And in the end, the love you take is the love you make.

-The Beatles

Isa ito sa mga argumentong dapat lamang pagtalunan.
Dahil hindi lahat ng pag-ibig na binibigay mo ay nasusuklian.
Masarap lamang itong pakinggan.

Noong inibig mo ako,
Hindi. Mas tamang sabihin na
noong naisip **** iniibig mo na ako,
Ay mas pinili **** huwag magbigay ng buo.
Hindi ko alam sa'yo pero ikaw na ang pinaka-duwag na taong nakilala ko.

Naaalala ko noon ang mga sugat at pilat na naiwan niyang nakatatak at nakakabit sa mga braso mo.
Nakikita ko ang mga bakas ng mga hampas nya sa mga balikat mo.
Bawat kagat at kalmot at gasgas na ibinigay n'ya sa'yo,
Sa mga pagkakataon na akala mo wala lang,
Naramdaman ko.
Pinaramdam mo silang lahat sa akin.

Anghirap palang pilitin na bumuo nang puso na ayaw magpabuo sa'yo.
Hindi ko din kasi alam dati na kailangan, ang kagustuhang maghilom,
Manggaling sa kanya mismo.

Pinilit kong pagtagpi-tagpiin ang mga piraso **** nakakalat sa sahig mula nang binitiwan ka n'ya.
Sinubukan kong gamutin ang lahat ng sakit na nagpapanatili sa iyong gising sa alas-tres ng umaga.
Pinili kong mahulog sa iyo kahit alam kong mas malabo pa sa tubig ng Ilog Pasig ang pag-asa
Na maisip **** sa iyo lang ako.
Iyong-iyo lang ako.

May mga pagkakataon na nakikita ng ibang tao ang mga pagbabago na akala nila ay ako ang dahilan pero ang hindi nila alam,
Sa dami at haba ng mga sakit na iyong naramdaman,
Natuto ka lamang na itago silang lahat sa loob mo.
Na sa kahit na anong oras, pwede silang lahat lumabas at lamunin na lang ako ng buo.
Oo.
Ako.
Dahil mas pinili kong lumapit sa'yo.
Iyong-iyo lang ako.

May mga pagkakataon na gusto kong isipin
Na ang bagong taginting ng mga tawa mo ay dahil sa akin.
Na ang mga panaginip mo kapag ikaw ay mahimbing, ako ang laman.
Na ang mga pangarap mo sa hinaharap ay ako ang hiling.
At ang bawat pulso mo ay para sa akin lamang.
Dahil sa iyo lang ako.
Iyong-iyo lang ako.

Pero hindi.
Dahil andami mo nang natutunang paraan para magtago.
Napakadami na ng mga pagkakataon na sinayang mo.

Ang akala mo, lahat ng pagkabigo mo sa pag-ibig dati
Ay natulungan kang maging mas malakas, mas matatag, mas matalino.
Pero hindi.
Dahil papasok sa isang bagong pag-ibig ay tinangay mo lahat ng galit.
Iniwan mo ang mga aral na natutunan mo maliban sa "Ang pag-ibig ay hindi dapat pagkatiwalaan."
Ang tanging bagay na hinahabol mo, na pinipilit **** makuha,
Na pinipilit mo dating kapitan kahit na wala na,
Ang bagay na akala mo ay lubos sa iyong magpapasaya,
Tinitignan mo na may pagdududa ang iyong mga mata.
At unti-unti kang nabulag.
At hindi mo nakita ang pagibig na nasa harap mo na.
Lumipad at nawala.

Hindi bulag ang pag-ibig.
Bulag ang mga taong pinipilit tumingin sa araw dahil gusto nilang makakita ng liwanag ngunit ayaw alisin ang kanilang mga de-kolor na antipara.

Wala kang natutunan sa nakaraan.
Hindi ka nga nasasaktan.
Hindi mo naman mahagilap ang tunay **** kaligayahan.

J.R. said the man in the helmet said, “Goodbye, my friend,” before shooting his father in the chest. His body sank, but the man shot him twice more, in the head and cheeks. The children said the three men were laughing as they left.*
-Daniel Berehulak, They Are Slaughtering Us Like Animals, New York Times

Manila, goodnight.
The world is watching you slowly die.
Tattered truths & losing sense of life
captivate your battered night. Mud hurls blood
streets batted with horror & blabbed
anonymous spirits ghostlier than ever.

(Even ghostlier than your Martial Law days)

Manila, tranquilize yourself.

Your rest will be disturbed by scourged souls, thunderous cracks of guns,
bullets hitting flesh, motorcycle tandem arrests,
people’s holy shouts shunning shibboleth sounding death.

Hear them not. Sleep well.

Maggots festering wound. Manila,
on your knees, worms stich your broken nerves
healing gunshot wounds with peace.

Your night will be a train of madness
shattered by lies through morbid holes in skulls
& confessions in cardboard signs.

(Justice today is served cold, so cold)

& everything from that day on is simply to be known
as a cold just.

Truth decays. Life smolders, vanishing.

Your nights will be unthreaded from memories
for no one dares to look back to twisted arms clenched
by plastic strips, head bowing to ground (instead of ground
bowing to head), ground kissing the body naked swarmed
either by grease or blood, the body breaking gossips
among gossipers & gossamer among spiders.

Weep not, dead men tell no fiction.
Their bodies are the shocking truth, forsaken
shocking headlines hissing morning papers
peppered with mint or lies.

Manila, goodnight for your night will be remembered
through vigilant myths & nothing more.

Often cold bodies, freezing voices from limbo,
can’t speak nor bothered the living.

Again, Manila, in your arms, dead men tell no tales.

The killing spree of fragmented morality,
mortality, fatality, vanity, sanity, insanity, apathy.

Manila, do not move. You are now sedated with fear,
stronger than cooked methamphetamine of crooked realities,
no less than a drug making your anxious, bothered
in the darker & dimmer night
in dimmer  & darker disaster.

Manila, walk with your graffiti walls.
Your gutters will be banks of blood. Daylight traffic
will erase your night’s unwelcoming sphere. Last night
persists as tiny figment of imaginings photographed
& again, nothing more.

Everything will pass like hyacinths of Pasig River.

Everything will pass like one’s eternal passing.

Everything will pass like a chilling December wind.

Everything will pass either a typhoon or a butterfly fluttering.

Manila, goodnight. I am afraid they will ****** you
in your sleep. I am afraid that everything will just pass
like your breath losing hold of your lungs then your heart.

I am afraid that your death, my dear Manila,
will just be a neighbourhood rumour passing
& everything turns into a fiasco of a madman who believes
that he is a messiah, was he a messiah or never he will be a messiah.

Manila goodnight, I will watch you in your sleep. Your sleep
will be a thousand fold peace. No more of your sons or daughters
will be killed at least not in my memory.

Manila, here comes the night. Sleep,
sleep holy in the hidden lair of my mind. Your
catacomb will be wreathed by flowers & tears.
Incense will be fragrant burning bones. Your life,
your tired life will be a gentle ebbing of time
like your Bay’s sunset beauty, like your lively street people
like your once known heritage, your life
in the busy daybreak of your kindred sons.

Goodnight, my dear Manila.

The squalid honey of this urban hive
that sways and quivers in Escolta's arms
assaulting viscous currents, I've survived
to witness time dissolve in waters warm.
     When monsoon whispers calmed the fev'rish night,
hyacinths surren'dring to kundíman songs
seduced I was to words meant to ignite
another's lust. But still 'tis I that long
     In time, desire has rotten into liquor
and putrid nectar spoiled in unloved lips--
this rancor that I spit into this river
to curse the farewell of your westward ship
     and centuries have passed, yet here I bathe
Manila's vein that bursts with restless hate

i.

the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like

us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.

ii. (at the dinner table)

there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down

back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn

and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs

and the japanese

iii.

my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****

city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they

used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.

your grandfather and his grandfather and i

iv.

awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew

up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts

and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.

v. (back at the dinner table)

i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,

preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:

“pa,”
“ma,”

v.

it is not cowboys that give us our names.

It should’ve been Bagan –
she always loved Bagan,
Myanmar.

look, woman.
I am a dog outside your home,
overwrought and disarmed,
hunting for bones.

inverse moon over Pasig
tonight and I am on
my 4th bottle of beer already,

barking without teeth.
raged behind the typewriter
with nothing but a visibly

veiled waiting
this stance so
obscure,
so absurd
like the abrupt life
of candle-flame.

I was the lover
and you cared for flame:
now the fire is dead
and there is nothing left
for the sea to lambast,
erased by the shores of feel.

symphonies out on the streets
like leprous children scrunched deep in
the mire of the streets for alms.

it is now my 5th bottle
and I **** on the stone-gnome
in my mother’s lawn
and she will know of the reek
of this pungent disbelief – scorn me for
my heavy drinking

but what is a man to do
when he
is as destroyed
as

the morning

outside?

river run like a song.
watch the joy
leak from the wells
in your eyes,
and let it spill over like
ink and write
the pages of your story
in the history books
of heaven: oh,

you will be remembered.
you will be remembered.

an amalgamation
of all the blood that
runs through you:
the pasig,
the yangtze,
the pacific,
the sewers of manila,
john the baptist's,
tracing down your cheeks
and down your throat and
slowly you begin to choke:

the saltwater sticks to your
throat. you do nothing
but breathe,
breathe slowly and
try not to choke
but slowly swallow
the birthrights
that remain river
run,

river run
and remember
where you came from.