Listen, My Love!

Yours is my love:

Listen!

I am here and you are here.

I come here

With all my books,

My clothes,

My beard and my moustache,

My blood, and

My sanity.

Listen!

I come here

To adore you:

Your lips are like

the sweetness of the honeybee;

and the softness of the sponge

that takes in my all love.

Your eyes are like

the brightness of yellow sun.

Your smile is like

the sharpness of the tip of an arrow.

I love you.

I love you because

you are you;

not because of your soft lips;

not because of your bright eyes;

not because of your sharp smile.

I love you because

there is LOVE in you.

Love that is LOVE.

Nothing else.

No-one else.

The Accusations On Display

I have been accused of using foul language to those I wish to get in touch with.  I have been accused that I have hurt them because I failed to sugarcoat my line of communication.  According to them, why not use the "unfriendship" phrases to your friends to avoid the accusation of malice and romance sedition. 

Nevertheless, I rest my case.  There are persons that cannot be my friends.  There are persons that are bound to be my enemies.  There are persons that soon-to-be my assassins.  I love them all.  They strengthen my individuality.

The Threat of Inferiority

This piece is a garbage.  A decomposed body of exaggerated compressed ideas.  Let me have the royalty flavor.

i live
in a
murky cabinet,
dark,
so dark.

i cannot
even touch
my skin
nor scales,
nor hair.

i cannot
see
my face.

the self
in me
is not
the self
i see.

I find this piece as very difficult to deal with.  This is still incomplete.  The organization is not yet good nor fine.  Terribly bad.  I don’t know.  I want to write something extraordianry yet I resort to the ordinariness of the extraordinary.  Why is this so?  I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  am a bug, a pest in my soul.

i can talk

yeah, i can talk.  i can talk to the stars during the warmth of the night.  i can talk to the sun during the coldness of the day.  i can talk to the people who are yet to be humanized.  i can talk to the gods who are yet to be divine.  i can talk to the children who are yet to go younghood.  i can talk to the elderly who are yet to be old.  i can talk to the chipmunks that can shout as clear as the whiteness of the wheat flour.  i can talk to the crickets that can whisper as thin as the strand of the squirrels hair.  i can talk to the book when it remains standing on the the shelf.  i can talk to the statue of Buddha when it really motions to a laugh. yes, o yes, i can talk.

i can really talk in a prison cell.

Walking on Thorns

   Journalism has been tagged as the watchodg of the society.  It investigates the abuses of the public officials.  It affrims the neglected God-fearing individuals.  It defends the victims of the injustices.  However, how far has journalism stood on its feet?

   Being the loides voice of the society, journalism can remain peaceful without silence and loud without noise.

   For the sake of integrity, journalism can deliver peace to the people without silencing iteself from truth and impartiality.  It can deliver news of true events like the illegal logging in REal, Quezon that resulted to numerous victims of flash floods.  It can criticize the scams and anomalies of both the opposition and the administration.  It can show botht he cries of teh crime victims and the defenses of the crime suspects.

   For the sake of responsibility, journalism can remain loud but not noisy.  It can condemn the unscrupulous public officials by just presenting and criticizing their malicious acts, not destroying their dignity as human beings.  It can humor the readers by showing the laughs and the gags of its funny subjects and interests, not ridiculing the personhood.  It can report about the murder victims by presenting the details of the scene and story, not emphasizing brutality and luridness.

   Doing journalism is not easy.  It requires strong-willed commitment to peace without silence and lpudness without noise.  With the present condition of the media that it is now labelled as a "threat to democracy" by the government, how far has journalism stood on its feet?

pinapatulan ang blogging?!?

  Bakit nga ba pinapatulan ko ang blogging sa friendster?

   Nakakatawa ang pagbla-blogging sa friendster.  Sinusulat ko ang mga bagay  na pumapasok sa isip ko.  Minsan nagmamadali akong nagbubukas ng internet para lang maisulat kaagad ang nilalaman ng isip ko sa mundo ng cyber.  Pero depende kung maganda ang pakiramdam ko at walang inaatubiling gawain sa buhay.  Nakakatawa talaga.  Lalo na pag may nagbibigay ng komento sa mga sinusulat ko.  Meron din palang nag-abalang basahin ang mga kalokohan ko sa pag-iisip.  Nakakatawa talaga.

   Nakakatawa ang pagbla-blogging sa friendster.  Bawat entry na sini-save ko ay nababasa ng mahigit 100 "friends" ko.  Di ko alam kung marami na ang nagmumura sa mga "kabalbalang" nababasa nila sa bawat entry ko.  Di ko alam kung marami na ang dismayado sa mga maling balarila ng pantaong komunikasyon na nababasa nila sa bawat entry ko.  Di ko alam kung marami na ang mga naiinis sa pagkakaiba-iba ng aking thoughts na nababasa nila sa bawat entry ko.  Nakakatawa talaga.

   Nakakatawa talaga ang pagbla-blogging sa friendster.  Pati tula sini-save ko.  Tula nga ba ‘yung mga sinusulat ko?  Ewan!  Sabi ng literature community, hindi raw mga tula kasi sa blogging nilalagay ko, maliban sa malamya talaga ang mga tula ko.  Lahat daw ng mga nilalagay sa blogging ay pangtweetums  lang daw.  ‘Yung mga pan-diary lang.  Walang arte.  Walang porma.  Walang totong kahulugan.  Sa ibang salita, kabalbalan.  Ewan!  Nakakatawa talaga.  Pero may mga manunulat din na galing sa blogging ang kanilang mga sinusulat.  May isa nga akong alam na kinompile mga blog entry n’ya sa iisang libro at pinalimbag.  Binabasa na nga ata ngayon ng publiko pati ng mga mapopormang manunulat.  Nakakatawa talaga.

   Nakakatawa talaga ang pagbla-blogging.  Nagbla-blogging lang ako pag-walang binabasang libro; pag walang pinagkakaabalahang mga bagay na may katuturan.  Nakakatawa talaga.  Bakit? Di ba makabuluhan ang pagbla-blogging?  Ewan.  Pano nalalaman ang isang bagay na may katuturan siya?  Ewan!  Ewan!  Ewan!  Nakakatawa talaga.

   Sandali, bakit nga ba ako nagbla-blogging?  Nakakatawa.

To the Lady of my Present, Future, and Forever

To the Lady of my present, future, and forever:

your gleaming beauty

pricks the thin pericardium

of my assertive love-assistant

dwelt in my humble chest;

it then goes deeply into the soft septum

and diverts to the right ventricle,

rupturing the frisky blood corpuscles to extreme exuberance;

until it marches to the right semilunar valve

and swerves to the hulking aorta…

My assertive love-assistant shudders in glee.

You are enough for me to live.

Not my possession, but equity;

Not my object, but subject;

Not my pleasure, but happiness.

To the Lady

I love you
but I do not own you;
for love is reciprocity;
for love is justice;
for love is utopia.

I love you.
You love me.

We love us.

a question of romancing the delights of good life

Nowadays, people are still believing that they can live upward despite the atrocities they suffered with and the bleak sight of the hope they peep.  They believe that they can still be with the person they dreamed of despite the 1, 000-mile of living separately.  They believe that they can still eat a roasted turkey despite the available food they have is only a grass.  They believe that they can still have the person-of-their-dreams loved them despite the daily quarrels and the sadistic grudges they encountered with him/her.  They believe that the place they live in is still a good place despite the murky floors and tattered walls.  They believe that they can still drink a champagne despite the unsanitary liquids they gulped everyday.  They believe that they can still live in a country with a just president despite the innumereable unwarranted ferocious killings of the inhabitants.  They believe that they are still the "voice" of the nation despite the muteness of their shouts.  They believe that that there is still hope for their lives despite the death they have already.

Good life?  It is still a question.  However, do we still have a reason to go on living?

Only If I Want

i can dance like a saxophone being played by a drunkard suffocated by the passion of an alcohol,
but only if i want;

i can sing like a screeching wheels of a Volkswagen car model driven by a psychotic heterosexual,
but only if i want;

i can kiss the cracking lips of an old maid having an affair with a vibrant teen tarnished by his stupidity,
but only if i want;

i can hug the bony shoulder of the lackadaisical celebrity woman famed by her pretended enigmatic words of advice,
but only if i want;

i can cry by myself with all my hatred against humanity and the illusion of love despaired by the limits of time,
but only if i want;

i can shout down my heart exhumed from the tyrannical mundane somatic organic system extinguished by immortality,
but only if i want.

I can, but only if i want.