Papier-mâché

Kung ang bawat lubid na hawak ko ay sumusukat sa tatag ng aking pananampalataya, huwag mag-atubiling lagyan ang bawat dipá ng alambre habang ang mahabaging Diyos ay nasa hawlang mababasagín: hitík sa mga bulaklak—plastik, sintetiko, sintetiko ang paniniwala ko, sapagkat kayà kong humulma nitó habang tinutulak ako ng lupón ng kapulisang hindi batid ang dasal kong dalá. Bakit ako tinutulak ng kapulisan sa pagtawid sa tulay na sarado? Hindi ba nila ako naiintindihan, at ang aking inang nasa aking balikat; sa kabila, ang aking amang uugod-ugod ngunit kapantay ng mga paa kong tumatapak nang walang sapín, habang dinadampi sa kulubot na mukha ang bente-pesos na bimpong binili sa Divisoria para lámang sa okasyong ito, para lamáng sa okasyong ito. Ika : "Anak, ang baryang ipinambili ay gáling sa Diyos, pero ang kapahamakan sa pagtapak ko ay hindi ko matatatap.” Uminom ako ng de-boteng tubig: isang lagok kaalinsabay ng kilometrong sakripisyong pagliligtas. Isang lagok, dalawang dagok, ako a...

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris.   Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall   where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor,   as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn   from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.

If gratitude were a garment, the fiber of it would be unworthy of display: teal-colored, whose unique existence was never entertained. It was small-sized, and how it will be quickly disfigured with a pointless needle. My agony, my griet, my thirst: the only time I quenched them was when I held a cold pair of hands, and it was months ago. If gratitude were a garment, it would not fit like my grandmother's sleeves, as it was never knitted for it to be worn; unless, the bones were to be excavated from the crevices of this broken earth. The woman whose love was unrequited, and whose fashion was a delight: once open for bidding— now priceless. I witnessed her fitting for white cushion-which she was sleeping with-became her last. If gratitude were a garment, it would receive stares,   as "glory days" have never walked towards me, for I was always naked.

Kinalakhan ko ang sabi-sabing nasa piso si Rizal upang madaling maabot ang mga tao. Naalala ko at pinakatitigan ang kaláwang ng baryang ito ay ilang taon na ring naglalakbay: pinambayad ng mga alaala; naging kapalítan ng kendi; gamit pangkiskis sa kongkreto; pinang-ukit sa pangako ng pagmamahal sa isang bato. Hanggang sa ipinambato sa fountain na kinalakipan ng pangakong pagmamahal o dalangin ng kagalingan. Ang pagpapahalaga ay humigit sa pisikal na hitsura nitó—umikot-ikot hanggang sa maging panagdag na lámang sa mga okasyon, sa handaang hindi sapat ang limang pirasong perang papel. Pisong Rizal, kawawang káwal ng lipunan; naging limitado sa sukling kung minsan ang pagtanggap ay labag sa kalooban. Kabaligtaran sa mga naniniwalang magsasabing siya ay minsang nanahan sa ilalim ng marmol— nakahimlay nang walang pag-aalinlangan kung paano iikot ang sikulo na kinabukasan ay magmumula sa gatilyo ang kanyang kamatayan. Sapagkat dalawa lamang ang bahagi ng barya: ang tao at ang ibon— isang ta...

If I were to talk about a father the arcs of his ears are enough, yet, he would not talk, just like the heavens when you plead, as he is better now: he does not hide in his paternal loop, nor would he ridicule my son I have been hiding. He once knew that what was not written was unprincipled; now, I talk and he pertinaciously listens, unbothered by my pretentious tone. He speaks, but only at night— with his melted heart. I taught him to be more man: now, he would cling to me as if I were  a wife who cooks for her. I used to watch him with Mom's self-made perspective;  however, sometimes, you really have to switch taste—I still love horror,  but not anymore from my father's. After all, he still sees the child in me and the afraid. A father should be called pink and he shall not flinch. Freed from guns and loads, and he shall not be defeated; for he is still, and abandon is not his last name, as I still reweave his first name in my poems. He has been with me:  inherite...

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

" Death and life are a friend ,"  the old lesson keeps bludgeoning me. Death ripples through the streams and creeks that flow near the homes that depend on recollections.  Each of these bricks used to be housed by fine architectures,  now bound by white bands and prayers. On the front porch, the most-welcoming wreath of carnations,  which are enveloped by symmetrical stanchions,  greets every person that comes through it.  And I thought: if death comes near,  then life is nothing but sprout of vine reaching its arms to a far cry,  and never will it give you time to read every sentence death foretells. In this house, it now gives homage to the days I could remember but never hold. Here, I witness: Candles are as still as my stiff existence,  while the quietness of each life in the room screams. The sympathies dress black and how regrets strip my skin. But how could a friend hurt you when they only visit you once? That every gaze to the rectang...