there was once a poem about a tree
but rhythm never captured the mystery

of a humble gourd they named sayote,
which strangles beams like an olden garrote

embracing the contours of a wire netting
only yielding at the sight of poles swinging

and then that playful banter
with the famed tree by Kilmer

is there really anything as lovely
as poetry made for the tree?

a fool may know the answer
while the poor man will have his supper

never have I had this.

this hunger for air,

as if it was the food drop

that never came-

refugees in line-

undefeated,

Only I.

my breathing deep,

grim in immensity

of all that is inside.

I fall on my knees,

palms towards me,

like a solemn raka’ah,

then I remember.

there is a buzz of revolution,
one that does not spill blood,
nor cause betrayal
... to the nation’s cry for freedom,
but a new kind-
a celebration of the day
when a marching band plays
a clutter of dogma and dissent,
boom, boom, and boom---
a little girl holds her skirt,
dances in circles,
adjoined little circles,
two at a time,
before jumping on
to leave a fantasy impression
of eternity on the ground.

everything is now familiar,

a fine line is drawn over an outline,

let’s see---

the quick brush now feels like

the touch of the passenger’s listlessness

as I hand over her change,

or that faded road sign-

it stands there

in the same indignation

as that of the lost man,

oh well, it is after all just a hint,

a modest clue. a needless caveat,

of things lesser than that which

when given the chance to clear up,

everything comes back to a blur.

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the shortest moment --

out of which I learned

a great lesson of truth

about living intensely,

insanely,

sometimes disgracefully,

and of which I shall forever try

to forget how to look beyond

harrowing eyes

and into the soul

of a person who may have endured

the same battles,

the same triumphs and losses,

the parody of one’s childish ambitions,

but may not be as miserable

as the one I see

whenever I lift the curtains up

before the sun is fully visible,

the other side of the glass window

still a looming dark --

outlives its vessel.

 

Time does get you on the run.

Soon as I hit the mark,

I feel my body screaming.

Particles that poison

the walls of my air pipe

have now been the new masters

of what is to be the day's ruling.

So I put on my shoes,

start running, even skipping

two steps of the stairs

down the metro station

to chase the scent of Manila Bay,

against the traffic of Kalaw.

and a national hero stares

at the glowing rear of my sneakers

and at a nearby hand grabbing 

the rear end of an underaged woman.

Rizal has frightened eyes of stone,

filling out the hollow sockets

where jacketed bullets had once passed.

Oh Luneta, how deviant you have become!

I must run- run down the stretch

of the famed Boulevard

that hosts multicoloured lamp posts.

Short of intended functionality,

they serve as a statement

of how a few have confused history-

writing a textbook and splotching its pages

with green ink, yellow and pink,

and don't forget blue.

-the talented hands of dyslexia

and the always amazing adhd.

 Well just look at that dog,

marking the base of one post,

reclaiming his territory which I will avoid,

sprinting now.

A kid on a skateboard,

a couple in sauna suits,

and a family scrounging for food.

An old man and his fishing rod,

a writer and his monument,

a police officer and his piss against a wall.

How fun life is as I run by it.

Then I always stop to catch my breath

and a cab to take me home.

 

So now I ask myself. again.

Why walk the line?

Doesn't ‘now’ deserve to be

put off to 'tomorrow' or… 'never'?

The feeling is familiar,

I know I felt it one day

as I crossed a tunnel

near the substation

where the soothing buzz

of the transmission hubs

dozed me off on my feet.

And the truck almost had me.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

And it still isn't.

The world seems to turn a little bit faster,

racing against the beating of my heart,

throbbing against the little amulet I wear

around my neck.

A person wounds me,

nails me to a wall,

even forgets about the contract

we never signed.

And another person does it all over again.

from the act of muttering

the most cutting invective,

to the literal lifting of a knife,

firmly held by that moment

when the brusque blowing

of a south-bound wind

evidently became a part

of the weight that crushed my lungs

to bits of charred organ. where I have

gone wrong. or have I?

Is it the doubt?

Or the honest questions I throw

at the ceiling, pretending someone up there

listens to the shameful confessions

that are draped in lies, or just some?

I guess I am the last person to fulfil a mission,

regardless of that edict by the self.

I kid myself every time. and all the time.

Because I walk the line. only a crooked line.

I dare you, my brown-skinned compatriot

to bow your head, eyes on the ground

whilst your foe kindles a riot

tramps his feet, chafed dagger unbound.

tin waves of his blade are tides

that break against the face of a precipice,

slashing the sinews of heart and hide.

hear me! that is proper apotheosis.

 

then when the world starts to weep

as fast as a Bedouin pitches his tent,

the enemy honors his guests, lets them sleep,

only wakens them as they are to repent.

by then, you have been forsaken.

the enemy is our new patrón.

his blood runs deep in your kin,

declares himself a martyr and a proud ladrón.

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her name, Marahui.

her child, Amai.

a portrait, poised on the wall,

captured the richness of their story,

their heritage, their land, or this dwelling-

her foremothers called mala-a-walay.

the house reeked of durian and marang,

of cracked shells from a chicken,

as colourful as the Sarimanok,

of dead relatives swathed in white

buried in nothing but loose soil.

but times had changed.

her cousins brought news-

news of the white man,

wearing six golden crosses,

around his neck,

around four fat fingers,

and around his head,

on a black biretta.

her cousins fled their farmland

in the plains of Tubod

fearing for their lives,

or afterlives.

so the nights had grown shorter.

the rain, the only guest

they received after dusk.

their limbs cold, rainwater trickled

down their thighs,

their inner thighs.

ablution, more than symbolic,

they complied with,

without a shiver.

they wiped their faces

both rapt with fatigue.

certainly, not even debility

could get in the way

of the day’s last Salah.

she put on her abaya,

and the malong on Amai.

leading the prayer,

she uttered words she did not understand

shed a tear

then Aisha was over.

the day was over.

but her obligations that came with it- not yet.

the last one, to sing him to sleep.

Amai saw a dream.

Marahui did not.

she did not sleep,

not lately-

only watched over Amai,

whom she had seen dead

in a dream.

Amai was killed by Ramon Blanco,

a white man who put a bullet

through her son’s heart.