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Genarro Rafael Pascual
Rain in midday summer and the grass blanched by the thick settling of fog. As if the skies, unable to piece a pattern of seasons, conjectured rain. Blood on the driveway, water spilling from the skies and purifying whatever remains may soon putrefy. The diluted substance being sucked by the hungry earth, as they were carried away from the streets. If you would let your eyes linger towards the source you’d see bloody skin and skewered bone, flailed flesh and muscle beyond repair. And the blood coming from tattered veins, drained from the microscopic canals of an eye tombstone-still, despite itself. Then turn back time a little, bone, flesh, vein, muscle, skin and spilled organs all a-tatter, slowly forming into something familiar, the clothes she wore sewing itself anew. The car lights, a pair of orbs all blinding wrath of churning electricity, about to seep back into the fog. The girl, barely eighteen, waiting for a lover under the rain. Wheels screaming with as much pitch as their throat-lacking selves can throw. The man on the wheel, the look in his eye, the umbrella at the back of his car even though he was sure it wouldn’t rain. The girl was not alone, the first of a thousand bullets barely touching her skull –
Suddenly, the movie crashes, and you play it again; and in this scene you see the car skidding to a stop, smoothly as it should be. The boy stepping down, with his clichéd smile, and the scene that follows which you’re entirely familiar with. It was summer, truly summer. The golden eye of the sun bared the world and all its colors in the limelight. The hug, the kiss, the zooming at the faces and the lips, as if it was all that matters. All was according to script with nothing left out, and the cameras roll, and you doze off. The movie will end sometime but the last thing you saw was the kiss, and the fields beyond blazing abloom.
When you wake up, it’s summer, and it’s raining. You think of how the weather evades prediction. How nothing is certain, how you’re never secure.
not a foreshadowing of my (math) exam
Joseph Raphael Bunao
She's a good person, a very good friend…
She values her friends. She likes to go out with them. Sometimes when you eat outside, you may notice that she can eat her fried chicken using only her spoon and fork! She is patient and methodological. If it has to be done in a certain way, she'll do it in that way. That's why even if its hard, she won't use her hands. And maybe if you're lucky, she'll buy you an ice cream. She wouldn't care if you're messy eating it. She might tease you though. You can't get mad at her when she looks at you with her adorable eye-smile.
If you have something to say to her, say it. She may look intimidating but she's really not. You can share a lot of memories and stories with her. Even if it’s as stupid as worrying about your ear because you can barely hear but in the end you realize that it’s just earwax, she'd still like to hear it. She would tell you many many stories of her own. She likes it if you two have a pet name. She would like to call you that way. It makes you feel much closer.
If she gets mad, just smile and listen. She has a point. You just have to listen and understand it. Don't get mad at her. Even if she looks at you like that, just smile. She doesn't mean it. She just wants things to be correct. If she asks you something or asks you to do something, answer her straightforwardly. She does not like it if your words do not make any sense. Be consistent with your words and she'll smile at you for it.
She's smart. She can teach you something that you didn't know: from a trivia word like "wherefore?" to an antiderivative. She likes exquisite things. If you're picking a movie to watch with her, pick the middle ages themed ones; the ones from Europe or particularly, from England. She would like that. But she also likes trinkets from Japan or Korea. She resembles their girls of their delicate-looking population. Anyway, if she invites you to watch a Korean movie, watch it with her.
If she's bored and wants to go somewhere, go with her. Accompany her. Tell her everything. Spend as much time with her. If you want to give her a gift, do it sweetly. Give her a gift that she likes and that you've put so much effort on. Have confidence. She wouldn't like it if you go to her, shaking. Make sure that your sentences are complete. Don't break down into broken words. She's very understanding, but she wouldn't be able to understand you if you're like that. Just make sure that your words do make sense. And after you've given it to her, when the feeling is right, hug her. If you do it right, she might blush.
And if she calls you after a long break, and you tease her about missing you, and she agrees even if you had constrained her to answer that, and you have fully decided your feelings for her, tell her that you love her. Don't be stupid, you should tell her.
If you have her, don't let her go. You wouldn't want her out of your life. There shouldn’t be even a teardrop that would creep down her cheeks. Of course she still likes a lot of stuff not mentioned. And her character is not restricted to the ones stated. You still have your whole life to find out. She's a good person, a very good friend and the most beautiful girl in the world. Take care of her. Protect her. Make her happy. Do that and you'll also be happy. Promise that.
She's a good person, a very good friend…
She values her friends. She likes to go out with them. Sometimes when you eat outside, you may notice that she can eat her fried chicken using only her spoon and fork! She is patient and methodological. If it has to be done in a certain way, she'll do it in that way. That's why even if its hard, she won't use her hands. And maybe if you're lucky, she'll buy you an ice cream. She wouldn't care if you're messy eating it. She might tease you though. You can't get mad at her when she looks at you with her adorable eye-smile.
If you have something to say to her, say it. She may look intimidating but she's really not. You can share a lot of memories and stories with her. Even if it’s as stupid as worrying about your ear because you can barely hear but in the end you realize that it’s just earwax, she'd still like to hear it. She would tell you many many stories of her own. She likes it if you two have a pet name. She would like to call you that way. It makes you feel much closer.
If she gets mad, just smile and listen. She has a point. You just have to listen and understand it. Don't get mad at her. Even if she looks at you like that, just smile. She doesn't mean it. She just wants things to be correct. If she asks you something or asks you to do something, answer her straightforwardly. She does not like it if your words do not make any sense. Be consistent with your words and she'll smile at you for it.
She's smart. She can teach you something that you didn't know: from a trivia word like "wherefore?" to an antiderivative. She likes exquisite things. If you're picking a movie to watch with her, pick the middle ages themed ones; the ones from Europe or particularly, from England. She would like that. But she also likes trinkets from Japan or Korea. She resembles their girls of their delicate-looking population. Anyway, if she invites you to watch a Korean movie, watch it with her.
If she's bored and wants to go somewhere, go with her. Accompany her. Tell her everything. Spend as much time with her. If you want to give her a gift, do it sweetly. Give her a gift that she likes and that you've put so much effort on. Have confidence. She wouldn't like it if you go to her, shaking. Make sure that your sentences are complete. Don't break down into broken words. She's very understanding, but she wouldn't be able to understand you if you're like that. Just make sure that your words do make sense. And after you've given it to her, when the feeling is right, hug her. If you do it right, she might blush.
And if she calls you after a long break, and you tease her about missing you, and she agrees even if you had constrained her to answer that, and you have fully decided your feelings for her, tell her that you love her. Don't be stupid, you should tell her.
If you have her, don't let her go. You wouldn't want her out of your life. There shouldn’t be even a teardrop that would creep down her cheeks. Of course she still likes a lot of stuff not mentioned. And her character is not restricted to the ones stated. You still have your whole life to find out. She's a good person, a very good friend and the most beautiful girl in the world. Take care of her. Protect her. Make her happy. Do that and you'll also be happy. Promise that.
Blooming Season
Genarro Rafael Pascual
Creases on paper like footsteps on wet sand
Your steps, going away now, the muse
Ebbing towards the edge, the horizon. I stare
In the coupling of all the colors into one: White:
Bone, eyes looking towards the heavens, seeking
Inspiration in the emptiness of a blank canvas.
Creases on paper like footsteps on wet sand
Your steps, going away now, the muse
Ebbing towards the edge, the horizon. I stare
In the coupling of all the colors into one: White:
Bone, eyes looking towards the heavens, seeking
Inspiration in the emptiness of a blank canvas.
Synesthesia
Genarro Rafael Pascual
Senses nothing but symbol, we have not
learned to sort sight from sound, image
from metaphor.
Dropped into the world, scrambling to
arrange and separate, to create shapes
from the little we are given.
Making sense, and then deconstructing,
reanalyzing, sieving fibers of sound,
melodies of color.
Your touch, redolent of fresh rain water
about to tap my drenched, deaf, skin,
my tongue, my parched self.
The world thus analyzed, the blur slowly
being formed into focus, as if stepping
back from an enormous portrait.
And I hear, the sound of hair slipping in
between forefinger and thumb, white
giggles from red lips.
The signs, symbols. How seemingly one
melds with another. Warm smile, a speck
of moonshine song.
Laughter, embracing me, stories and yet
more symbols. Then suddenly the world,
scrambling to separate.
Hand reciting elegies, feet singing away.
We were taught to separate image from
metaphor. I suppose
we forget from time to time. Some things
we carry on as we grow older. I’ve been
struggling to make more shapes,
seeking more of what was given. I step
back as I stare at the wider perspective:
the picture never clearer,
the picture never ends. Step back a pace
and it continuously unfolds. I am lost
in a blur, understanding nothing.
Senses nothing but symbol, we have not
learned to sort sight from sound, image
from metaphor.
Dropped into the world, scrambling to
arrange and separate, to create shapes
from the little we are given.
Making sense, and then deconstructing,
reanalyzing, sieving fibers of sound,
melodies of color.
Your touch, redolent of fresh rain water
about to tap my drenched, deaf, skin,
my tongue, my parched self.
The world thus analyzed, the blur slowly
being formed into focus, as if stepping
back from an enormous portrait.
And I hear, the sound of hair slipping in
between forefinger and thumb, white
giggles from red lips.
The signs, symbols. How seemingly one
melds with another. Warm smile, a speck
of moonshine song.
Laughter, embracing me, stories and yet
more symbols. Then suddenly the world,
scrambling to separate.
Hand reciting elegies, feet singing away.
We were taught to separate image from
metaphor. I suppose
we forget from time to time. Some things
we carry on as we grow older. I’ve been
struggling to make more shapes,
seeking more of what was given. I step
back as I stare at the wider perspective:
the picture never clearer,
the picture never ends. Step back a pace
and it continuously unfolds. I am lost
in a blur, understanding nothing.
Blue Label
Ingrid Acosta
The bed’s vibrating.
That was the first thing that went through my head, the strangeness of it all cutting through my state of grogginess. After feeling the vibrations a couple more times, I realized that it was my phone ringing in the dead of the night.
As I did not dare to open my eyes, I groped around for the damned electronic device until my hand rested on a familiar rectangular shape.
I tightened my hold, and slowly took a peek at it. A single name was being flashed on the screen, in time with the vibrations.
I pressed the call button, and raised the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”, I managed to croak.
“It’s about Micah. Can I come over?”
I gave a disgruntled response, as I pushed myself up into a sitting position. A glance to the analog at my bedside table showed that it was two fourteen.
“Give me five minutes, okay?” Then I hung up.
~
The door swung open to reveal Mark. His hair was in a tangled mess, glasses were perched precariously on top of his nose bridge and shadows were under his eyes.
“You look terrible.” He glowered at me, as I gave him a once over. He stopped in front of the foyer’s square mirror and ran a hand through his hair. It remained unruly as before.
“Come on,” I dragged him towards the kitchen, where a bottle of Absolut Vodka stood waiting on the countertop. I pushed it towards him.
“Go make drinks.”
~
We found ourselves out on the porch, both nursing drinks. The wind blew, and I snuggled into the jacket he lent me.
“Thanks for everything Jill. I really appreciate it.”
I snorted. “As if. You’re just thankful for the alcohol.”
“No. It’s not just that.” He put down his glass and placed his hand on the post, near where my shoulder was. The thump thumping of my heart began to speed up, as he inched closer. Is he going to...?
And then he stopped moving, choosing to stare at some point a few inches to the side of my head.
He cleared his throat. “I should be going.”
I nodded.
He carried the glasses and the back inside, and bid me farewell. He promised to call and zoomed out of the house, all in under a minute. I locked all the doors in his wake.
Back in the kitchen, I threw out the bottle of vodka. The remaining one fourth of it be damned. Almost automatically, I crossed over to the other side, and withdrew from a shelf an unopened bottle. I placed it inside the fridge, sat with his folded jacket on my lap, and waited.
The bed’s vibrating.
That was the first thing that went through my head, the strangeness of it all cutting through my state of grogginess. After feeling the vibrations a couple more times, I realized that it was my phone ringing in the dead of the night.
As I did not dare to open my eyes, I groped around for the damned electronic device until my hand rested on a familiar rectangular shape.
I tightened my hold, and slowly took a peek at it. A single name was being flashed on the screen, in time with the vibrations.
I pressed the call button, and raised the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”, I managed to croak.
“It’s about Micah. Can I come over?”
I gave a disgruntled response, as I pushed myself up into a sitting position. A glance to the analog at my bedside table showed that it was two fourteen.
“Give me five minutes, okay?” Then I hung up.
~
The door swung open to reveal Mark. His hair was in a tangled mess, glasses were perched precariously on top of his nose bridge and shadows were under his eyes.
“You look terrible.” He glowered at me, as I gave him a once over. He stopped in front of the foyer’s square mirror and ran a hand through his hair. It remained unruly as before.
“Come on,” I dragged him towards the kitchen, where a bottle of Absolut Vodka stood waiting on the countertop. I pushed it towards him.
“Go make drinks.”
~
We found ourselves out on the porch, both nursing drinks. The wind blew, and I snuggled into the jacket he lent me.
“Thanks for everything Jill. I really appreciate it.”
I snorted. “As if. You’re just thankful for the alcohol.”
“No. It’s not just that.” He put down his glass and placed his hand on the post, near where my shoulder was. The thump thumping of my heart began to speed up, as he inched closer. Is he going to...?
And then he stopped moving, choosing to stare at some point a few inches to the side of my head.
He cleared his throat. “I should be going.”
I nodded.
He carried the glasses and the back inside, and bid me farewell. He promised to call and zoomed out of the house, all in under a minute. I locked all the doors in his wake.
Back in the kitchen, I threw out the bottle of vodka. The remaining one fourth of it be damned. Almost automatically, I crossed over to the other side, and withdrew from a shelf an unopened bottle. I placed it inside the fridge, sat with his folded jacket on my lap, and waited.
Pag-ibig ba ito?
General Puke
Ang hirap talaga pagka
Kasama kita, nakapatong
Sa namamaga kong instrumentong
Pambata – este, instrumentong
Panggawa ng bata pala.
Tumitigas ang buong pagkatao
Ko, hindi lang ang haba ng aking
Pagkalalaki, pati na rin ang kabilugan
Ng aking ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Balls.
Kung hindi lang sana ako nadisgrasya,
Kung hindi lang ako nasiko sa kuwan
Mapapakawalan kita, o icepack.
Ngunit habang namamaga pa
Ang aking injured G-Dragon,
Na pinablonde ko para kamukha
Ni Lady Gaga, nanamnamin ko
ang kakaunting panahong
Kasama kita.
Ang hirap talaga pagka
Kasama kita, nakapatong
Sa namamaga kong instrumentong
Pambata – este, instrumentong
Panggawa ng bata pala.
Tumitigas ang buong pagkatao
Ko, hindi lang ang haba ng aking
Pagkalalaki, pati na rin ang kabilugan
Ng aking ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Balls.
Kung hindi lang sana ako nadisgrasya,
Kung hindi lang ako nasiko sa kuwan
Mapapakawalan kita, o icepack.
Ngunit habang namamaga pa
Ang aking injured G-Dragon,
Na pinablonde ko para kamukha
Ni Lady Gaga, nanamnamin ko
ang kakaunting panahong
Kasama kita.
Acoustic Version (Haiku din)
Mahaderang Joklang Echosera
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH PO PO PO
POKER FACE… yun lang.
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH PO PO PO
POKER FACE… yun lang.
Lady Gago (Haiku)
General Puke
PO PO PO POKER
FACE PO PO POKER FACE PO
PO PO POKER FACE
(inspired by mother nature)
PO PO PO POKER
FACE PO PO POKER FACE PO
PO PO POKER FACE
(inspired by mother nature)
Tagpuan
Iskandalosang Achuchuchu
Sa lugar na tagpuan ng langit at lupa, ang araw ay nakabitin. Dapithapon na. Mula sa gitna ng kanilang kuwadradong kusina, si Nena ay tatayo at maghahanda. Oras na para magsaing.
Kukunin mula sa isang sulok ang bigas sa lalagyanan nitong supot ng plastik. Gamit ang isang maliit na lata ng Milkmaid, dadangkot lamang ng kakailanganin dami, at ililipat ito sa kalderong nakatago sa katabing kabinet. Katulad ng bilin ng nanay, huhugasan ang bigas ng dalawang beses, at sisiguraduhin ang bahaw ay itatabi.
Tuluyan nang nagdilim, dulot ng biglang buhos ng ulan. Niyakap ni Nena ang sarili, ngunit di napigilang manginig nang isang malakas na hangin ang umihip.
Lilipat siya ngayon sa harapan ng kalan, at kukuha ng posporo para ito’y sindihan.
‘Nilalamig ka pa ba?’
Napatingin siya sa nagsalita, isang lalaking pag-aalala’y nakaukit sa mukha, at umiling. Kasabay nito ang pagdating ng isang malaking ngiti sa kanyang mga labi. Sumagi sa isipan ni Nena ang alaala ng kanilang pinagsamahan.
Dati ay nagpasya ang dalawa na magpiknik sa tabing ilog. Nang sila’y nahuling namamangka, ang tindi ng pangangantiyaw ng kanilang mga kaibigan. Ilang linggo rin nilang tiniis ang walang sawang pagsigaw ng ‘sobrang cheesy’ pag sila’y napaparaan.
‘Di rin nalalayo sa kanyang mga iniisip ang pagkakataon na minsang silang nag-away, bunga nang di mapagkasunduang pang-merienda. Salamat sa isang plato ng Lucky Me, at nagkaayusan din ang dalawa.
Minabuti ni Nenang silipin muli ang binata. Siya’y nakangiti habang dahan-dahang inilalapit sa bibig ang isang pulang tasang naglalaman ng mainit na kape.
‘Umuulan na. Masarap mag-Nescafé classic.’
Hoy, Nena, nagsaing ka na ba?, bulyaw ng nanay.
Ang maliit na sachet ng kape ay iniwan na lamang sa isang sulok, at dalidaling ipinatong ang kaldero sa kalan. Sa gilid ng kanyang mga mata, napansin niyang papalapit ang nanay.
Ngayon ka lang ba magsasaing? Kanina ka pa riyan nakatunganga ah! Wala ka nang ginawa kundi manood buong araw! Kasabay ng paglilitania ng inay ay ang pagpatay telebisyon.
Ang binatang kanina pa pinagmamasdaan ni Nena ay nasa loob na ng isang airport. Mukhang aalis nanaman siya’t magbibigay saya sa mga babae sa ibang parte ng mundo. Nagawa siyang ngitian ng binata bago tuluyang nawala.
‘Oh sige, ingat!’
CLICK!
Sa lugar na tagpuan ng langit at lupa, ang araw ay nakabitin. Dapithapon na. Mula sa gitna ng kanilang kuwadradong kusina, si Nena ay tatayo at maghahanda. Oras na para magsaing.
Kukunin mula sa isang sulok ang bigas sa lalagyanan nitong supot ng plastik. Gamit ang isang maliit na lata ng Milkmaid, dadangkot lamang ng kakailanganin dami, at ililipat ito sa kalderong nakatago sa katabing kabinet. Katulad ng bilin ng nanay, huhugasan ang bigas ng dalawang beses, at sisiguraduhin ang bahaw ay itatabi.
Tuluyan nang nagdilim, dulot ng biglang buhos ng ulan. Niyakap ni Nena ang sarili, ngunit di napigilang manginig nang isang malakas na hangin ang umihip.
Lilipat siya ngayon sa harapan ng kalan, at kukuha ng posporo para ito’y sindihan.
‘Nilalamig ka pa ba?’
Napatingin siya sa nagsalita, isang lalaking pag-aalala’y nakaukit sa mukha, at umiling. Kasabay nito ang pagdating ng isang malaking ngiti sa kanyang mga labi. Sumagi sa isipan ni Nena ang alaala ng kanilang pinagsamahan.
Dati ay nagpasya ang dalawa na magpiknik sa tabing ilog. Nang sila’y nahuling namamangka, ang tindi ng pangangantiyaw ng kanilang mga kaibigan. Ilang linggo rin nilang tiniis ang walang sawang pagsigaw ng ‘sobrang cheesy’ pag sila’y napaparaan.
‘Di rin nalalayo sa kanyang mga iniisip ang pagkakataon na minsang silang nag-away, bunga nang di mapagkasunduang pang-merienda. Salamat sa isang plato ng Lucky Me, at nagkaayusan din ang dalawa.
Minabuti ni Nenang silipin muli ang binata. Siya’y nakangiti habang dahan-dahang inilalapit sa bibig ang isang pulang tasang naglalaman ng mainit na kape.
‘Umuulan na. Masarap mag-Nescafé classic.’
Hoy, Nena, nagsaing ka na ba?, bulyaw ng nanay.
Ang maliit na sachet ng kape ay iniwan na lamang sa isang sulok, at dalidaling ipinatong ang kaldero sa kalan. Sa gilid ng kanyang mga mata, napansin niyang papalapit ang nanay.
Ngayon ka lang ba magsasaing? Kanina ka pa riyan nakatunganga ah! Wala ka nang ginawa kundi manood buong araw! Kasabay ng paglilitania ng inay ay ang pagpatay telebisyon.
Ang binatang kanina pa pinagmamasdaan ni Nena ay nasa loob na ng isang airport. Mukhang aalis nanaman siya’t magbibigay saya sa mga babae sa ibang parte ng mundo. Nagawa siyang ngitian ng binata bago tuluyang nawala.
‘Oh sige, ingat!’
CLICK!
SINAG LITERARY FOLIO 2010
ANNOUNCEMENT:
THE DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION FOR THE SALIDSID: SINAG-CSSP LITERARY FOLIO IS EXTENDED UNTIL FEBRUARY 28, 2010. SAME TERMS FOR SUBMISSION APPLY.
THE DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSION FOR THE SALIDSID: SINAG-CSSP LITERARY FOLIO IS EXTENDED UNTIL FEBRUARY 28, 2010. SAME TERMS FOR SUBMISSION APPLY.
Mechanics:
1. Literary folio submissions and/or contest entries is open to all bona fide students of the University of the Philippines–Diliman.
2. All submissions and/or contest entries must be unpublished and original works.
3. Submissions and/or entries must not be in consideration for publication anywhere else.
4. All submissions and/or entries become property of SINAG–CSSP after submission.
5. SINAG–CSSP reserves the right to publish submissions and/or contest entries, or otherwise.
6. SINAG–CSSP reserves the right to disqualify submissions and/or contest entries that violate the terms and conditions of the literary folio submissions and contest entry requirements.
7. You may submit a hard copy OR soft copy of your work.
FOR HARD COPIES:
Works must be sent to the SINAG –CSSP Office, First Floor, East Wing, Palma Hall, University of the Philippines–Diliman. Attached works should contain the name (pen names are allowed), student number, course, college and contact information of the author. In case of pen names, author must indicate his/her real name.
FOR SOFT COPIES:
Soft copies should be in rich text format (.rtf) or word format (.doc) and should be sent to sinagcssp@gmail.com with the subject “SALIDSID ENTRY.” Attached works should contain the name (pen names are allowed), student number, course, college and contact information of the author. In case of pen names, author must indicate his/her real name.
8. Submissions should adhere to the following restrictions:
FOR POETRY:
Works must not be longer than 500 words. We regret however, that we cannot guarantee that your poem will appear in its original layout (especially for graphic poems). It is recommended that works be limited up to 14 words per line and must have a maximum of 20 lines.
FOR FICTION AND CREATIVE NON–FICTION:
Works should be restricted to no greater than 2000 words.
9. SINAG–CSSP shall not be held responsible for any untoward incidents that may disable the publication of submissions and/or entries.
10. By submitting entries, you hereby agree to the terms and conditions of SINAG–CSSP regarding the literary folio submissions and contest entry requirements.
Free Cell
Genarro Rafael Pascual
You drown a shot of poison,
Tire sparks screeching down your throat,
A trail of ashes on the asphalt esophagus
Carving a signature –
You cannot always escape,
The cell waits for you, your number’s up,
The same as everybody else.
A shot in the darkness, the liquid
Weighs down and warms your belly,
You pick from the lain-down deck
And match the cards around –
Red diamonds like bullet stains,
A red heart throbbing above an ace
That goes to the cell upon conception;
The king that will always be the last to go,
Behind his cloven jacks and sevens,
Numbers for names in a pile tucked
In by the spades. Who’s to blame?
You killed your nameless God
With your Magnum named Maria,
Puked on his corpse and buried him on
The beach – who framed you?
The unknown culprit,
The hand that shuffles the game
Into meaningless probabilities; partly
A game of chance, partly a game of skill,
Partly chosen, in a prison of winding rules
By a being as detached and as dead
As coincidence. There is no meaning here;
There are just the player and the game,
Sometimes the cards simply don’t fit
together. ▪
You drown a shot of poison,
Tire sparks screeching down your throat,
A trail of ashes on the asphalt esophagus
Carving a signature –
You cannot always escape,
The cell waits for you, your number’s up,
The same as everybody else.
A shot in the darkness, the liquid
Weighs down and warms your belly,
You pick from the lain-down deck
And match the cards around –
Red diamonds like bullet stains,
A red heart throbbing above an ace
That goes to the cell upon conception;
The king that will always be the last to go,
Behind his cloven jacks and sevens,
Numbers for names in a pile tucked
In by the spades. Who’s to blame?
You killed your nameless God
With your Magnum named Maria,
Puked on his corpse and buried him on
The beach – who framed you?
The unknown culprit,
The hand that shuffles the game
Into meaningless probabilities; partly
A game of chance, partly a game of skill,
Partly chosen, in a prison of winding rules
By a being as detached and as dead
As coincidence. There is no meaning here;
There are just the player and the game,
Sometimes the cards simply don’t fit
together. ▪
Her Solid Universe
Genarro Rafael Pascual
Of course, I am talking about a place. For I myself am a place, and my physical limitations do not limit the limitations of one’s imaginings.
They tell you of kapre kingdoms that reside within my roots, within my tangle of trunks; though draw the curtains of my canopies, cleave open my body and there is nothing there but the stillness of my bark, that solid finality that kills the creativity of a mind.
Some regard me as a communal tombstone for several souls. But surely my horrid form brings no rest to those sleeping children beneath the world.
And then they tell you of other stories. Some may ring truer than others.
This is one of my stories.
***
I am talking about a place. At least with enough logic blurring – by way of metaphors and similes for instance – she may be considered a place.
Sweet child, I say to her on our last day together. Half-asleep, and barely noticing that I have spoken for the first time, she merely asks what it is that I want to say.
I gather my fruitless limbs and ruffle my leaves. The rain patters away, the wind lashes at my branches. I try to warm her as she rests against the brown comfort of my skin. The night sings with the melody of batrachian nocturnes.
This world has been unkind to you, I say in a voice of rattling foliage. If you will you may stay in this realm, for it has no ruler to speak of, and I myself am the realm. Through me, you can be an empress.
My empress.
She fixes herself in a cozier position within my trunks. Her beauty is a universe, where every giant is a dwarf. It takes me a while to catch the moving air and time it with my motion – to form my phrases, to form my voice.
“Then what?” she asks in her sleep before I can speak again. “I have a kingdom to rule but not a home.”
She sneezes. A high-pitched sound, reminding me of how little a creature she herself is. Or is it perhaps her distance defining her size?
A home is merely the longest place you’ve been in with the most comforting of company, I retort. In my realm, everything is as ageless as legend and there is no greater company than one who is the very place you belong to – where every floating molecule is a hand to wipe your tears away.
In my haven I am everyone, everything, everywhere.
“The only one, the only thing, the only place,” she whispers. “There’s no me, no thing for me, no time for me.”
The town twinkles a mile away, oblivious to us. And I think of why she’s here in the first place: to find a place for herself, to confide in the silence I offer. I try to count the fuzzy human lights but find them as countless as the stars. All those lights, and the only solace she finds is me.
Rain and mist blur the nightscape into a sleepy eye’s perspective: trembling and unclear. It is colder now. A small brown bird flies to me seeking shelter but I flick it away.
I bend my outstretched arm and huddle them closer to her. I raise some of my roots from underground to suck as much moisture from the surface she sleeps on, much as I can.
Sweet Child, I say. I give you a kingdom of myth, land not as far as the eye could see, but as far as one will it to be. I give you food and drinks yet to be conceived, poetry weaved from the very air you breathe. I give a world of white, with the freedom to etch your own imaginings.
Suddenly, she stands as if startled. She looks at me with wide eyes – blinking sparingly –taking in the hand-like configuration of my branches, as if trying to catch something invisible, unreachable. A moment of stares and she comes to herself, completely awake.
She takes a step back and whispers in a deadpan voice sturdier than any wood:
“You give me nothing.”
There were voices calling from the fog. “Daphne!” they shout. Lights part the haze and she follows them. The wind blows louder. The rain falls by the torrents, following a rhythm only it can understand.
Then sudden as it came, the rain stops. The clouds begin to scatter, revealing the stars.
And all is silent save for the twigs cracking with her every dimming step, ebbing towards the light, her solid universe. ▪
Of course, I am talking about a place. For I myself am a place, and my physical limitations do not limit the limitations of one’s imaginings.
They tell you of kapre kingdoms that reside within my roots, within my tangle of trunks; though draw the curtains of my canopies, cleave open my body and there is nothing there but the stillness of my bark, that solid finality that kills the creativity of a mind.
Some regard me as a communal tombstone for several souls. But surely my horrid form brings no rest to those sleeping children beneath the world.
And then they tell you of other stories. Some may ring truer than others.
This is one of my stories.
***
I am talking about a place. At least with enough logic blurring – by way of metaphors and similes for instance – she may be considered a place.
Sweet child, I say to her on our last day together. Half-asleep, and barely noticing that I have spoken for the first time, she merely asks what it is that I want to say.
I gather my fruitless limbs and ruffle my leaves. The rain patters away, the wind lashes at my branches. I try to warm her as she rests against the brown comfort of my skin. The night sings with the melody of batrachian nocturnes.
This world has been unkind to you, I say in a voice of rattling foliage. If you will you may stay in this realm, for it has no ruler to speak of, and I myself am the realm. Through me, you can be an empress.
My empress.
She fixes herself in a cozier position within my trunks. Her beauty is a universe, where every giant is a dwarf. It takes me a while to catch the moving air and time it with my motion – to form my phrases, to form my voice.
“Then what?” she asks in her sleep before I can speak again. “I have a kingdom to rule but not a home.”
She sneezes. A high-pitched sound, reminding me of how little a creature she herself is. Or is it perhaps her distance defining her size?
A home is merely the longest place you’ve been in with the most comforting of company, I retort. In my realm, everything is as ageless as legend and there is no greater company than one who is the very place you belong to – where every floating molecule is a hand to wipe your tears away.
In my haven I am everyone, everything, everywhere.
“The only one, the only thing, the only place,” she whispers. “There’s no me, no thing for me, no time for me.”
The town twinkles a mile away, oblivious to us. And I think of why she’s here in the first place: to find a place for herself, to confide in the silence I offer. I try to count the fuzzy human lights but find them as countless as the stars. All those lights, and the only solace she finds is me.
Rain and mist blur the nightscape into a sleepy eye’s perspective: trembling and unclear. It is colder now. A small brown bird flies to me seeking shelter but I flick it away.
I bend my outstretched arm and huddle them closer to her. I raise some of my roots from underground to suck as much moisture from the surface she sleeps on, much as I can.
Sweet Child, I say. I give you a kingdom of myth, land not as far as the eye could see, but as far as one will it to be. I give you food and drinks yet to be conceived, poetry weaved from the very air you breathe. I give a world of white, with the freedom to etch your own imaginings.
Suddenly, she stands as if startled. She looks at me with wide eyes – blinking sparingly –taking in the hand-like configuration of my branches, as if trying to catch something invisible, unreachable. A moment of stares and she comes to herself, completely awake.
She takes a step back and whispers in a deadpan voice sturdier than any wood:
“You give me nothing.”
There were voices calling from the fog. “Daphne!” they shout. Lights part the haze and she follows them. The wind blows louder. The rain falls by the torrents, following a rhythm only it can understand.
Then sudden as it came, the rain stops. The clouds begin to scatter, revealing the stars.
And all is silent save for the twigs cracking with her every dimming step, ebbing towards the light, her solid universe. ▪
Chenebang
Jei Ente
We don’t like ideas we can’t translate into language,
we cannot stand such primordial, esoteric eloquence
we cannot be but so boring and we never seize difference,
for fear of losing all articulation,
we sheepishly whisper to the world,
“Whatever,”
because that is all that composes our sense of sense,
a deep sigh for existence
and a scratch on the earth we stand on,
an oration to the bizarre state of mind
effectively concealed,
repressed,
skin and confusion,
a puff revealing a breath long invisible,
evidence of having no control,
relief for humanity so long evasive,
and poetry is nothing. ▪
We don’t like ideas we can’t translate into language,
we cannot stand such primordial, esoteric eloquence
we cannot be but so boring and we never seize difference,
for fear of losing all articulation,
we sheepishly whisper to the world,
“Whatever,”
because that is all that composes our sense of sense,
a deep sigh for existence
and a scratch on the earth we stand on,
an oration to the bizarre state of mind
effectively concealed,
repressed,
skin and confusion,
a puff revealing a breath long invisible,
evidence of having no control,
relief for humanity so long evasive,
and poetry is nothing. ▪
Tightening of the Strings
Ingrid Acosta
Mauve had spent the entire day snuggled in one of the many wooden benches in their courtyard. As she looked up from her book, the sight of lilies and violets lining the perimeter was a welcome distraction. Their once bright colors were now subdued shades of blue and gray, as homage to the changing of seasons. She shivered, and pulled her cardigan closer.
From her vantage point, the pathway of granite and basalt seem to have just sprung up from the immaculately trimmed grass lawn. Several of their outdoor furniture also littered the area, and a tricolored beach umbrella was propped up on one corner. In the middle of everything was an elm tree, and at its foot, the aforementioned bench.
She was pouring over ‘Princess Di Wannabe: How to Survive Life and the Intrigues in Court’, something her uncle had sent a few days after her arrival. She wasn’t sure if this was his idea of a practical joke; Earnest had a weird sense of humor that only a few could really understand.
Despite her better judgement, she had picked it up and was enjoying it immensely. She paused only to bid goodbye to her parents who were off to the opening of this gallery in the old sea port area. Or was that yesterday? Mauve shook her head, and tried to remember where they were.
Halfway through the third chapter (Etiquette 101: Going Beyond Dotting Your I’s and Crossing Your T’s), she remembered the letters that had come this morning, ones that she had yet to pay attention to. Mauve got a bookmark as to not forget the section where she’d stopped reading, page five hundred fifty-four, and promptly set the volume down.
The letters were arranged in a neat stack, teetering on the edge of the table. They were set there, “just to be on the safe side.” The cook had told her earlier, as he placed a silver tray nestling her favorite cherry-print tea pot, a cup and some sandwiches cut into tiny triangles.
She resisted the urge to glare, and settled instead to mutter under her breath, “I’m not a messy eater.” He gave her a small wave and reminded her to eat up “before the cold ruins my expertly brewed tea.”
She stared at the offending object before putting it, as well the memory of this morning’s breakfast, aside. The first one from the pile, hailed from the King himself. His seal of a lion with a crown resting on top of his glorious mane, and a shield and a sphere in both his hands, was quite a sight to behold. It was consequently taking up half of the envelope, and, Mauve squinted. She wasn’t sure if it was her eyes, but it seemed to be glinting underneath the sunlight, demanding that it be read before all the others. With a shaky breath, she broke off the seal and breezed through the letter’s contents.
So she was being summoned back to England, eh? Mauve hadn’t expected it to be this soon. ‘Something must have happened then.’ As she could remember, she was given a month or so to sort out her private affairs, and other whatnots. Uneasiness gripped her, as she rummaged the stack for her uncle’s letter. It was nearing the bottom of the pack and was devoid of Earnest’s usual seal. Mauve flipped open the envelope and began to read.
My dearest niece,
How are you, and how is Italy treating you? I do hope everything is well, that you are enjoying your vacation among other things.
Tension is high in the capital, as everyone seems to be on the edge more than usual. Some would attribute it the Second Prince’s return, whispering to themselves that he is the harbinger of misfortune. The members of the court are only interested to know why he had come back.
And so it begins Mauve, or so the conspirators would like to think.
Her uncle ended on a humorous note, and she could only shake her head and laugh. Mauve reached out for the book at her side, and turned it over. Examining the black flap, she noticed that a plane ticket was attached to it. She was set to leave in four hours. ▪
Mauve had spent the entire day snuggled in one of the many wooden benches in their courtyard. As she looked up from her book, the sight of lilies and violets lining the perimeter was a welcome distraction. Their once bright colors were now subdued shades of blue and gray, as homage to the changing of seasons. She shivered, and pulled her cardigan closer.
From her vantage point, the pathway of granite and basalt seem to have just sprung up from the immaculately trimmed grass lawn. Several of their outdoor furniture also littered the area, and a tricolored beach umbrella was propped up on one corner. In the middle of everything was an elm tree, and at its foot, the aforementioned bench.
She was pouring over ‘Princess Di Wannabe: How to Survive Life and the Intrigues in Court’, something her uncle had sent a few days after her arrival. She wasn’t sure if this was his idea of a practical joke; Earnest had a weird sense of humor that only a few could really understand.
Despite her better judgement, she had picked it up and was enjoying it immensely. She paused only to bid goodbye to her parents who were off to the opening of this gallery in the old sea port area. Or was that yesterday? Mauve shook her head, and tried to remember where they were.
Halfway through the third chapter (Etiquette 101: Going Beyond Dotting Your I’s and Crossing Your T’s), she remembered the letters that had come this morning, ones that she had yet to pay attention to. Mauve got a bookmark as to not forget the section where she’d stopped reading, page five hundred fifty-four, and promptly set the volume down.
The letters were arranged in a neat stack, teetering on the edge of the table. They were set there, “just to be on the safe side.” The cook had told her earlier, as he placed a silver tray nestling her favorite cherry-print tea pot, a cup and some sandwiches cut into tiny triangles.
She resisted the urge to glare, and settled instead to mutter under her breath, “I’m not a messy eater.” He gave her a small wave and reminded her to eat up “before the cold ruins my expertly brewed tea.”
She stared at the offending object before putting it, as well the memory of this morning’s breakfast, aside. The first one from the pile, hailed from the King himself. His seal of a lion with a crown resting on top of his glorious mane, and a shield and a sphere in both his hands, was quite a sight to behold. It was consequently taking up half of the envelope, and, Mauve squinted. She wasn’t sure if it was her eyes, but it seemed to be glinting underneath the sunlight, demanding that it be read before all the others. With a shaky breath, she broke off the seal and breezed through the letter’s contents.
So she was being summoned back to England, eh? Mauve hadn’t expected it to be this soon. ‘Something must have happened then.’ As she could remember, she was given a month or so to sort out her private affairs, and other whatnots. Uneasiness gripped her, as she rummaged the stack for her uncle’s letter. It was nearing the bottom of the pack and was devoid of Earnest’s usual seal. Mauve flipped open the envelope and began to read.
My dearest niece,
How are you, and how is Italy treating you? I do hope everything is well, that you are enjoying your vacation among other things.
Tension is high in the capital, as everyone seems to be on the edge more than usual. Some would attribute it the Second Prince’s return, whispering to themselves that he is the harbinger of misfortune. The members of the court are only interested to know why he had come back.
And so it begins Mauve, or so the conspirators would like to think.
Her uncle ended on a humorous note, and she could only shake her head and laugh. Mauve reached out for the book at her side, and turned it over. Examining the black flap, she noticed that a plane ticket was attached to it. She was set to leave in four hours. ▪
Smoke
Mary Roseann Ramirez
Unlit, orange and white, pencil-thin and three inches long, you watch as it is twirled on fingers with nails dirty and yellow. Your eyes travel to the arm, its prickly skin and little scars, focus on a red welt just above the elbow. Then you turn the other way when you see the drying gash on the thin, bare shoulder.
You are sitting in a jeepney caught in the afternoon traffic. The man beside you reeks of the day’s work. Two women in front gasp, giggle and whisper. They pout their painted lips. An old man in the far corner sleeps even as music blares from the dashboard. A squat man in his thirties has on huge black headphones; the office woman beside him. Coins rattle almost imperceptibly, the engine is idling, the heat threatens to suffocate. You look back at the seven-year old boy holding the cigarette.
He is in faded blue with the sleeves torn off, his shorts brown and two inches too short. You see the spindly legs, the knobby knees, the feet caked with dirt. He sits nonchalantly on the curb. You see there are others around him, older but no better off. He twirls and twirls the cigarette until someone throws him a light. The match flares and smoulders, the tip is lit. He takes a long slow drag.
You imagine his lungs shrivelling into black pulps, his breath turning acrid, his teeth—are all of them even permanent?—becoming frighteningly yellow. You recall that they have four-thousand chemicals and forty-three of them cause cancer. You try and fail to remember the statistics of people who die from it. A film clip of dying lung cells plays in the corner of your mind. You wonder if he already has asthma, bronchitis, pneumonia, and tuberculosis. You wonder who gave him his first cigarette. Father? Mother? Brother? Sister? Stranger? You picture him rummaging barefoot for cigarette butts in drainages, fending off traffic fumes while seeking deadly intoxication from the same element. You imagine him trying to quit, hands shaking, lids fluttering, until he cannot resist the pungent temptation. How young will he be then?
You wonder if anyone else sees. And if they do you wonder if they see what you see, if they can picture this boy’s fate as the smoke is suspended in his throat.
The word carbon monoxide flashes in red neon lights, then twirls itself into death, death, death. You imagine his eyes, veined and hopelessly worn in a future you are not sure he has, his lips cracked, fingers tar-yellow, hair brittle, as he coughs up blood.
You will those around him to make him stop, but they are caught in the heat of the afternoon. You speculate at how many others are like him, and how many others are like you.
You imagine the poison pulsing through his veins, hypnotizing his fledgling heart into submission.
He exhales and the traffic stirs. Your jeepney drives away from the boy whose childhood is being stolen by a pencil-thin stick three inches short. And you do nothing but stare at the smoke.
Some Things Left Constant
Genarro Rafael Pascual
“The world is what we define it to be,” her voice ripples like the fluid she stands upon. I cannot see my own feet, myself submerged knee-deep in wet, electric blue.
I am in a dream that is my only reality.
She turns, blurring as she does so. She starts walking, a slow, elegant gait – her every step without the evidence of weight. I waded through the pools, feeling the pressure against my legs.
The waters ripple, constant as the swing of a pendulum.
“There is blackness in most places,” she says, as slow as her walk, as if she has all the time to tell me the story of the universe. She probably has.
“Black is the color of nothing, it is emptiness – defined by the possibility of containing something. Defined by possibilities.”
The liquid laps at the cavernous walls all around. Chemical messages travel in millisecond intervals along forking veins that cling to the walls, painting the waters blue. In the new world, the waters will still be blue.
“You have chosen, yes?” she asks.
I nod, voiceless as the clay to be spun on the potter’s wheel.
She stops, and shows me the cause of the water’s constant rippling. It is a heart, my heart, half-sunk in the waters she walks upon. It throbs with life, but barely filling the chamber with blue.
“Let there be light,” she says. And the room fills itself with her statement.
I am in the light. There is blackness before me, and after me.
I am standing on top of a building twenty-four stories high -- a high-rise building. I remember briefly what it was like being before. I remember my heart. But the memory dissipates as fast as a midnight dream, as insignificant as a badly told joke.
My heart is inside of me, I tell myself. No longer rippling blue, it throbs to push the red that nourishes my flesh.
I see the tiny cars like ants, physically irrelevant to the whole of creation. But each contains at least one human – a universe of one’s own. A stellar maze -- a man’s path is as random as every form and color in the cosmos – and as hazy. But the man’s shape is his own mold, gathered from the darkness of looking back, for the darkness that looms ahead.
“The world won’t spin for you,” she says, tip-toed, touching me on the shoulder, “if you keep staring at it like that.”
“I was waiting for you,” I tell her, my voice as crisp as the cracking of a terracotta pot, “as for the movies... that's a different matter altogether, m'dear.”
We hold each other’s hands in equal footing. She walks as if every pace was a word in a story she didn’t have time to tell whole. Her smile’s as solid and smooth as the tiles we walk along. I tighten my hold, thinking of a pendulum, swaying, stopping in increments.
I am in a reality that is my only dream.
Faith
Genarro Rafael Pascual
On a tunnel with our hand-held lamps,
We hold the world a glance at a time,
From lines of human carving on walls
We clutch tightly at the dark, defining.
Walking on unlit soil, nothing is solid:
Ourselves anchored on black opal seas
With every step, a lipless prayer.
REM
Marie Julienne Ente
inaantok ako inaantok ako sa iyo inaantok ako sa inyo inaantok ako sa sarili ko tutulugan ko ang mga bayani mo tutulugan ko ang mga hangal at latak sa lipunan mo tutulugan ko ang kapakanan mo ko nating lahat dahil nakakaantok inaantok ako kahapon ngayon bukas aantukin ako nakakantok ang bukas na di pa dumarating pinapasan ko na nakakaantok ang mga pilosopiya mo tungkol sa sangkatauhan nakakaantok lahat ng pinaniniwalaan mo nakakaantok ang mabuhay sa yugto nito ng mundo inaantok ako sa rebelde mong pag-iisip at sa tuod mong pagkikilos inaantok ako sa sining inaantok ako sa kaalaman inaantok ako inaantok ako at ang hikab ko ay dinig sa dulo ng uniberso isang unibersong likha ng taong walang magawa kundi matulog at bangungutin ng mahimbing.
