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