Creations

As I rest, I see stars
stain oceans, rains
anoint seas, trees
screen cities.

An ant sits
on a stone
near a tree’s roots.
In cities, rats
retire to carrions
no insects
nest on.

As I rest,
creations I see
I start to trace,
to erase.

The Turtle and the Monkey

It was the kind of day that the turtle always loved. The heat from the sun didn’t bother his green, scaly skin too much so he didn’t feel the need to slither back inside his shell while sitting on the fallen trunk of a huge tree that served as a bridge across the river. The sunlight made the river’s current sparkle as if there were so many little stars being carried by the flow, and he could see his reflection smiling up at him unlike on days when the sky was overcast. The turtle had always loved to dangle his feet over the gentle current of the river and just watch the water—sometimes there would be the occasional fish leaping out and then diving back in, and sometimes there would be all kinds of junk carried by the current that were probably left by campers in the forest. On that beautiful day though, there was nothing that the river was offering him, and after just looking at his own reflection in the water he began to feel bored, wishing his good friend was there with him.

As if some higher power answered his wish, he heard a faint rustling to his left and saw his friend monkey emerge out of the bushes. The monkey waved at him from that side of the river, and went over to where the turtle was sitting.

“Hey,” the monkey said, patting the turtle’s shell and sitting beside him. The turtle nodded. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing, just watching the river…”

“As usual. What is it about this river anyway? There’s always nothing here, you know,” the monkey said, removing twigs and leaves that were caught in his fur.

“But…why do you say that?” the turtle said.

“Well, rivers are useless!” the monkey said, flailing his long arms in the air. “We're better off without it. Bananas don’t grow in rivers. I don’t eat fish, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to catch one since I’m afraid of water and I can’t swim. And you don't eat fish too, so it's useless even for you."

A fish leaped out from the water, right in front of where they were sitting on the trunk-bridge. The fish hung in the air for a second, as if displaying its colorful scales for them, and then dived back in the water with a splash. Its scales were a golden yellow that flashed in the sunlight, with little blotches of orange. The turtle smiled and clapped his hands at the sight. But the monkey was startled by the suddenness of it all, nearly falling off the trunk and into the river.

“See! I nearly fell in!” the monkey said, annoyed. “This river is evil. The forest would be better off without it.” He stood up to leave.

The turtle shook his head. “You’re too naïve, my friend. Just because the river doesn’t give you bananas doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you never know what to expect from the river,” said the turtle. “Just like that fish that jumped out of the water earlier. I’ve seen many fishes jump out of the water before, but that was the first time I saw a fish like that, with its golden scales. I’m just saying that there are surprises everywhere, even in places where you least expect them.”

The monkey just shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever, I’m hungry. I’ll go look for some bananas. Be seeing you,” he said, then turned to go.

The turtle sighed, and surveyed his reflection on the water’s surface again. But something floating up ahead caught his eye, a thin line floating lazily along the current. Squinting, he tried to figure out what it was. Maybe it’s just junk from campers again, the turtle thought. But as it slowly came closer to the trunk-bridge, he saw an entanglement of gnarled roots growing out of the slightly faded green trunk as if it were a mass of unwashed hair, and riding at the other end of the trunk was something golden, something the turtle knew his friend would love.

“Monkey! Look!” he called out to the monkey, who was already at the riverbank. The monkey turned and looked to where the turtle was pointing. His eyes widened, glowing golden at the sight of the banana plant, and his jaw slightly dropped. When he had recovered his senses, he looked at the turtle and scratched his head, giving an apologetic smile. The turtle smiled back, and jumped into the river to steer the plant to the river bank.

Dead Metaphors

This is why poetry will forever evade me:
because I am afraid of the dark
spaces left by the cracks of every door, spaces
leading to the absence of light, of everything
luminous. I am afraid
of every shadow, lurking, hiding beneath
the real, the tangible, the certain
colors the eye could see. For there is only
a wall, warped with age, blocking
the view, filled with cracks
waiting to be filled. If ever I trespass

through those dark spaces, through that emptiness
bearing something out of nothing, my eyes cannot see
that concealed something, and no hands
with which to grasp it, to harness it
‘til it becomes my own. Then there are
these truths, always coming back, begging
to be revealed one more time, for me
to refuse, but I still yield in fear
of what lurks beneath
their luminous glow, in fear of being
murdered for being absurd. So what happens

is an echo; a shout that comes back
with lesser force, something you’ve heard before
but fainter. For making fire is something
to learn when in the dark,
lest you grope blindly, only testing for echo,
letting the same voice find you
again and again, never seeing past
the wall of nothingness you’ve run into.

Creation Story

I am here
because of your eyes,
you are here
because of mine.
When you don’t see me,
I disappear;
when you disappear,
you’re all I see.

Mahirap Maging Isang Uri ng Tupperware

Kanina kinausap ko si Cristina. Mahirap talaga siyang kausap. May mga naaagnas na bangkay kasi sa bibig niya, di man lang niya naisipang ilibing. Kitang-kita ko yung mga bangkay na nilalangaw pa, nakatambak lang, nagsisiksikan sa mga gila-gilagid. Parang sementeryong sa ibabaw ng lupa namamahinga ang mga patay. Pero kahit papaano mababango naman yung mga salitang lumabas sa bibig niya.

Ngayon kinakausap ko si Mikaela. Malambing siya, pero parang kaya niyang humigop ng tubig gaya ng sponge. Kung tutuusin, halos magkamukha na sila ni Spongebob—dilaw at maraming butas. Hindi nga lang singkit si Spongebob. Natatakot akong mapalapit sa kanya, baka kasi mahigop din ako kapag huminga siya ng malalim. Baka nga mahigop pa niya ang buong klase.

Mamaya kakausapin ko naman si Felice. Masarap kausap, kaso nakakabahala lang talaga kung halos pareho ang katawan niyo ng kinakausap mo. Lalo na kung magkaiba pala kayo ng ari. Baka nga pati doon, pareho kami ni Felice. Kaso nakakahiya naman magtanong.

The Room Upstairs

I’m always in this private room upstairs, a room where everything is possible. Yes, everything. It never opens its door for anybody, other than me. Call it a hiding place if you will, but I’m not hiding from anyone, only from myself. Hiding from my beastly hair, bulbous nose, reed-like fingers, hairy shins. In the room upstairs, I have golden hair, a perfect nose, well-shaped fingers, muscled legs.

The clouds are much closer in the room upstairs. I can touch them, swim in them. I can hold a fluffy piece of it in the palm of my hand and try to taste it—it wisps away before my lips could come close, but always leaves the taste of the sky in my mouth. I part the clouds with my hands and I see my dreams hovering just within my reach, like fruit hanging from the invisible branches of some celestial tree. I pick them off one by one, depending on what dream I’d like to live for one day. But nothing ever escapes the walls of the room upstairs—everything just bounces off the four walls in their infinity. Then there will always be voices from the unseen corners of the room, imploring me to stay, to stay in this room where I can be happy.

But someone’s always knocking on the door, demanding that I come out. I never want to leave the room where everything is possible, but the knocks and the shouts grow louder outside, and I have no choice. But I know I can always come back, when I want to hide from myself—I just have to climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob, and I’ll be back where I belong.

Itim na Pusa

Mahirap magmahal ng itim na pusa. Para kang nilalamon ng gabi, ng kadiliman na parati mong tinatakasan ngunit hindi magawa. Nagpapanggap na kabiyak, ngunit anino mo lamang pala. Kapag umaali-aligid sa labas ng bahay, unti-unting nalilipat ang kadiliman ng gabi sa loob, hangga’t di mo na makita ang mga salitang binibitiwan mo. Hangga’t di mo na mahagilap ang bukas.

Mahirap magmahal ng itim na pusa. May mga mala-gintong mata na wala namang pinapangakong kaliwanagan. Kumikislap, pero nakakasilaw. Kumikinang, pero may maitim na budhing nagtatago sa likod ng liwanag. Mga mala-gintong mata na tatagos sa sarili mong budhi; kaakit-akit kasi.

Mahirap magmahal ng itim na pusa. Kikiskis sa iyong hita, ibabalot ang buntot sa braso mo, maglalambing hanggang lumubog ang buwan. Hahawakan mo ang kanyang buhok, padadaanin ang kamay sa bulubundukin ng kanyang katawan, ngunit wala siyang mararamdaman. Nais lamang niya bumalik sa buwan at iwan ka sa kamalasan.

Mahirap magmahal ng itim na pusa. Mahirap talaga.

New Year's Eve

Tomorrow, a new chapter will begin,
nothing will end. Every second is ending
that hollow space of time that lingers
only in headlines, in scraps of paper,
in memory, that space of time
I plucked petals from, slowly
counting days and nights, waiting
under the stars. Everything was a dream
shot down, like those fireworks sent up
to light the evening, to reveal the face
of our maker, if he even exists,
to knock on his gate, to remind him we are here
in case he forgot. They flash before my eyes,
humbling me, reminding me I am human,
that every dream is just waiting
to burst in a million colors
and fall back to where they came from.
They flash across the sky, merrily
glowing, blinking, dying, reminding
that Eve is just around the bend, waiting
under the stars, waiting to burst
in a million colors, hiding in this Eden.

The Black Charade

When red stains in your bed finally scream out
the end you’ve always lived for—
will that day ever come? When the blackness
stops pumping blood through your veins,
when your heart stops bleeding

the razor edges of rusted blades, paper-thin
aspirations, mapped cuts screaming
their silent shout, thoughts of passing on
your darkness to nature, portents
of vultures overhead—will they ever happen?

They will never happen. There are tears
in the curtain you lowered; a knowing wind
would part it completely, and the light would peel off
the paint you darkened yourself with.

Love for the Ignorant

On this night, when the stars seem to exist
only for the two of us, when they fade
the darkness from our paths, love is just a word

tossed around to rouse all the quiescent rage
of the sea inside you, for my waves have long been
churning and turning their pages for the past

days and nights that linger in memory—silent
walks along streams of consciousness, momentary
grazes of our eyes and skin, the parting of lips

to utter the four-letter word I have always held
back. And it has yet to part my lips, still lost
at sea, for I fear I will make you look pretty

ugly, and you might utter an apology, in five letters
for brevity. So there it keeps tossing against the dark
waters, pleading against the harsh spray of salt.

Free Flow

slowly they form
winding paths cutting
into each other,

shining the shade
of what love
used to be before

the omens came
knocking, opened
your eyes to real

suffering; and you let
your love flow
slowly, endlessly,

happily, watched
its tendrils creep
and fall with a drip.

The Sin of My Creation

I wish I was born
in streets drenched with blood

dripped from the cracks of every unborn
dream, flowing to the heart
of being,

so I could never create
lies such as this

These Are Strangely Hopeless Aspirations

Instead of being foolish
in wishing, I will cut
those strands of hair shorter
than they ever were, hollow
those eyes for another’s, and kill
time for good. I will forget

what I wanted, wish solitude kills
the past that never sparked
into motion, the stillness
of the night, obstacles
never pushed. Nothing is better
than coming to terms with no words
spoken at all—it makes me happy

that there was no cause
for pain, no cause
for longing
for eternity.



For all those faceless people/immovable objects in my life

On Writing

To write is not to be
sunk deep within
oneself, but choking
on fruit that falls
before your bare feet.