*
full title: “A Christmas poem to all the most disappointing people I wish I could flush with something into the toilet bowl”
^
there are parrots all over,
you, you are eyelined and lipsticked
a parrot that talks to me not about the sea,
not about men
but about marrying a seaman.
(and i know why)
*
fixing her haltered top,
mr.not-so-long ago high school came near,
“you are ripe for the picking, do you know that?”
she gave him this queer glare, the kind that she only let go of
when:
* she’s feeling funny and drunk
*she’s overrated but flattered
and so the girl bought this odd-looking food and ate the messy way ever…
“handsome, young and brilliant 22-yr old people like you must study hard.”
the emphasis was on the last word.
and she walked backwards, pouted and turned around.
-
so everyone was telling me that you’re like this and like that
“what’s your greatest fantasy?”
“DANTE’S STAGES OF HELL IN DIVINE COMEDY. EXPERIENCE THOSE.”
“why hell? why not heaven (with me)?”
“HEAVEN? I’VE BEEN THERE.”
sometimes, the word everyone scares the shit out of me.
+
the season’s favorite line:
with this, we would like to solicit for any amount that could help our team
buy a new set of basketball uniform
(i bet they did not mention about the cases of beer)
sports confuse me.
you know, golf or gulp.
sports confuse me, especially that guy with great great biceps
smiling like a billboard with a shoutout:
“your next alkalde is so sportsminded. we will make this town the basketball capital of Iloilo
and save it from sinking.”
and they have named our festival, BAROTO SA LUTAC. by the way.
;
this is the month of Reunions.
“you know, si kwan got pregnant and they kwan in the kwan. ahay ah so kwaaaan!”
this is the month of Reunions.
“uy i heard you are working from this lalalalala. how much do you earn in a month?”
this is the month of Reunions.
“di ba RN na na sya, stuck man na sila, hahaha. mga kalolooy.mayo pa ko.”
this is the month of Reunions
and most of the time, i cannot find good reasons to attend. oftentimes,
i just bring something around that can make me more understanding,
less irritable. maybe i have to start collecting earwax starting hallooween.
+
the kids with tansan were outside their gate,
the Father switched the light off in their garage
because at 4 am, he is a levite. he needs beauty rest
for the misa de aguinaldo.
#
my kumare gave me this lacy t-back,
when i wore it last night, i realized
it was not a happy birthday.
but i love my kumare,
through so-ens
and triumphs.
~
so they were all telling me that
i looked stronger and hotter in my new do,
i was smiling and out of the blue,
i burped like an old ogre with chest hair and three balls.
i know, im such a disappointment
but
\
i could beat the score of my 9-year old sister now
in a PSP game
after 3 weeks of struggle.
.
*
“nang, mata ka na? may camera na ko, dasig, pityuran ta ka…”
)
in bed that night, i have the realization that my
birthday is nearing and soon i will have wanted to die
for half the time I’ve been alive.
(
I’ve been out there,
tearing down judgment and breaking ego,
because some girls just want to watch the world
burn.
(
And for every one wondering lonely in the market,
until a punk asks them their name,
there is another,
striding down the tunnels,
and getting ready to sing.
)
The majority of my life I never loved you out loud.
It all happened inside me, like a train wreck.
Like the first moment a newborn baby is unsaddled
and wondered at. It was like
that.
Both menacing, tragic–
and miraculously precious.
I always save the nicest part for last, have you noticed?
I do that because I think somewhere deep and resounding inside me I know,
without a doubt, that it is going to be okay. One day I will love you in peace,
not
in p
i
e
c
e
s
(
one day, I will tie-dye every curtain in my hut.
I will cook flowers and paint the blankets with floral stain.
I will fly more and more kites, write unfinished songs,
Scream on hammocks because the crickets are noisy before the night.
One day, I will cry naked on the bamboo floor
Because someone will open the door and let me see
The starless night sky
“we are galaxies but we choose to leave and live. Here. Together.”
)
I have stories of a 48
A laughter of a 12
A heart of a soldier that never had dog tags but shone combat boots
A tight ass of a 24.
*
*salamat pakas G-boy sa pagpityur, ginpalipay mo ko*
salamat sa tanan nga nagpakadlaw kag nagpahibi sa akon
sa sulod sang baynte-kwatro ka tuig.
i am staying alive, humming on the bus.
.
*
he is everywhere, i see him on the sidewalks, near the bridges, he even pastes his face on the glass walls of every fast food chain. one day, i asked him to give me his improvised bongos in exchange of adoption. he gladly refused and told me that he’s happy on the streets.
The street lights are much beautiful this month. His eyes are like splattered sap of everything amethyst. i asked him to fall in line with me that Hwebes. We ate sundae outside a busy mall, a busy world. I was staring at his hands, they told me happy stories and the sound of coins. I was telling him jokes that we have the same complexion.and maybe, he can go home with me, we will play music together.
I remember Nanay whenever I talk to dreamy people. Other mothers used to tell me “my son/daughter was Nang Vivs scholar”. We are not rich, we have never been but Nanay never failed to remind us to open our palms for the world. and yes, when I see street musikeros, there is this magnet that moves me near them. maybe, they have taught me what happiness is amidst this world of titles, noise and the cold.
and so in a Lunes, I saw this right after I watched the seawater glistened with the firt rays of the sun, my heart skipped a beat and i missed breakfast without feeling starved (haha):
*
see you again, tikoy, my fellow sunog. ♥
.
*
those songs when we sit together and the sun sinks…
he quietly stares at the sketches on my wall and seduce the strings,
i pen and tap my toe, prick bubbles of jade and bleeding chimes…
we sing.
kite
(a soul searching)
shine
(a distant love)
rooftops cry
(a yearning)
wonderful mistake
(a grin and some balls)
.
*
dear you,
we are knocking on your hearts. SINGGIT SIRKULO sang PAMATAN-ON is having a mini-concert on the 22nd of December: “HUBLAG nga may KAWSA sa PASKWA”. this night is a fusion of modern and ethnic music and dances. we aim to build bridges, to let the youth appreciate our culture and heritage while enjoying the vibrance of modernity and age. since it’s a bit late for us to seek for your help, we would like to ask your support for our incoming projects. you can share your spare through the following:
* donate musical instruments (we are teaching kids how to make music, you can donate any musical instrument, be it ethnic, indigenous or improvised)
-thanks dan for your bongo and for collaborating with me composing our hymn-
* donate school materials (we would need them as we hold weekend free classes in puroks and barrios)
-thanks to junelle and breachelle for the school supplies and old clothes
* sponsor a SINGGIT award certificate/medal (we would be awarding SINGGIT members who are graduating next March)
* send us letters (our members would love to read your words of encouragement)
* help us publish our SINGGIT journal (we would be compiling our writers’ and visual artists’ works and have them printed)
* smile
you can contact us through: singgitsirkulo@gmail.com/patadyong@sigbin.com/09098768415
we’d be very happy if you’d miss a coffee session or an item in your shopping list for a little step in helping us to dream on
because we know, you are listening.
malipayon nga paskwa kag mahamungayaon nga bag-ong tuig sa inyo tanan ♥
.
*
she likes seashore naps and the view of everything from the bus window. she likes tiny moments and the small spaces between faces when people talk.
sometimes, she wakes up to that odd feeling of being a fallen leaf, an old tree, an azotea or a waitress somewhere-- talking to a taxicab driver about that random song on the radio.
*
---
---
and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
*
*
***
maddening spurt:
----------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
-Jack Kerouac-
