abo sa dila

May iniisip ka? Oo. Ano? Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.

Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
O, ha, Plurk, o, ha!
Radyo? Radyo?
Libreng humirit

Mag-exercise tayo tuwing umaga
Tambay ka muna
Lokal Kolor
Ano'ng hanap mo?
Basa lang nang basa
Tropa ko

    na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito

this is why i've sworn on my granny's grave never to pick lamar odom in a fantasy league draft
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Ladies and gentlemen, I interrupt our regular programming to present to you: A video of Lakers forward Lamar Odom walking the ball inbounds.

That made my day. E miski sa pick-up games hindi namin ginagawa 'yun, e.


posted by mdlc @ 10:53 AM   2 comments
Renga Que Rico 10/27
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
There are times when I need
to be reminded that I am home.
Cobwebs and the sad texture
of bricks. Wobbly dinner tables. Large,
haunted windows, where the daze
of the afternoon passes through 
the grooves of a small child’s
fingerprints. Where will these lines
lead? What fate do they shape
with their whorls?
And you say they hold no truth.
What will the elders say? The shamans,
nobody will listen…
Only the child convinces. The small fingers
write with colored paint, what old mouths
deign not say
through cracked lips and raisin-leather hands
with glistening eyes of wisdom, lined with crow’s feet
of laughter and pain, pain and laughter—
the same words again, throbbing,
and again from different people:
Home and my little knuckles,
Turning white from the knowledge of shamans:
That the magic goes away.  

Joel Toledo, Marne Kilates, Pancho Villanueva, Sasha Martinez, Karl de Mesa, Mikael de Lara Co, Mo Francisco, Marie La Vina, Glenn Atanacio


posted by mdlc @ 5:07 PM   1 comments
As Courage, to Camus
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Because I cannot be held, let me
tell you that I am a rock, mythical
and heavy and unyielding to wind
and time and all things that speak
of erosion. I am the midsummer heat
saying, Look, Albert, that bird has faded 
into song, the song has faded into memory,
memory has faded into you and you
have faded into memory, mine.
And we will fade as the bird has.
What need for me, then, a word
hollow as the warm barrel of a gun?
My brothers call to me from their graves,
saying mean, because there is no other way
to live. What does it matter? 
Look, Albert, that star has died 
lifetimes ago and yet it burns still. 
Look, Albert, another bird 
is streaking across the sky, another sky
unmindful of the many words for sky
that have died. Look. Let me stay
here some more, dear stranger
that I am, under this vast gray waiting. 
Let me keep my eyes open.
I mean, let me mean
myself for a while.

Labels: ,

posted by mdlc @ 4:03 PM   0 comments
On Speculation and the Patronizing Nature of Writers Who Think They Know You
Thursday, October 02, 2008
“Mikael Co, for example, has made his mark on the Philippine poetic landscape because he writes excellent nationalistic poetry in both English and Filipino (he's a back to back Palanca 1st prize winner in Poetry in both languages)- why can't there be poetry for pinoy scifi or fantasy?”
- Dean Alfar

Because poetry does not concern itself
with genres. Because today the first man
died of hunger and that is not at all
speculation, that is a lie. Because the nation
is also a lie and the truest thing I can say
does not concern it: it concerns me
and the mud-caked hemline of a flower
-vendor’s skirt, rain, sunlight browning
the blood on a corpse’s hands still clenched
around a gun. Oh dear granddaddy
of contemporary Filipino fantasy, dear
Jedi-master, I’m no Padawan of yours,
so thank you for mentioning the Palancas!
Now people will start calling me, asking
to give me handjobs and blowjobs
and writing jobs so I can pay the phone bills
I’ve racked up from calling my sister abroad.
She’s wiping the pus off this language’s bed-sores.
She liked Jude Devereaux and Nora Roberts
back when she still had time to read.
Now she’d rather dream of coconuts. Dear
English I’m getting tired of the way
I have to use commas all the time so let me
just tell you that people who haven’t even read
my poems shouldn’t call them nationalistic
because they aren’t. You see, once I wrote
about Mebuyen and her thousand tits
and Bulan with her one silver eye
and now everyone thinks I jog everyday
with the Philippine flag draped over my shoulders
singing Di na, di na, ‘nde, ‘nde, di mababasa
ng ulan
, but really I don’t have stories
to tell about them. Only lies. Mebuyen’s
boobies have been sucked dry. Bulan’s eye
is infested with flies. See how I rhyme?
Dear Salamancero whom I’ve never seen
with his shirt untucked, dear
Corporate Communications Executive,
thank you for mentioning my name,
now I’m getting so many blog hits I can run
for President of D’Jalangawngaw, Eighteenth
Republic of Kuriyapong, tenth planet from
a sun borne of the collective swelling
of our lungs. Dear Mr. Speculative Fiction,
is this scifi enough for you? Fantastic enough?
Here I am, come, draw your light-saber.
Your photon thingawhatever.
Cast your black fucking lotus.
I can hear the moon howling
an oyayi now, singing hush hush hush
which means Huwag kang maingay
may naglalaba
, which of course is also
a lie. This is a lie. This is a poem.
Watooom! Watoom! Watoom.
That is the sound of a heart.


posted by mdlc @ 12:28 PM   13 comments
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