*
october 25
7:01am
on a rock, under the sun
+
sometimes, there are beautiful little deaths
like sitting on a dead tree, sand-soaked.
bleeding my lips, kissing my kubing
and the waves sang,
solitude solitude solitude…
^
there are five white dogs
playing on the fine brown sand,
one with sagging breasts,
and the other four,
just …
oh well,
dogs.
*
sailboats look like deliberate leavings,
endless search for meals,
coming home from 10 years of drifting.
and today,
they look like birds that have migrated
and have tried
to swim.
#
i let my legs dangle
i let my skin burn a bit
and write names of fishermen i see
from afar:
Manolo
Jose
Pedring
~
it’s a morning like this
when i wake up to the sound of the fallen
ipil ipil branches
the smell of cogon huts
and the feel of the seasells
in my fist,
before i throw them one by one,
and memories
of us.
.
*
a day before…
pagong: “sis tingale ma OUT OF PLACE ko to sa BACOLOD”
tinay: “indi ta ka pag pabay-an, manghod. pakilala ta ka sa mga chixx.”
that very day…
a haiku
dear so-called friendship,
you are super very true
ps. orocan
:D
*salamat INTEL. tani magdayunay kamo. boto gid ko!
.
*
my honor to share to you our preparations for our benefit show
these are are the musikeros and manugsaut of SINGGIT,
a circle of young flaming hearts.
moments that make me feel sixteen. again. hehe.
on the 1st of November, TIGKALALAG, we will share our passion so that soon, we will bring MUSIC and ARTS for free in a community of little dreamers wanting to be like us someday
…EVEN BETTER.
not necessarily to be the best among their age
but to be the best
of
who they really are
from within.
.
ps
lupig ko sa akon kahon nga si ALINDOG
damo nagtsansing sa iya nga itlog. haha.
*
The worst thing about poetry is that if you say you are a poet, no one takes you seriously for the rest of the night.
Ungas makes me feel like Tina Paner ever
and yes,
that’s why I always dig people who call me in the most humiliating,
discriminating way but still read every piece of crap that i write and
the way they paste their hands on their cheeks, take their eyeglasses off, grin and shake their heads in sheer awe or filth-coated discomfort.
a little interview for a little something:
Tell us about your poems.
They are hobos attending a Lit Class. They have testis. They are the view of the sea from the rooftops. They are exaggerated unachieved pasts. They are me but way bolder and more honester (yes double comparative, honey). They are it-begins-to-rain. They are sadness trapped in a happy girl with polka-dotted skirt.
How long have you been writing?
I wrote diaries since my mother sent me “cute” journals. My sister used to steal them and read the name of my crushes out loud. I used to like a studio photographer in my little town. No wonder, I had so many ID pictures. 1×1, 2×2…sometimes I conclude answers in a non-sense demeanor.
What do you think is your biggest poetic achievement to date?
Writing an oratorical piece that sounded like a poem, drunk. Very drunk from the prom. I guess the judges picked my work over those that were written by English professors because my erasures were poetic. The grammar errors were like Dickinson’s pee with seashell floaters.
What’s the best thing about writing poetry?
You can always save your goddamn English and leave readers thinking that you kick ass. Seriously, it’s more of the soul than the skin.
Got any suggestions for young, upcoming poets?
Read others’ writings. Others do not exclude daily people, an emo boy’s journal, a mother’s snail mails, a resignation letter, a death threat, the mushiest love letter to ever hit the mailbox and ever hit the postman’s fingertips in an ever giddy sunny day, a pupil’s “ang aking pinakamatalik na kaibigan” and so on. Listen to music. Stop pretending. Stop impressing too much. Chop your prose and call it poetry. Who cares. Breathe and spill.
Who/what influences your poetry?
It all begins here “.”
.
*
because the scabs have fallen
and
our new tiny hearts can be broken,
but we don’t care as long as
“nobody knows it, but you got a secret smile and you use it only for me…”
♥
for someone whose life has been so full of staying at the background, scarred,
it is a blessing that someone else who has so much love to give, so much passion for being alive,
so much laughter and mended brokenness to share,
holds the hand,
holds the world with tender palms.
for someone who has been less appreciated and has prostituted the heart for staying
it is an eternal gift that someone else can make everything easier
by being there beside you as millions of people
are busy finding their places under the sun.
funny how this world of movies, music, and the written talks about love
and fails to understand its real essence.
like a big big jail, there are billions of bruised realms around us but why is it that
most of us feel alone?
and this question that has been haunting me for years,
that has been falsely filled up with some strangers and guises
dies…
as i nap between treading the world with a heart that will never give up on loving,
and, meeting the monsters, hobos and beggars,
with you.
¤ yes. ¤
*for the streets of Bacolod, Nonon and Yowee,
and the rest of the other nomads and to Mic
for the Tina Paner and Madame Auring hirits.
.
*
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-
