For its brick walls were blotched with rednessLike a child with a high grown fever,The tolling of its bells, bounty and scared.
The plaza on its façade, a space of endearmentFor the taho vendors in selling their drinkable breakfastAnd the jeepneys whose wheels turning...
Exact is not the word; the hurting is felt in many places. - Joel Toledo
Mending is necessary as these respites from fragility will no longer do.
Mind the volume dial as it floods you with constants and firmitude.
Long before right from wrong: language stolen...
1
Night falls
I hear crickets
And the sound of waves
As the sea marks
A quiet day
Towards a somber weekend
2
I have lived with face masks
And face shields
For years
And where did they get me?
I learned to greet
With muffled voice
And learned to smile
With my own eyes
I learned how to...
In memory of the hundreds of trash pickers who perished in the garbage slide at the Payatas dumpsite on July 10, 2000
From the skeleton
Of disemboweled mattresses
Bent scrap of metal
You honed to pointed perfection
To stab at the refuse of the world
In this moment’s defeat
You...
I move chairs at midnight,
Adjusting my wife’s preference
Which one is facing which.
The cats are doing football
Banging on tables and walls.
All six of them,
Siamese versus Persian
All team High Maintenance.
My angry wife wakes up,
Reminding us she needs to sleep.
I’d pay for this in the morning,
When...
The chisel as creator
Lends shape to wood, to stone.
Shape being the truth of character,
Reality of body and bone,
Sculpted fact of form,
The confidence of matter.
The paintbrush as creator
Draws maps of rainbows,
Contours of celebrations,
Then blends faithful colors
With their reserved spaces.
Spaces being the measure of possibilities
That...
Sparta, thank youfor being my faithful friendI am not your masterYou are my teacherFor you taught me to smilewhen inexplicable sorrows came byYou are...
You have a thing for stars
and constellations, you announce
as we hang out in front
of our favorite sari-sari store,
each of us smoking a stick
of Winston...
On Sundays and belonging,And when I used to mess around with Lolo’s typewriter:Clicking and clacking the worn-out buttons, it is legacySounding against my stubby...