Appropriating Redemption.

What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,   
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,   
under unbearable duress and only with the hope   
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
-Ars Poetica, Czeslaw Milosz

October 18

It was exactly on a day like this when you came down from the sky. The clouds were grey, with a hint of orange, and some streaks of blue. There were pocket storms all over you, there were small circles for thunder, lightning, torrid rains, and raging winds. Your body is littered with leaves, broken branches of unknown trees. On your feet is a swollen river.  Your knees assumed landslides, between your legs a typhoon slowly gathers strength, and gave havoc immediately above your hips.  Strangely you hand summoned a different season, winter in an unprecedented coldness.

I’m trying to re-imagine you. Your hair brown as a river, with curls like open-sea-waves has metallic yellow ribbon, with a real yellow butterfly roosting on it, desperately seeking  succulence. Your hair like rain, fell down until a few inches below your shoulder. The bag you carry on your back carried your burden in return. You told me the half-moon under your eyes were not borne from lunacy, sleeplessness has its own way of claiming your body,  that’s why that moon, you say, is in constant eclipse.

I looked down on your palm, it looked like it has been ravaged by wars, the lines were scarred, it has wounds, it doesn’t close easily, and is wet with tears. Your palm looked like a different continent altogether, forced to surrender, a broken republic.

February 16

I heard your heart caved-in.

You went to the bathroom, and cleaned the floor like you always do, i’m sure you were smirking in front of the mirror after seeing those little green molds silently starting a colony.

I’ve been away for 7 years. In those years i am always in some places that most of the times i didn’t bother to share. I almost died in one of the hospitals in an island across where you’ve been, those were psychedelic days, in high experiment, as if my budget is limitless as the string that held the kite back from reaching the blue above.

I’ve been communing with the sea, but never told you of the secrets i gathered from hermit crabs, from fireflies inhabiting mangrove nations. The wind has its own evening secrets, when the waters glow, the air around assembles to impregnate the churning below.

I never told you what happened when i went up there where guns grew wings.  Time moved around in slow-motion, in mud-pace. I spoke of the trees, one night  my voice rustled like thousand leaves, and trembled as if i’m a coconut tree about to give-up the bulging greens and oranges up my bosom. Sometimes i croaked like the frog under the rain, demanding reforms for the land that i’ve been skipping. Above, in that place, the earth becomes liquid under my feet.

I ate lamb stew i found under the stairs of your dreams.

Did i tell about my moving closer to piers of different countries? How i just shook my hand like a preacher, and moved my eyes to wink, to get my fair share of love near train stations, airports, and movie houses?

I didn’t get the chance to tell all of these, because i can’t be still. The familiar became unfamiliar.

I saw you again surrounded by loss, tubes going in and out of your mouth, machines musically disturbing beside you, and i touch your hands, your feet, your shoulder, and your forehead. You never opened your eyes again, nor your mouth, and something in me choked.

Then the coldness came.

Then i silently recalled our stories together as if they are photographs, slowly flipping through pages, from black and white to colors.

Pa, i spoke to you.

My breathing clots on my chest.

The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.

-Arundhati Roy

Listen to me.

Who have been walking with their shoes, bloodied and soiled by the faith of redemption. Who plunged themselves to the labels of excesses, and cry in silent for the hunger you felt is more than what is being sold in street corners.

Didn’t you lament on romances that got wasted by love in the vegetable kingdoms, where rats infests to feed their young somewhere hidden in the stench of the sewers.

Didn’t you talked about silence, and threw every single watches you own to the roof of houses you passed by every night you got yourself in one of those situations, that getting drunk is not just because of alcohol but by the smell of bodies charging against each other?  swear that you will submit to the eternity of time. Aren’t you noisy with this kind of silence? and your songs are gibberish.

Aren’t your knees became callous because you kneel in every chance there’s a cathedral in your mind and in every body else’s mind, and then you get shoved from behind, because all of these are prescribed by the preachers in glossy suits, and gel elated hairs.


I am with you if you’ll jump up from the 10th floor of your dreaming and fall splendidly voiceless.

I am with you when you murder the language that will creep from the shadows of your wants.

I am with you when you berate the tv for misleading us with cartoon shows and write speeches to flood newsrooms of naked skeletons.

I will be with you when we will shove down our poetics to the throats and asses of those who have been wielding their names as if they own every mad house of the cities that we’ve been to.

This is where i will settle, in my dreams where i saw you with skinny legions, with eyes stretched back as far as china, and breathe-in, deep like it’s an unending well, without the bonanzas of wealth.

We will settle here, and we will kiss until we are drown in our own embrace, under the Technicolor evening, we will walk around and name every nameless, we will knock on their doors and sleep on their beds.

Soon we will fade in discontent.


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Dreams in Narrative

it's hard to move around when you're stuck being a ceramic.

“Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images.”

-Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams

Today, i’ve been limping, i envy amphibious living, i mean frogs can go hopping between stones agily, while i can only muster calculated steps, every time i stretched my feet after the other.  you can see pain spelled on my face, like a misplaced stigmata. Unlike frogs,  like other cold blooded animals they can go in and out of water as they please without effort. I also envy water, they can go low when it is necessary. Water also assume shapes, contours, and edges,  it can freeze not as they please but only when temperature tells it to, it can murmur when at it’s boiling point. Today in my mute-land , i can only limp, turtle pacing to where the noise are roosting.

This is my tale, it is meaningless as other tales before this, the good thing about all of these meaninglessness is nobody asks questions, or else they will suffer the same fate as the tales it questioned. It’s utterly useless as well, why would you question something that is meaningless in the first place? For the sake of becoming align with the weight of being non-relevant? Wait – meaningless, useless, and irrelevant all in their glorious affirmative-negative state.

Haha. This is actually nsfw.

Last night, i’ve been with some of the kindred souls i’ve known in the 2 decades of my existence ;p i enjoyed listening to their stories, how most of their lives changed overnight waking up one morning and their hang-over never left, throbbing until today, an echo roaming inside their head that kept them puzzled what happened the night before, the kind of buzz that kept on buzzing long after they abandoned drinking on the same glass of wine.

One friend of mine stopped wearing socks out of guilt, another chose to retreat in corners and wait for random conversations, one decided to wear sleeveless shirts to show how tattoos become more define whenever he flexes,  another one decided to hover above everyone else, becoming light as balloons. another one felt like an out of time wine merchant during the wedding at canaan, most became entertainers performing magic, belting out sonnets, love peddlers,  seeking what ever cause they can make out of nothing, but, come to think of it, they are as disconnected as they are more inclined to talk to their gadgets, passionately.

In this world, artists are joyous. Unpredictability is the life of their paintings, their music, their novels. They delight in events not forecasted, happenings without explanation, retrospective. – Alan Lightman

Unlike most of them, i decided to become an observer participating only among the shadows. A token for everybody else.

Unlike others i don’t have to fake it.

I’m saying all of these because the limp disallowed me to dance and entertain others like those in the circus, i hate it when my pick-up line opens with –

  1. hi, ive got an infection
  2. you know what my psychiatrist said?
  3. Let’s share something aside the moon
  4. So, what’s your favourite chaser?
  5. Do you know there’s a shampoo called gee you hair smells terrific, too bad you don’t know it?
  6. What is the square root of 3,789,987.987?
  7. You wan’t to disappear?
  8. I’m so cheap, you don’t have to bargain
  9. I need to measure the steps from your gate to your bedroom for feng shui
  10. I’ll call your ob gyne

The other day, a girl with an eye-shaped-coming-all-the-way-from-china, prompted me to reconsider writing again – in random. How exactly random is random? Does randomness have a criteria ? Or does a criteria in itself contradicts randomness? I am always at ease with all things that is random.  apparently the concept of tenure is now bigger than the idea of randomness. Don’t you think that the moment we invoke the idea of randomness, we are already limiting the possibilities? The what ifs? Is it dearth instead?

Thank you so much, you made me write again.

In this era of dis-association, in this era of persistent ironies, the need to connect becomes greater, and the necessity to  ignore all misgivings is in no way correct, anyway let me write about this separately.

Limping for me is an excuse, secretly i’ve been praying that the heavens will inflict me with some sort of sickness aside from what i have right now straight in the head.

I would have wanted to become unproductive and see how the world will bid it’s time, in this harsh world where everything is random, everything done on impulse, my adoration will remain the same, sincere and erratic. Haha.

to her who showed me images and words in mixed commotion. salamat!


Janet Russo

I shall not allure you

With dangling adornments

Nor entice you

With painted face

Nor dazzle you

With natty garments

I shall not please you

With a veneer belying my thoughts

No, i shall not come to you cloaked in false beauty

Only to disillusiones you later

I shall come bald

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between us is a space, as immense as the ocean

from the sewers, stories came marching in like a revenge, with their huge flags, in bold letters, they’ve found me, and i became their unwilling target, they pushed  me in the corners, violate me relentlessly, and tied me to a table, and offer me to the void of the planets.

they read before me irritating verses, enumerated my sins, and spoke lengthily of the obscurity of my silence.

These stories in vivid colors, i retorted – i did not seek solitude for religious purposes , but solely to avoid people and their laws, their teachings, their traditions, their ideas, their clamor, and their wailing.

What are the laws that kept me silent for a long time? the poetics of anger? or the poetics of poverty? the night just caught me somewhere.

The night became O

enclosing us in an eternal embrace


you spread your feet wide as your name, it is immense even in abbreviations. 

pardon me, sometimes incoherence is an anthem that would want to stick its nose on your skins.

1. remember those months when hunger came like a delayed menstruation

2. think of all those who left you because poetry is a lie and a tragedy

3. think again and allow yourself to be lured again by the promises of words becoming flesh like a bladed weapon that cuts your chest open so the world can see how inglorious the beatings of your heart looks

4. count how many times you were made to believe that longing is alcohol induced and is manufactured by those who made us believe that we can don wings when remembering is a lightning – sudden and without notice

5. smile and recall the conversations you had with friends in onw hurried afternoon, and how everything was shared unabashedly without fear that tomorrow, all those kneeling around you will be inundated with grief , as if it is a gift that christmas failed to deliver

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
-Sylvia Plath


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