it off and just continued with what she was supposed to do.

After each shift, she would walk four blocks to reach the one-way street where she could ride the jeepney back to her area. She would alight at Delos Reyes Street so she could rest for a while in her unit. In-campus practicum's at 12:30 P.M. anyway, she thought.

And now she's back at the fire exit at the 12th floor. The rays of the sun almost blind her. She blames herself for abusing her eyes way back in her childhood years. Now, she can't enjoy the wonders of life without her nerdy glasses. She unconsciously moves her left foot away from the shade of the sun because of the trauma from last year. Two painful experiences race through her mind, as if it's a contest on which should be recalled first. Of course, the more painful wins — getting kicked out of an all-ladies dormitory, together with her girlfriend, because of their, obviously, ****** preferences. It still haunts her until now. The 2nd runner-up, on the other hand, is the less painful, and therefore, the consequence of the first painful experience — having to find another dormitory during broad daylight, because of course, nighttime in Manila is utterly dangerous.

Starting from Dos Castillas, they seemed like two meerkats digging a tunnel, finding for a place to live. Apparently, posting on Dorm Hunters in Facebook was not as good as literally going through the fires of all big streets combined — España, Lacson, Dapitan, and P. Noval. She was supposed to prepare for practicum, while her girlfriend was supposed to prepare for thesis, yet there they were, harrowing Manila because it seemed like a big head with strands of hair full of lice. After almost a week of searching for a place, they had finally settled to a totally different one from their previous dormitory.

And now she's back at the fire exit at the 12th floor. She hopes her roommates aren't there, but they are, so she has no choice but to calm down. Boy, was it difficult to calm down! She stares at the sun as it sets, until it is finally out of sight. A tiny object catches her attention —it is an airplane. An airplane which brings her yet again to another memory, and at the same time, encourages her on her dream to travel the world.

It was once again a competition on which should be set forth. Again, the more powerful wins — the memory of someone leaving. Way back in her childhood years, whenever she would see an airplane, she would envision them riding that airplane, and finally going back home. She grew up tired waiting. They eventually came home, but she didn't care anymore whether she would stay or she would leave again. News flash! She left again. And again. And again. Now it doesn't matter to her anymore whether they come home or not. She still loved them either way. She just stopped wondering, asking, questioning, and all the other synonyms of asking why.

The pain of that memory is so strong, she is excited to overcome it immediately with her dream of traveling the world. An imaginary globe appears right in front of her face. Several people of different races talk to her. Oh boy, was she excited! Oh yes, she is! She can't stop giggling from the thought of her travelling and speaking different languages.

With all these memories, she calms down and finally goes back to the room, where her roommates already fell asleep. The sultry from outside of the room gets forgotten because of the air conditioner, which calms her more. She goes up to her bed on the double deck and listens to worship songs to calm herself even more. She falls asleep so easily but her sleep gets interrupted right away. It's 7 'o clock in the evening and her roommates invite her to dinner. They decide to eat at McDonald's in P. Noval. She's still lost from the 'traveling' she did that afternoon. She's still not on her mind the entire dinner, until they return to their room.

She goes out of the room again, but not to stay at the fire exit, but to actually get some fresh air. Unfortunately, there is no fresh air in Manila. She notices how dangerous the streets in Manila are during nighttime. Although it is dangerous as well in daytime, the only difference is there is a sun. Different kinds of poor people are all over the streets of Manila and it haunts the hell out of her. It brings back the horrors and traumas from her past—being prone to accidents and misfortunes. She goes back to the fire exit and indulges herself to another reflection.

She went out to get some fresh air, but she only got her wounds fresh yet again.

She looks again at the view from the 12th floor and realizes how the streets around the campus of her university have been haunting her. She tries to overcome her fears with the good memories. This time, she wins. She, then, releases her emotions by writing everything. In this way, she thinks, she will be able to let go of everything. As soon as she finishes the last part, she runs out of words and decides to end everything —just like that.

She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:

“When will you be back?”

You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.

We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow

Apart.

Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.

We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:

“I’m right here”

“5 minutes”

passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.

The last time we smiled together
You told us:

“I am always here – a whisper away”

Only you are there

Not here.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)

The road was wet with rain
And they were sharing the same umbrella.
They were just about to cross the street,
While inside a jeepney I sat in pain;
Staring at the loading area,
Thinking that what have followed him were supposed to be my feet.

At some restaurant in a mall,
They sat, talked, and ate dinner.
They were together from afternoon 'til evening,
While I just came home after a stroll,
Thinking how much she was a winner
For having what I have always been wanting.

He says he had so much fun,
Going from places to places with her.
They had karaoke and then some.
I guess I could start shooting myself with a gun,
Than to tell myself I'm fine, and be a liar.
What is to lose, anyway? I have none.

I guess my role isn't really that good.
I thought being his girl is one thing I wouldn't trade.
But it seems like their roles are better than mine.
They are the ones who can make his mood.
I guess I'd rather be his comrade,
Than to be his girl; for which he has no time.

If I were a greek goddess,
Then I must be Hera;
And he must be Zeus.
I'm jealous, I confess;
Of all the women he was with this era.
I'm the one he loves, but I wonder how long can I be his muse.

if i sit on the fourth step of our staircase, i can look through the window and watch the street outside. this waiting game has always frustrated me; my knees buckle underneath me every time someone walks past our rust-encrusted gate. i can feel the anticipation weighing heavy on my chest with every glimpse of a shoe or a shirt only to have my nerves unravel once i realize they look absolutely nothing like you;

every stranger that walks by is just another soul that wasn't yours.

i use numbers as my ultimatums. this is the third person who has walked by that isn't you; two more, and i swear, i'll go back to my room and write and chat with other people and watch youtube videos and try not to think of you even though my fingers are itching to pull at my door **** (just one more look). i count ten vehicles that pass before stalking back in to my room, only to peek out of my door to check the streets again minutes later;

every jeepney that doesn't stop is just another car that you weren't in.

i welcome distractions that send me moving around the house. to wash the dishes, get my dad snacks, fake going to the bathroom, check on my brother, nibble on some leftovers in the refrigerator. as long as i have my little disturbances i feel like time's moving faster, but then i find myself pausing by my front door and wondering when you might come knocking or if you'll even come knocking at all;

every minute that you're not here is just another sixty seconds to spend thinking of you.

The wall is a universe stuck in inertia waiting to explode and
no one minds.
My underwear is white and full of **** and
no one minds.
The lamp-posts lit a show of dancing dust, the ticket’s free and
no one minds.
A boy thought that the moon looks sad tonight but his mother
does not mind.
A jeepney driver drives so fast he
lost his mind.
This is the tenth line of the poem and
everyone forgot
that there is a wall and it just exploded.
The ruins of the wall stood like a poem.
Oh, never mind.

(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.

as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness

in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come

they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts

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.

out of a smoking jeepney,
walking through this street,
half of which was silence,
yet when nearing the light,
small clouds of darkness live,
from the hush-and-puff mouths
(like whispered howls of cold wolves)
of the dying disciples of light.

there,
among the littlest stars,
held by minute nebulae,
you i saw.
how do i love thee?
i can never count the ways.

passing this alley,
there,
you i saw,
yet not you i,
how will you love me?
*there are ways, yet for i, thou have none.

.              You do not know my name, or maybe you do. Either way, I do not know yours, too. I may have met you already. Maybe our shadows have already crossed. Maybe I know you so well, yet I have not a hint that it is you. You may be the person that sat beside me on the long, long 'couch' of a jeepney or that girl that dropped her hanky inside the bus on its aisle. You may be my classmate; my neighbor, perhaps. My friend. My friend's friend. Or the cousin of my friend's friend that once set my heart a galloping horse but I then realized - laughed at myself, even - that I was such a foolish dolt to feel that way and utterly air-headed to believe  it, so I 'ended everything between us'.

               I may have seen you already, taken a good look at your face - your eyes having no sparkles and the fireflies in my stomach asleep being the only difference. You may have liked me or even 'fell' for my stupid smile and I had no idea at all.  So I apologize if my apathy made your heart numb or my blindness shattered you.

               Away from these hundreds or maybe even thousands of possibilities and ineluctabilities;  the chances of me already meeting you and not knowing that it was you; all I ask is your love abided by the love from the skies. Love, not affection nor attraction, nor any of the temporal abstracts. A four-letter piece-of-cake-to-spell word, yet too involuted to be brought to living definition. Love, my dear, and fidelity is what I ask.

               I long to see you, know you. To be stifled by the fragrance of your hair, know the color of your eyes; to be deafened by your voice in its saccharinity, watch how those delicate eyelashes of yours lay gently on your cheeks as you close your eyes upon sleeping.

               Life is a book wherein the plot depends on how the protagonist writes it. Tell me how many more pages would it take for me to get to our chapter 'cause darling, I swear I would skip even a hundred or two. If only I can, and if only you can. But apparently, I'm stuck in this chapter called 'present'.



**Sincerely,
Your present Future

i witnessed a burglary today.

kids were seating at the back side of the jeepney
***** feet hanging,
snot running down their noses
the one beside me says,
“these kids will be thieves one day.”
and i look at these
little mud-eyed ones
filled with silent anger
and confusion.

if this is how we cast them
how could they change something
that was molded in stone for them?

we are responsible for the next generation
and yet we rob these children
a chance to create their own identity
and blame them for things
we should’ve
done
something
about.

I wash away words like dead flakes of skin up to night, from morning. I am made of them. Like a cup left under a tap, I have become full and started spilling over all the drops I wasn't built the capacity to hold. I pity these words for they have nowhere to go.

I spit them out like I've eaten something disgusting and they attach to my saliva like it was glue. The listerine washes them from my mouth every morning when I brush my teeth. The way they swirl down the drain when I shower mesmerizes me as I watch them go down one by one until I am clean. Even then, I have no idea how many more get blown away by the wind or get lost in the flurry of small movements.

I really should find a way to make them more permanent, but I don't. I write them down in the air above me head, the plastic jeepney seat, and on the skin of people I touch. Lucky are those words that are written for at least they have a home where they are recorded, remembered and immortalized. They're so unlike my words that die unheard and unsaid.

With all these words I've wasted, I could have written a masterpiece. Perhaps I have. I'll never know. I have never written them down.

ala-singko ng umaga. nakakabingi ang katahimikan ng pagsikat ng araw. walang tigil ang pagtakbo ng oras at tulad ng araw, nagsimula nanaman ang pangkaraniwang siklo ng buhay. patungo sa sintang paaralan na ang bawat yapak ay parang timbang ng daigdig na nakalubog sa aking mga balikat. hindi kayang buhatin kahit pa ng buong mundo sapagkat ako'y nag-iisa sa paglalakbay patungong españa.

sa bawat sulok ng maynila at mga kwento sa mga kalsadang ito, may mga paalala ng mga biyaheng hindi pa nararating at mga pangarap na patuloy hinahanap. sa kanto ng españa't lacson, sa kabila ng paghahanap at pag-asa, hindi natagpuan ang isa't isa. sa magkabilang sulok ng noval at dapitan, ang iyong mga imahe ay tila mga alaala na nakaukit sa pinakaloob ng aking isipan, kumakatok nang palaging handang buksan ang pintuan. bawat hakbang ko ay may kabigha-bighani **** presensya, subalit ang hinahanap kong pagtatagpo ay patuloy na umiwas sa akin, nag-iwan ng hinagpis at naglakbay nang walang direksyon.

"manong para po" ang aking bulong sa jeepney drayber na parang tinik na dumadaloy sa aking lalamunan, humihila at humihila sa mga alaala na tila mga bagyong dumaraan sa aking isipan. bawat sinag ng araw, bawat hagupit ng hampas ng hangin, ay parang himagsik ng damdamin na hindi ko maitago.

sa bawat kanto paikot ng españa, naroon ang mga multo ng ating nakaraan. mga anino ng mga alaala na hindi ko matakasan at sa bawat pagtatanong mo kung may pag-asa pa ba, ang bawat sagot ko ay tila mga punyal na tumatagos sa aking kalooban, nagsasabing wala nang dahilan para muling mangarap.ayaw ko nang lumakad sa landas ng nakaraan, na puno ng  mga bakas na minsan tayo'y nagtahup na patuloy na bumabalik at sumisira sa isipan.

at sa wakas, narito na ako sa dulo ng aking paglalakbay, ngunit ang landas na tinahak ay tila isang malawak na dagat, hindi alintana kung gaano karaming bagyo at baha ang dinaanan. at kung tatanungin mo ako kung pu-puwede pa ba, ang hihilingin ko sa iyo ay mga barya papalayo sa'yo. ayaw ko nang malunod sa unang daan na puno ng kahapon at mga alaalang tila multong ayaw umahon.

at sa bawat paghakbang ko patungo sa hinaharap, ang iyong alaala ay parang banta na nagbubulag-bulagan sa akin tuwing naglalakbay ako. nakakapangilabot. mahal pa rin kita. mahal pa rin pala kita.

hindi na kasingpait ng dati.
pero mahal, masakit pa.

I am also on tumblr at: paleredevil.tumblr.com

It’s strange. It’s so easy to be happy for someone else. Deep down, my senses grant well-wishes to every happy couple that roams the earth on this blessed day with the utmost sincerity one could muster. Today, I saw a man buying flowers, the expensive kind with the colorful textured wrapping. The petals looked vibrant, the leaves shone stiff and green when the sun peppered it with brightness. It was clean and beautiful, a stark contrast to the man who was holding them who was scruffy and had grime on his face. The clothes he wore had much wear on them and he was wearing a very old pair of slippers and yet, the smile he wore when the florist exchanged the goods with him was only full of happiness and pride. He held the bouquet close, and had to take a jeepney home from the spare change he counted in his hand. As a person who knew flowers on this day was a valuable commodity, that bouquet could not have been cheap and yet he took the time and money to buy it anyway. People milling about the flower shops were really an odd bunch. There were boys from high school, awkward and shy, buying roses. There were “bad boys” who chose the yellow chrysanthemums and hid their blushes when their friends teased them. The air was full of the scent of greenery and an optimism that no amount of car exhaust could overcome. Weather girlfriend, wife, mistress, or lover…. at least I knew these men remembered flowers.

after the hours of supper,
the heavy night tight
with the silence of human
bodies packed like sardines
in the can of a jeepney.

stopping somewhere in Bularan
a man and his little boy, or grandchild
asked forgiveness from the passengers
as if it was a sin to share the ride.

the passengers began to move;
squirming as if earthworms
crawling, or crawled on their skin,
even the pretty lady in front of me
suddenly shrivelled into ugly.

i could not know or sense it then:
from the kitchen furnace of the sun,
the aroma of salt and sweat
sautéed and stewed in their bodies,
the recipe of their daily fish
until it snaked itself into my nose
i confess i nearly choked.

and at that moment
i am reminded, like a fool
with a smile on my face,
grateful for the price they paid
so i may savour my favourite
feast of dried fish.

this tired militia of existence.
the burlesque jeepney stallions
   its metal anatomy. its belch-***,
its slur of alloy clanging like hundreds
  of men for tacks buried deep
    by a cornucopia of strikes –

thus is the heart, a boy in his seventh year
  dragging along a kite;
the soul is a bus ticket torn by the conductor,
  thrown away into Novaliches.

to wish it true, its gliding silk
  of air – it was only beginning

when people meant we are finished,
  we were only just starting

tonight as the night wills it, a boy

   fishes for brine in the shallows of dream
padding the small of his back
with a hunt of green: his equal self.

   the day, loose in the wind, perfect as perfect
   can be,
   yet still not quite, like when mother said
   the light dies, its low wattage in the hour,
   the prize of the candid moment: dimmed. darkled.

Why not look through the glass instead of looking at the raindrops on the window?
I wondered.
It rained yesterday.
I was on the passenger seat of a jeepney looking at the raindrops on the window, on my way home.
It is not usually like this. I don't usually think of the rain as a bane to my existence or as an obstruction to my path.
I think of it as a beautiful lyricless song that one would usually play on repeat, the words would unconsciously form inside your mind, your heart making a lyrics of its own.
Because the heart usually knows something that the brain knows nothing of.
But yesterday was different.
I looked at the rearview mirror and saw the passengers at the back.
One was holding a phone, talking in a hushed voice,  another passenger was looking at me intently through the mirror, and the others were looking outside- perhaps, eager to go home or reliving their day just as I was.
Perhaps, it was because of my day.
How it went.
How I went to school and felt empty.
How everything felt meaningless the moment I heard that the person who used to be my friend didn't extend the same courtesy I would have given her by saying directly to my face what she wanted to say instead of going behind my back.
Coward.
But I, a fool.
Perhaps it was that.
Or maybe it was when I shared my problems to someone
And asked him to show me the brighter side of the picture
But he showed me how I was the dark picture, instead.
I, a fool.
Perhaps it was that.
Or perhaps it was when I decided to write a novel
But when I held the pen
It felt unfamiliar
Beneath my fingers.
Perhaps it was that.
Or the days that I have punished myself by remembering him.
Perhaps it was that.
Perhaps it was not the rain.
Perhaps it was the way I looked at the raindrops on the window instead of looking through the glass.

It was nice talking about my future plans with my parents. I really didn't expect that they'd give me the most enlightening advice and realizations. They made me understood the consequences I might come up to that I have never even thought of when I transfer to another school as a senior high school student because all I thought of was that I'll be left behind if I stay and my friends would still be together in another school. All I thought of was them. All I thought of was you. But then, my dad told me that we're all going to part. It might be sad and painful to think, but we really have to end up going to separate ways. We'll be on our own. It's an individual battle. The only positivity that came up was that we'll be meeting each other again in the reunion. High school is really the most joyous stage of the education process and parting from the people I got attached to is a normal thing to be miserable about. I'm slowly starting to accept the fact. And from the past weeks that I’ve been hit by depression, all I focused and I’m focusing to do up until now  is to treasure the moments that I am with them because there’s really nothing I can do. I am not in control of their life and the reason why they decided on their choice was that it was also for the good of them. People really do come and go. That’s life and the least and best thing I can do is to be happy for them.

Before that moment when I finally understood my parents’ point, there were times when I cried myself to sleep while I talked to God in my mind for 4 consecutive nights and resentfully asked Him, “Why?” I cried at school. I cried in the jeepney. I cried and no one really knew why. And it’s really a traumatic thought because the only reason I cried was because of them. That it hurts like hell to let them go because actually, I’ve really planned to leave. I started to plan it when I was in my ninth grade. It’s just that I got so attached to people and that in the early months of my last year of junior high school, I decided to stay because I knew and they’ve said so, that they’d stay. Until it was just 3 months before the school year will end that they've changed their decisions and application forms were the only thing they’ve held ever since. They were happy, but in the contrary, I wasn't. I tried even if it took to pretend and fake my true possessive feeling about them leaving. And so, I got out of place because all they talked about was to leave and here I am now in the middle of distress. I chose to stay because I wanted to be with them and suddenly it’s like the world just turned upside down and I’m the one who was left in the air. I cried.

But most of it all, it’s just a heartbreaking news to know that you are part of them and it hurts that I cried a river and most of it was for your ocean. Lately have I perceived that there are a lot of rivers that leads to an ocean, not only one. Most of the reasons of the tears I’ve shed was because of you. You were the cause of my grief. You never knew. And perhaps, you’ll never know. I didn’t want to let you know because maybe, not that I'm being so presumptuous, but just maybe if you did, you’ll have to change your plans and that my emotions will drive you to the wrong path. I didn’t want that. That would mess you up. You’ll have regrets and you’ll be really upset when I have always wanted you to be happy. And so, I’ve set you free. I supported you and let you push through to what you really wanted even if seeing you leave would give me such a heartache. Until this time came when I cried, then paused to wonder and ask myself that if you were in my situation and I was in yours, would you cry for me to stay? Probably, you wouldn't. I know, but it’s like climbing a tree without any branch to accept it. The truth hit me so badly. But even though we are to part, I know that everything that happens now is in your hands and it's all for the sake of your future. I am sincerely happy for you. I have loved you and I always will.

And to everyone else, I have loved you too.
It’s really true that life doesn’t always go the way we planned it.

-an advance farewell to the people whom I got attached to and now I am to part with
and most specially to the greatest extent who once told me that I was
e x t r a o r d i n a r y,

h i m.

Under the train station from across the road
one musty midnight after a late dinner, I saw him.
He was alone. He watched jeepneys pass by. He
stared at the road. He remained still when
the other workers walked past him.
He held a 7-up or maybe a Mountain Dew
by the bottleneck & brought it to his lips to drink.
He was sitting on a stool too small for him
& so his legs were spread open.
He put his free hand on his knee, in between
fingers an almost finished cigarette.
His work suspenders glowed under the
plastic fluorescent light of Althea’s burger shop,
& beneath he wore a red shirt that
fastened his torso tight. When it was time to
ride my jeepney home, I looked at him for a moment
before getting on, & it could be that
he looked right back. When we
moved forward I tried looking again
but saw he was looking somewhere else.

Manila, 2018