lunod
10/4/08*
Tuesday,
let me mourn for those
in the fields, browned by the sun.
let me cry for those bodies
I let my hands fumble my curiosity with,
let me hold sea urchins and hurt for
those places where I left them
Wednesday,
A school of fish will run around me
in circles, ask me about my legs,
my breasts, my thighs, my pubic hair,
and why I look like those men with cigarettes
throwing dynamites.
Thursday,
Picking dead shells for the most alive person
I have met up there, a soul which held mine
from that very day I listened to the willows
sway, margining the runway.
Friday,
The mermaids will comb my hair and tell me
stories about humans they have
fallen in-love with
but have
all chosen to forget.
Behind the rocks, they hid
as the salt on their cheeks mimicked
the taste of their eyes.
Saturday,
The ghosts from the sunken ship will write
letters for their families, for their mothers waiting by the door,
for their fathers in umba-umbas, sleeping with memories of 1994,
for their children and the paper boats they lick and fold,
for the next years that never came, for the deaths that did not
end with engraved names and carabao grasses.
Sunday,
A hand will pull me up from the ocean,
a wounded palm that smelt gas,
broken oil lamps
and years of waiting
.
amlig
10/2/08*
and that everywhere
may be
such place:
hay
is much much beautiful
than the ricefields.
she swore to take
photos while the bus
pauses and the driver
pees on the bark of
a tree.
and when the ride
moves forward,
she runs backward
there, to drunken
memories
breaking bars
with her teeth,
coiling so cold inside a giant basin
as people threw to her
ice cubes and ice blocks
from the outside.
but one night,
just a look at the stars
melted everything
and the lilies swarmed
as she sailed kissing
the blue blue sky,
tipsy.
* for you who introduced elliott to me and for ♥↑↓♥
.
dangat
09/30/08*
the sound of after-rain holes lasts until the next sunny Sunday…
he captures eternal beauty, he wrote me once
You want
to run ashore
with
life
in a year
without
a
summer
*
you could have
spent all lost Christmases
with your family
between the hills
and the streams,
in the middle
of a home with
peeled off
paint.
*
sometimes,
a day is all about you,
your bitten fingernails
and crumbed left-over
of all those that are
g o n e.
*
oftentimes,
we drive for weeks,
we drive for years,
with halved compasses
on our left hand
and a map on the right
pointing beside
nowhere, noname, nowhen
*
she keeps
small memories
that can shake mountains
but you
throw away
everything small
on your bare
hands, empty
soul.
*
perhaps,
what we are looking for
is somewhere
not here.
karanso
09/29/08*
you piss me off when i stain my shirt
and you laugh at me
“clumsy clumsy clumsy you!”
you piss me off when we agreed to meet
at 5 and you arrive at 6
because you wake up
late and you are at war with your alarm clock.
you piss me off when i wear high heels
and you grin at me, asking me
“what’s the occasion?”
you piss me more if i wear high heels and you
start tripping on me asking me to
walk with you downtown,
find your new vice,
sore my toes and demand from me
to walk faster because you don’t
want to go home late.
you piss me off when i catch you
playing with my underwear, giggling
“big sis, RED!!! REEDDD!!”
you piss me more when you call my
new boyfriend
by my ex’s name.
you piss me off by redudantly
reminding me
“you’re getting fatter and fatter”
you would even make some moon faces
and mess my hair up.
you piss me off when you lay your head
on my shoulder and you tell me
“god you’re so muscular. a boxer!”
you piss me off when you unwrap childhood
and show off my pictures, my bangs, my flower girl dress
and your pentel pen-drawn horns on my head.
you piss me off in those ways
but i am always looking forward to be with you
for all the other
cool crazy times.
and i love it most when you wipe my face when i am drunk,
you download all my favorite songs and lend me
your player without being too sweet with words,
you let me fix your collar and ask me what boxers to buy,
you remind me to bring an umbrealla because it has
been raining so hard
and you hold my hands
so tight when we have to cross
the highway.
*
something tawdry here. something erotic there.
.
dagunos
09/27/08*
Looking for When by: RT
with pruned fingertips,
I wrote a letter that I wanted to mail you
to say that you are the most confusing creature
to say that I am here in the middle of the raining city
and that I am reminded of being on the highest
slide at four years old,
I was crying to get off, to get off.
I was crying for Lolo to help me get off.
Get off.
Get
o
f
f
I pouted, played with the pen and wrote
PS, crossed it out after.
The glass walls did what
I wanted to do for
I was too
cold. Too cold. You made me cold.
I dove my face on the paper,
when I rose, a man in Che Guevarra shirt
boastfully handed me his cellphone
“happy people scare me, you look like my soul mate
i’ll call you”
I typed 09157341135
his face was a canvass, his hands felt like aquarium.
days before today,
my sister complained
“a guy with trombone voice and hot air balloon vocabulary
insists that I am his soul mate because I wore tie-dyed last Tuesday
and that I wrote on table napkins.”
I smiled at her, took off my bra under my old Guevarra shirt
and took a nap.
The Robot Has Got the Blues- Worm is Green
.
