my quick drying blood

moving on

2006-02-15T12:51:00.000+08:00

I'll be leaving this blog and transferring to www.penstalker.blogdrive.com If you've been reading this blog, just click on the link above and read on. thanks... penstalker

Elevator

2005-12-19T18:25:00.000+08:00

the frames of this electronic door shone
as the bell rang
two discordant notes.

open [ ]
*going up*
people poured out
from the open
door and it was empty again.
I entered, pressed 23
and [>l<]. closed.
slowly, automatically...
the door seemed reluctant.
**please stand clear of the closing
door**
a hand appeared between the opening
just before the door
closed
completely, the hand forced
the door to open up. It revealed
a man in a dark suit
accompanied by five people,
his officemates perhaps.
They entered, rather noisily;
he pressed 17 and
[>l<].
the elevator opens
and accepts--then closes
**please stand clear of the closing
door**
closed.
I ascended, through this enclosure
pulled by taut cables. i am
moving towards the apex—
pulled against gravity
by electricity—strong wires
like the hands of time
unable to let go—
towards my destination:
twenty-third floor.

*seventeenth floor*
the elevator opens and lets go
then closes. i am left
to stand by the corner of the elevator.
**please stand clear of the closing
door**

*eighteenth floor*
[ ] open
two unnamed faces and Danielle join me
in this corner of the universe
as i ascend and defy
gravity, Danielle stands
beside me and shakes my hand.
meanwhile the other two girls talk
about how late they are
for work. they press 22
and [>l<]. **please stand clear of the closing
door**

Danielle and I talk about the weather, the traffic
and friends long lost or gone. I lean
on the wall to my left and watch
the screen display the floor number
we are passing by.

nineteen
showed the screen in yellow, up
we went without
stopping by.

*twentieth floor*
[ ] open...nobody's there. the elevator
is waiting
for someone to run in
and enter. we are waiting
for the door
to close. [>l<]
Danielle looked
at her watch uneasily.
"7:07 am Have a nice day!" shows
on the elevator screen.
**please stand clear
of the closing door**

*twenty-first floor*
pointed heels stabbed
the elevator floor as the two ladies
walked into the open
door and left me behind
with Danielle inside.
**please stand
clear of the closing
door**

Danielle walks towards the door
even before the
*twenty-second floor*
she took one last look
at her wrist watch
press [ ] hurriedly,
anxiously, stormed out of the elevator
in steps that could have sent the elevator back
to the ground floor. “see yah
whenever…” she remembered to take
a last glance at me before
the door closed. [>l<] **please
stand clear of
the closing door**

*twenty-third floor*
[ ] open door

here I am.
*please
i step out
stand
without a last glance—out
clear
into the twenty-third floor.
of the closing door*

Intro in E-minor

2005-12-03T22:29:00.000+08:00

The crowd swells as empty
Chairs are filled up.
Sound
Technicians adjust the last
few dials, they turn
some more knobs.
Sound
Check. Sound
check. The spot
lights
are set, waiting
To explode and expose
He who makes music.

Meanwhile, the house lights burn
Bright as the crowd arrives
To fill the darkness
Of the concert hall.

At the edge
Of the platform, the guitar
Waits for the hands
That will take away its slumber
And bring it to the center
Of the multi-colored lights.

Its place is dark.

Meanwhile, the speakers sing
With melancholy
To fill the silence
Of the concert hall.

The chairs are full
Around the platform. Silence
Is about to be
defeated—
The amps, the mics,
The cables and wires,
The seats and the stands
Are all in place.

The house lights wane and
Black out completely.

Hush. A still lake. Shadows
move on the platform.
Plugged. The guitar stirs.
A single spotlight waxes bright.
A hand moves down.
A strum.
A sound splashes on the still lake
as the guitar and its master and
The horde of sounds behind them

Begin

To break the silence.

Supernova

2005-12-03T22:25:00.000+08:00

From red to yellow
Life jump-started.
From white to blue
Heat and light spread
Fire burned within me.

And now
A fireworks display!

My life erupted
In a thousand sparks.
The multi-colored sparks surged forward, shattered
As broken stained glass.
Light-years fast, they still travel
Through my universe.
To light up the dark
Alleys of the universe.
**
Midnight on the darkside of the planet earth.
Thousands of eyes
look skyward tonight
To behold the remains
Of a life snuffed out.

Moving to Our Tenth House in Twenty Years

2005-12-03T22:19:00.000+08:00

Heavy boxes slide on the floor—
essential things accumulated over
the years. Empty now
are the shelves, lockers and cabinets.

Two years—
of filling this space—of people living
in this seeming fortress near the church
with broken bell tower.

The weeds are tall around
the house—taller than the weeds
that litter the yard of the church
with the broken bell tower.

The plants sit quiet in front of the parsonage—
patiently,
they endured the sun, they reveled
when drenched
by the waters
from the sky, enjoyed the kisses
of the dew. Now
they shall be moved:
Moved
to a place they never knew.
The colors leave
this house today.

Rooted,
how can the trees be moved? They refuse
to leave though they want to. They cannot
unless they are cut
down to the roots.

Cabinets and chairs, the washing machine and the fridge,
the tables and racks, dividers—all
lined up on the lawn, waiting
impatiently for yet another moving—
and this is not the final one—
just a part of a tired routine,
endless moving, never setting
down on a single place for a long time.

It goes on, we move,
we arrive, only to move
again and again to another place. Today we shall arrive
to another house—
beside a church—
never our own.

Lailanie’s Homecoming

2005-11-10T19:51:00.000+08:00

I
Homecoming.

Lung cancer took Lailanie away
From the crowded hospital at Taft
Avenue.

She went home in the silence
Of the night in the ambulance
That traversed the highway from Taft
Through the mountain passes of Cordillera—
Back to the grieving hills of Andabuen*.

The child within her tried
To fight for her life
but her mother’s time was up.

The creek, like flowing tears welcomed her.
The hills were hushed
by her passing. Everyone hoped
For her homecoming,
but not this way.

II
Promises meant to be broken.

She watched silently as the white coffin
Entered the lawn and settle
In front of their house.

Could it be she’s dreaming?

It was but three in the morning
And she does not usually wake up till
Four thirty to boil water and cook
Breakfast, pack the tools and send off
her father and brothers who will tend
The fields west of the village.
She’s done all this since angcay** Lanie
Went away last May
To have her check-up
at the provincial hospital.
But last month, her Father, frantic,
And worried, packed up his bag, and went
Away again, saying, angcay Lanie must be taken
To Manila for her life to be saved
From the sickness that the provincial
Hospital can no longer handle.

She was the daughter
After Lailanie. She was supposed to be
In college by June next year
and Lailanie will pay
for her tuition, her books, her allowance. Lailanie will
Pay for her dreams.

She’s home. But she’s gone.

She dabbed her tears with the back
Of her hand and rose to heat water
For the coffee of the people who
Brought angcay Lanie home.

III
End of a 300-km trip.

Three a.m. it feels good to stretch
His legs once again.
He is so tired from sitting all night
Inside the cold ambulance.

A week ago, her father went
To ask him for help.
Lailanie was dying, she needed
Expert medical help.

He thought of all the times
That he gave her allowance
Even when his wallet contained
No more than a few red bills.

He was the helpful uncle
guiding them so they can move
away from the poverty
he has barely escaped from.

Four years of college, and of her uncle’s help
All came to naught now—
She could have helped
Her family, she could have…

But the dead can not bear
The burden of the living
Lailanie’s uncle helped them again,
But he will go back to the city later
To tend the businesses he left there.

IV
Aborted Love.

When she returns, he would ask her
To marry him. After all, his child
Already grows within her womb.

He reserved two of his cows and started
Building his own hut in Villa Concepcion.***
His parents granted him his own piece of land.

“It’s nothing serious,” she assured him
So he stayed and waited.
He prepared for their wedding day.

Yesterday, he was informed Lailanie was
on the way home from Manila
so he went to Andabuen with a gold ring.

Dawn came and he saw the coffin
Brought down from the van. He couldn’t speak.
He held the ring tightly till his hand ached.

V
Acceptance.

Such is life. Her parents thought
She would outlive them both and lead
Her siblings to a better future.
Their lives were tied to the land
But hers was not. Now, it’s even cut
Off from theirs: It’s ended.

The sun extends its hands
To the grieving hills of Andabuen.
One by one, the men and women of the barrio drop by
To provide any comfort they can,
Then they leave to proceed
With the daily routine of barrio life.
------------------------
*Andabuen: a barangay in the forest region of Benito Soliven, Isabela
**bolinao term for elder sister/brother
***a neighboring barrio of Andabuen

Box Full of Crayons

2005-10-18T23:57:00.000+08:00

Coloring Book.
Colorless and flat, smiling
Faces that lack depth,
Drawn with thick and thin; solid
and broken lines, stare
from black and white pages.

Crayons.
His little hands grasp big crayons;
Smudges colors on the pictures
all over the pages
of the coloring book
Of my life on the floor.

Out of the Crib.
Your face and mine blended
In his delicate face
That brings depth
Into my eyes.
His laughter resounds
Through the walls.
His cry wakes me up
In the middle of the night.
But it doesn’t matter.
I get up and prepare
A bottle of milk.
Now he walks.
Now he talks his baby talk
And fills our world.

Boxes of Milk.
His fragile little body
Close to mine; his tiny hands
Stroke my face;
Your hand in mine
We’re holding him.
Inside the cupboard
Are boxes of milk stored
In exchange of the little luxuries
We decided to let go.

Box full of crayons.
Coloring books scattered
On the floor. He sits in the middle
With a box full of crayons.
He opens it up with his tiny hands
And holds the crayons
That brings all the colors.

Rain Train

2005-10-18T23:51:00.000+08:00

I stepped out into the road from the passenger seat
Of the jeepney and the rain started to pour down
Hesitantly. I trotted down the pedestrian lane
Dodging the droplets of rain that reached out to me.
In the absence of an umbrella I hid under
my silken jacket. The droplets penetrate
my makeshift shelter and it becomes heavier
as I walked towards the Quezon-Avenue flyover.

I crossed the highway. It has always been easy,
In sunny days and rainy days—when I’m alone.
I stick to the edges of the pedestrian lane
and raise my left hand to stop the cars and jeepneys;
‘til I reach the other side.

Without my umbrella, I joined the throng
of the labor force hurrying to work
this Monday morning. I ascend the escalator
of the Quezon Avenue MRT Station and I’m lost
in the crowd.

Inside the train I feel warm in the company
of strangers, huddled together
because of the hurry that drives them on.
My right hand clasps my wet silken jacket
And my left hand holds on
to the handle bars to keep me
from falling…

I remember her hand clutching my elbow
when we walked side by side and I held
her umbrella through the rain on a Monday afternoon
of June two years back when we were still
in the university.
And now she is out of this sun-dried, rain-drenched country.
Overseas…
perhaps she beholds her dreams slowly unfold. And I,
here in the train, on a rainy June morning, think of
the girl with the umbrella in the pouring rain.

As the rain splatter on the window
of the train, I snuggle with total strangers.

Till There's No Time

2005-07-28T20:43:00.000+08:00

For CJ

A second passes
Unnoticed
The eyes blink
A minute of a child in the arms of her Father
Eternity looks on
An hour’s worth of running down the hill
And rolling over the sea of grass
A child’s bliss
A day of turning at the axis of the earth
Somebody’s caught, left behind
Time waits for noone.

As the tide rises
as it falls back
the moon lets go
of all its months
barrels upon barrels
of photographs and artifacts
are rolled over the river until
the years, as tide, rise
to wash them all away.

We couldn’t but watch
For we are caught in the web of time

Shadows lengthen till darkness takes over
However, billions of stars
Are awake tonight
On the road shedding light
‘til we come to the other side
Where the sun shines
And there’s no time.

Fade

2005-07-28T20:37:00.000+08:00

Dreams fade...

As the setting sun
They ebb away
Like dawn
Like twilight running
Away

Dreams end.

Like any happy
Or troubled childhood
Like any story told
By poetry or prose
Like the passing away of

A rose.

We who belong
To the dreams—we
Who dream

We perish.

A Woman's Ordeal

2005-07-28T20:32:00.000+08:00

for Abet

He came to me
As a black cloud, dry and heavy
Without precipitation
His eyes, an unflowing stream,
Brooding all the hurts and confusions of his life.
His heart, a stagnant lake:
Breeding ground of hate and anger,
And a reprobate mind—
He can’t think straight.

They took his mother
To a mental health clinic in the nearby city
Last week. His mother is in delirium—
She was a bottle of alcohol,
Preserver of hate,
Hers was a face of smiling
Pretense—of placid gentleness, as of the quiet noon
But her heart was boiling like Mayon
a year before a major eruption
Her countenance, her eyes are cold as the torrent
Of rain in June.

When they returned, she speaks not much different
than the way she used to after her husband
beat her. She bled inside…

After the beating, he’d declare his love for her
In the quietness of the evening
So they can go to bed together.
And he held her lovingly with the same
Hands that beat her.

And she would whisper
“Your love is sweet…
Your love is sweet…
(as the brackish sea)”
With her voice, indiscernible
Even by her own heart and her own mind.

She could feel him her between her legs
She could hear him let out a harsh sigh
of relief. She could taste his sweat
mingling with her tears. But she could feel him
nowhere in her heart.

She was a placid lake.
She was a bottle.
She was a dormant volcano
Seething within.

One night in the silence of her child, the bottle was broken
She was shattered. A home has been torn
Apart.
The heavy black clouds gathered
And yet the rain didn’t fall
The rain didn’t fall.

She became a stagnant stream,
Like a boat, her mind floats in the nothingness.
Forever wondering and wandering while
The waters whisper their rippling melody, but
She started living in her distant memory
She lives to blabber and talk albeit unsensibly.

Nobody understood

Her husband never tried
To understand her, to care for her
As he ought to.

Nobody understands

Though she talks and she talks nobody takes her
Seriously, but her son
Who sits here with me, telling her story.

He fixes his shirt hastily, hesitantly
Afraid to let his tears drop.

He simply looks away.

Freedom in a Prison Cell

2005-07-15T21:01:00.000+08:00

for Amado

Will the ink run dry?
Will your words be forgotten?

The ink flowed freely
The pen was your gun. So you were
shackled. Inside the prison.
where you cannot see the sun
the fire within burns,
your heart was trained
to master your mind, suffering
confirmed what you wrote—
stinking prison, poison disguised
as food.
You slept and dwelt with the insects
Of the dark.
But you remained alive, alive…

The ink flowed freely
The pen was your gun.

So long as the poor plow and till
the land
So long as the wicked rich burden
the farmer with an iron yoke
So long as the hallowed Congress inscribe
laws in the name of their own interests
So long as the millions remain
Oppressed and ignorant

Your ink shall flow freely
Your pen will echo its shout…

The prison cell vomited you
It cannot contain you…

A heart of light breaks
Through the dark

Your ink shall flow freely
Your pen will shout.

Broken Guitar

2005-07-11T20:46:00.000+08:00

for Victoria

Am I of any worth to the hands
Of a maestro?
Scarred, thrown down,
I’m broken
Can I ever utter a beautiful sound?
Will anybody listen to a broken guitar?

Hear me plucked, hear me strummed
Will I be in union with a golden voice?
Or do I offer nothing but noise?
Oh Maestro, will you ever pick me up?

You see through the scars—
the heart of a broken guitar
But you pluck this strings
You strum.
Together, we sing melodies deeper,
Sweeter than angel’s voices.

I am more than
just a broken guitar---
I am the maestro’s
guitar.

Ruins of a Cathedral

2005-07-11T20:42:00.000+08:00

On the altar lies the broken cross
Debris scattered everywhere
Dust blown by the wind
Brings the mist to my eyes.

I sit on the porch overlooking
The ruins of a majestic sanctuary
After a thousand years of the sun’s shining
The pillars are broken down, bricks reduced to rubble.

I pick up a stone, and throw it inside
Chants of the ages echo back
Reviving the choir--
the ancient melodies.

Listen closely to the melody
The singing voices and the silence all at once
After a thousand years of the sun’s shining
The ruins of the cathedral still sing.

Intersection

2005-06-23T22:55:00.000+08:00

The sun yawned.
With a reluctant blink, it faded
into the horizon.
Cars and jeepneys slow down and pass
around the U-turn slot ‘neath the flyover
That carried buses momentarily beside
the train.

Horns blow, boosting the incessant rumble
of tired machines.
Headlights, like newly awoken eyes, shine
and show the way.
Streetlights along the railings of the underpass,
drown the darkness emanating from the tunnel that swallows
buses and jeepneys and takes them below
the highway and sends them out to the other side
of Quezon Boulevard.

Workers, with drooping eyes and heavy steps
march towards the intersection
of the highway and the boulevard. They walk
past the garden, struggling to stay green
on the island of polluted cobblestones.
The tired evening, though so young, is hailed by palm
trees with brown leaves
almost touching the ground.

On the curb the pedestrians stop and line up, waiting
for jeepneys where they can squeeze themselves into
so they can go home.

A half-empty jeepney bypassed the MMDA agent.
It pulled up sharply just a step behind
the “No Unloading” sign.
A vagabond appears and
shouts “Fairview Market.” As a shepherd, he
herds the passengers that flock towards
the jeepney’s rear.

Once inside, they sit tightly:
side by side on the undivided seat.
A young man crouches by the rear door
as the jeepney inched forward
through the traffic. The passengers sit face-to-face
but with averted gaze, as if holding a hesitant council
about their destination without
even speaking a word. One to another,
some hold hands and pass
the coins towards the driver.

With gnarled hands, thick with a whole day’s worth
of dirt and grime, he accepts
the coins and asks where the originator will
Disembark. With a clink,
the coins drop
to the small wooden case on the makeshift
dashboard.

No song is aired in the jeepney except the tired breathing
of the workers and laborers drowned
by the roar of the machine

That lulls them to sleep
That takes them away from the highway
And leads them home.

With gnarled hands thick with dirt, the driver
turns the wheel
of this vehicle traversing the boulevard.
Countless swerving while shifting lanes,
the jeepney reaches the Quezon circle
and joins the chorus
of countless cars and buses.
He rolls the bills of Quezon’s face and Osmeña’s.
He inserts them on the intersection
of the ceiling and the windshield.

His eyes, teary, red from all the smoke of
a whole day’s work, still on the road, long after
the sun has gone down, taking people
to where they can rest, albeit momentarily.

Rainy June Morning

2005-06-23T22:45:00.000+08:00

I stepped out into the road from the passenger seat
of the jeepney and the rain started to pour down
hesitantly. I trotted down the pedestrian lane,
dodging the droplets of rain that reached out to me.

In the absence of an umbrella I hid under
my silken jacket. The droplets penetrate
my makeshift shelter and it becomes heavier
as I walked towards the Quezon-Avenue flyover.

I crossed the highway. It has always been easy,
in sunny days and rainy days—when I’m alone.
I stick to the edges of the pedestrian lane
and raise my left hand to stop the cars and jeepneys
‘til I reach the other side.

Without my umbrella, I joined the throng
of the labor force hurrying to work
this Monday morning. I ascend the escalator
of the Quezon Avenue MRT Station and I’m lost
in the crowd.

Inside the train I feel warm in the company
of strangers, huddled together
because of the hurry that drives them on.
My right hand clasps my wet silken jacket
and my left hand holds on
to the handle bars to keep me
from falling…

I remember her hand clutching my elbow
when we walked side by side and I held
her umbrella through the rain on a Monday afternoon
of June two years back when we were still
in the university.

And now she is out of this sun-dried, rain-drenched country.
Overseas…
Perhaps she beholds her dreams slowly unfold. And I,
here in the train, on a rainy June morning, think of
the girl with the umbrella in the pouring rain.
As the rain splatter on the window
of the train, I snuggle with total strangers.

Where Has the Fire Gone?

2005-06-16T21:50:00.000+08:00

Your eyes twinkle with a subdued glow, so unlike
the fiery ones i saw when I first
had a glimpse of you writing
your ideas.

What happened?

Is it the weather affecting your mood?
Is it the season of your life today?
Is it because you lost something
dearly valued?
Have you lost your way in a maze?

Or is it because you've spent the embers
keeping your heart on fire?

The eyes are but the chimney
of the fireplace within your chest.

And when we ate sundae today
I asked why.

Your eyes averted my gaze,
I don't even see them twinkle now.

What happened?

Shades of Gray

2005-05-25T22:19:00.000+08:00

(1)
Eyes
bask on the interplay of light and dark
lines—
a painting
mounted on the wall. Eyes
look closely, inspecting every stroke
of pencil and coal that trace
this imitation of reality.
The tree—
with leaves of varied shades
of gray—
stands alone in the valley
casting shadow
towards the river that flows
from the colorless mountains.

Still life
Captured in two-dimensional
monochrome.

(2)
Plugged.
Power surges through electrical wires
in a fourteen-inch red box-the successor of the radio.
It gives off light.
Two young persons come to life:
lovers walking hand-in-hand
on a bridge.
It’s a full moon’s night
and the stars are bright.
The lovers stopped as the world
and the stars stood still. (Their viewers
gasp, wondering when they will close
the gap opened by the weavers of their make-shift
fate and destiny.)
They stared into each other’s eyes. He stroke
the tangles of her hair and brushed his hand
to her cheeks,
oblivious
of everything that pulls them apart
and of the hundreds of the viewers of this red box.

They kiss
For their bliss (and their viewers’ delight).
But this whole love affair is in black
and white and this box
has no choice but to respond
to colorless electrical impulses.

Nonetheless, it captures
real life
moving in two-dimensional
monochrome.

(3)
The canvas lies ready and the artist agonizes
over the colors he’ll use
to capture her
face
(on a mirror of beauty).

She left him in a hurry
on a cold Saturday morning
when the mist hadn’t lifted and
he lingered with his art;
his thoughts were on the canvas, his eyes
perpetually stared at the gloom, discovering
traces of beauty and truth. But she
got tired of his silence and closed her eyes.

She is gone,
He admitted. But she could be back
at the narra table in his studio, sipping coffee
watching him work and melt
the colors from her
gaze and let them flow
unfazed
in his hand-held brush
caressing the canvas.

Iris.
That was her name,
she was the source of his color: not any
more. The artist stares
at his canvas. Blank. He drops
the paintbrush as he close his brown eyes
and picture Iris in his mind:
Her eyes
Her gaze
Her lips (which lent him warmth
on cold days)

Her shoulder-breadth hair as black
as the coffee that makes him awake
now. The aroma of this black
liquid can never compete with her
fragrance that filled
his lungs with air
his hand with art
his being with purpose…

His mind’s gaze locked up on her, he picks up
a pencil of charcoal to uncover
the canvas:

Iris sipping coffee
carved on a two-dimensional
monochrome.

(4)
Five o’clock in the afternoon. The bay
Is unperturbed, quietly reflecting
The orange sun dying in the west
While from the east the shadow creeps
To engulf the world in its eerie glow.

Right before the night descends and
All becomes shrouded in mystery
The sun decides to stand its last ground
As darkness strives for mastery
The colors hide, not wanting to be found.

In that period of indecision
When light mingles with the shadow
Darkness gets diluted by the glow
Of the sun. The colors fall down
They ebb into a monochromatic flow.

(5)
Click.
The call ended. I’ve given
the caller the location of the bank
he’s looking for.

(yawn)

I need coffee—blacker than this
computer—to keep my mind
going, to keep my tongue foreign-
sounding (those callers will never know
that I am a Filipino
trained to answer idiotic calls
though I have a master’s degree
in Education) so I could keep my wallet
bloated.

I stood up and went to the pantry. Simply stirring
my coffee brings back a little life
to me.

These callers ask
for directions. I don’t even know
where to go after my grave-
yard shift at two a.m. Maybe I’ll go
to a bar somewhere in Makati and drown
my insomnia in a bottle
of beer or two. Or I may just settle
with Iced tea and a hamburger then go
home with a bottomless thirst.
Life is a game
of darts but I’ve been hitting
a board with no lines, no colors,
no numbers, no bull’s eye. Always
my score is zero.

Back at my station, I can’t sit. I stood
Still. Sipping coffee from my spill-
proof mug—I seek
warmth. I embrace
myself and look at the wide expanse of black
computers and headsets. An unbearable ring
echo in my ears while an endless chatter
between callers and receivers break through
the quiet ceiling.

I drained my mug and returned
to my seat, hoping that the blackness
of the coffee I sipped would be enough
to upset the blackness before me—
the black computer, the black headset,
the black phone and the black night outside. Black
may well be my companion
till I fulfill the contract I signed
and I am set free.

(6)
The sun shines today.
This is the first time it showed
its face after a full week of raining.
The monsoon had its way and whipped
everything to submission.
Shoots, trunks, leaves and fruits—
All sorts of organic limbs couldn’t hold
Their ground. Even people’s houses—
Roofs and bamboo walls—collapsed!
The furious rain overshadowed the sun.

Until today.

Moving to Our Tenth House in Twenty Years

2005-05-16T19:52:00.000+08:00

Heavy boxes slide on the floor—
essential things accumulated over
the years. Empty now
are the shelves, lockers and cabinets.
Two years—
of filling this space—of people living
in this seeming fortress near the church
with broken bell tower.

The weeds are tall around
the house—taller than the weeds
that litter the yard of the church
with the broken bell tower.
The plants sit quiet in front of the parsonage—
patiently,
they endured the sun, they reveled
when drenched
by the waters
from the sky, enjoyed the kisses
of the dew. Now
they shall be moved:
Moved
to a place they never knew.
The colors leave
this house today.

Rooted,
how can the trees be moved? They refuse
to leave though they want to. They cannot
unless they are cut
down to the roots.

Cabinets and chairs, the washing machine and the fridge,
the tables and racks, dividers—all
lined up on the lawn, waiting
impatiently for yet another moving—
and this is not the final one—
just a part of a tired routine,
endless moving, never setting
down on a single place for a long time.
It goes on, we move,
we arrive, only to move
again and again to another place. Today we shall arrive
to another house—
beside a church—
never our own.

biyahe

2005-05-15T12:15:00.000+08:00

kanina pa akong alas nuebe y kinse nandito sa Kamias terminal ng Victory, isang oras bago ang aking biyahe. Bumaba ako sa taxi pagkatapos akong iabot sa tsuper ang isandaang piso. Ang mahal na talaga ng pamasahe ngayon. Isinabit ko ang backpack ko sa aking mga balikat, binitbit ang isa pang bag at nagtungo sa hintayan kung saan may TV at may mga upuan.
Andaming tao! Sabagay, malapit nang matapos ang bakasyon at marami na ring nag-uuwian. May mga mangilan-ngilan ding tila first time pa lang magpunta sa Cagayan Valley. Pagkatapos ng ilang buwan, makakauwi na rin ako sa wakas. Lalayo muna sa kaiingles sa call center at muli ay makikipag-usap sa mga kakilala, kaibigan at kamag-anak sa aking katutubong wika: Ilocano. Nakatutuwang isipin na minsan, marami nang mga salitang Ilocano na 'di ko maintindihan. Ewan ko nga ba... siguro dahil na rin sa pagtira ko sa Manila ng mahigit apat na taon simula nung pumasok ako sa kolehiyo. Kahit na, gusto ko pa ring isang manunulat na Ilocano. Marami nga lang akong dapat saliksiking mga salita.
Pang-ilang biyahe ko na ba to?
Ewan... di ko na mabilang. Pati nga ang pagtaas ng pamasahe, di ko na rin kayang bilangin. Ngayon P521.00 na ang pamasahe pauwi sa bayan namin. samantalang nung first year ako sa UP, P290 lang. Ambilis talaga ng panahon.
Ang buhay isa rin daw biyahe, yun nga lang, di mo na kelangang bumili ng ticket para makasakay. At ang biyahe ng buhay walang karatula na magsasabi kung saan ito patungo: walang naiilawang sign board na ang nakalagay ay "Tuguegarao" o kaya ay "Roxas." Buti kapag pauwi ka lang sa probinsiya, alam mo ang daan, o at least, tiwala ka sa driver na dadalhin ka sa probinsiya mo: kagaya nito, sa Isabela ang uwi ko. Bukas ng umaga, mga alas otso, alam kong darating ako sa aming bahay. O kaya kung patungo ka naman sa Maynila mula sa probinsiya, alam mo na bababa ka sa Cubao o kaya sa Quezon Avenue at magtataxi nalang patungo sa mismong pintuan ng apartment o boarding house mo. Alam mo pa mga kantong dadaanan mo. Eh sa buhay, andaming kalye, andaming daan, walang iisang highway--napakarami. At kung saan ka tutungo, bahala ka! Bawat pagpapasya sa bawat araw ay isang pag-usad sa inaasam na patutunguhan. Yun nga lamang, kung nais mong manatili na rin sa kung nasaan ka na, nasasayo pa rin ang pagpapasya. Kung may signboard lang sana ang buhay, o kaya may drayber na mapagkakatiwalaan.
Ako ang drayber... ngunit saan ako patungo?

Ewan, basta ngayong gabi, nasa bus ako ng Victory at paggising ko bukas ng umaga, alam kong nandoon na ako sa aming probinsiya.

home... almost

2005-04-04T20:26:00.000+08:00

on the way home...
was stuck in a bus along EDSA.
fell asleep, almost soundly
(good thing I didn't snore
or drool)
two hours....
two precious hours lost on a trip
home that could have taken just thirty
minutes were it not for the stinking
traffic of Metro Manila.

on the way home....
just dropped out of the bus, finally
just five minutes ago. I crossed
the bridge, meant for my feet, slicing
the length of Commonwealth Avenue. The sun
was past the horizon, and the shadow
of the West has engulfed Commonwealth
and the whole of Quezon city... the whole
of the archipelago. As I walked
towards the place I call home, I noticed
something dripping, slowly trickling
down my heart... my quick drying blood
screaming to make contact
to a parchment of white to produce an immortal
collection of words, monumental, incidental,
evanescent, right before I
get home.