Twenty-four and going

May 1, 2007

When you say thirteen,
the first thing that would probably come to mind
would be bikes. Or more specifically, bike rides.
Bike rides over the small tuft of land near the backyard,
near the road. You practice little exhibitions infront of  your friends. They copy you meticulously, as if this were a test. Whenever you leap, you choose a place to land on - somewhere that would break your fall if things go wrong.

Finally, when you grow older you ride your bike on the street, braving the new world laid out before you. Notice that I said when, not if. This is certain, this swift moving from one time to another; the passing of certain rituals that you would have to shed lest everyone leaves you young and untroubled.

As the years pass, you acquire new exits. Slowly, you drink in what you think
is your life. You become successful with a few things. You get someone to love and
a pet dog thrown in. You come home every night tired, willing
yourself to stay awake and not give up. The bruises you have accepted remain
like bright goldfish do in filthy aquariums. The bruises you have forgotten stay
silent and watchful, as if they, as well, have been forgiven.

Occasionally, you read new poems, write things that surprise even you, bake a cake, go
on travels to places you have not been to, decide on your faith, take the leap, swing the bow, walk the walk, stand on the edge; your life, a mosaic of cliches that you cannot leap out of. You no longer look in
the mirror. It's been years since you last screamed.

Tomorrow, you wake up and you are twenty-five. All of a sudden, you are
all flabby arms and slight paunch; hoping against hope that today would end soon enough, swiftly. You wish that you had woken up eighty with left-arm arthritis and a  wheezing cat. Or maybe, not at all.

These are the years, talking like stealthy ghosts
and  as you lie on your bed taking time, you discover the finite truth : that there truly is nowhere to land now, finally, stripped as you are.

I am Arnold, age 8

I am eight and I am in love with Mrs. Fields. Everyone else says she isn't a real person but she is.

I've seen her. She wears a red-striped apron, tied surely and wisely around her waist as if she is always afraid that it would fall off and leave her extaposed. She is as thin as one of the Somalians I've seen on a picture once. She also has brown skin, like she has been kissed by sunshine many times. A strand of her hair keeps falling out of her neat bun and she tucks it in and looks around, hoping that no one has seen her . I have but I don't count because I'm just eight and have baby fat.

I go to her every Sunday, after mass. I tell my parents I'm going to meet some friends but really, I'm just going to the mall to see her. I stand by her stall, watching her put delicious cookies into small paper bags for customers who do not care about her. Maybe they're afraid of Mr. Fields. But I'm not. One day, I'll earn enough money and go to her and say "You never have to work here anymore." Just like how my dad said it to my mom before he got l-a-i-d o-f-f and started drinking. One time, I saw Mama hide a bruise under her left shin. She saw me look at it and she covered it with the hem of her skirt and said, "Bobby let's play." Mama thinks I don't understand but I do.

Mrs. Fields, she won't get no bruises from me. I will love her and love her so much and she'd feed me little bits of those crunchy cookies Mama likes so much. And I will be un-fat and su-sesful and very strong. And Mrs. Fields, she'd be so darn happy, she'll change her last name to Santos.

On my way to my lover’s house.

When I stepped on that train, it was easy to forget you
and think about another. Forgive me but it was.
I looked at street signs instead and was reminded
how, one afternoon, he said, the green light is you.

It surprises
me, how easily I shed you. It's as if the years have
fallen like leaves.

I shake my head and try to think about you, on
my way to my lover. This is because I do not
want to be too confident about him, about the way
his inexperienced eyes travel all over me. I think I am
something new altogether.

This does not feel at all like cheating - my coming
and going, turning around to face a world that is rid of you.
This chair is not yours, for once;
this heart, these singular feelings.

I know that I have waited for this. I have crouched under
the bed and thought less and less about
the sinews of your body, your bright eyes. It's as if
this was written somewhere,as if the road that I am
travelling now is taking me somewhere entirely new, hopeful.

 

I like it because it is simple. It is simple because I like it.

BUS

Miguel Pancho 

samahan mo kaya ako
sa paglakbay sa mundong ito?
abutin ang mga pangarap
lumangoy sa mga ulap
o kaya’y magtampisaw sa baha ng Cubao
magmeryenda ng isaw
mangdaot ng tao
habang kumakain ng halo-halo ni aling
rosario
isusulat ko ang lahat
dito sa aking aklat
parang ang bus na ito
may mga bagahe
may kuwento
pero ayoko din namang magsumamo
na sige na, subukan natin’to
ang gusto ko’y manggaling din sa ‘yo
lambingin mo ako
bigyan ng mga rosas
mahalin ng walang kupas
sana nga ganito ang bukas
isang pagsasamang wagas
nguni’t basbas ng Maylikha
ay hindi ko pa nakikita
kailan kaya malalaman
na ikaw na nga ang walang hanggan.
hayaan mong namnamin ko muna ang bawat araw
na ang kapiling ay ikaw

why i write about you.

1.

I have written a lot of poems about you because it
is easy to write about you. Let's say today, I think about
the way your neck arches and expands when you are reaching
for something. I say, on paper, "Your neck is a gazelle's" because that
is what I feel like writing at that particular moment. Or yesterday, your eyes twinkled when
I said " I think you are all the Christmas trees of my life." which may mean that
you are heavy, solid, built for further use. But you do not think this and
do not ask any questions because it is flattering to be
simplified on paper. Because you think that it is hard to lie about things
one writes. You are right, I do not lie when I write about you but as I've said,
it is easy. I can do it with my eyes closed, like I did you one night
in September. I groped and grappled for your warm, welcoming
body and eased my way in out in out until you cried and said
no more no more.

After this narrative, I could say that I
loved you less or  I loved you more but I really could not put that
down in print because it might be held against me.

2.

There are a lot of people who say that
it is hard to write about love. I don't think so. You can just dream up one scene
where the heroine looks like Wynona Rider in Reality Bites and the
main guy would look exactly like Johnny Depp.

They are in a library. (Do you notice that libraries are romantic? Musty books and a hand intertwined with yours, for once, not your own. Heartbeats beating with Poe's)

He says aloud "I do not want to live alone in a world of beautiful words."
She says "I feel the same."

She bends and hides some imaginary tears, happy for once.

Things are as simple as that.

3.

Another scene. The girl is late. He is looking at his watch and
around the dingy bar where they've decided to meet for
the nth time. He decides to dream about her before she gets there.  How the conversation will
unfold. How, little by little,  they would trick themselves into thinking
that this is the way things should be. They will hide behind curtains, indiscreet for once
because they think this is right.

But she never shows. He hails a taxi, looks out the window and notices that it is raining.

Things are as simple as this.

4.

So you see, I find it easy to write about you.
On paper, I set the stage; different meeting places, different scenarios,
all of which end with you walking away. In secret, I have a penchant for
scenes of you leaving. It is more interesting really,
than if you had stayed. If you had, you would complain about growing old
while growing old. Slowly, your face would turn into a live wire map
of uncertainty.

But not when you leave. When you walk away in my dreams, my heart is broken 25 ways til Sunday. I can sense it, throbbing neatly, almost elegantly; without any real blood spilled, any real feeling.

5.

Yesterday though, I wrote about your hands. How
fitful they seem at times, especially when
you try and undress me. They tremble so
much that I undo my buttons myself.

I am worried about you.

But one time, I remember when it rained and
you managed to cup some of the raindrops in your hands. Your hands,
steady and unfrightened for once; your mouth saying, suddenly, "look! look!"

6.

There are days when I'd like to write about
something else. Something more relevant and soulful like hungry children
in Somalia, war-stricken veterans who have lost the
will to hear things, women who are abused by their own fathers. I have
to admit, when I write about you, their images cross my mind. They are as fierce
as tigers. They say, Politics! Commitment! Atrophy! Integrity!

But I like this, what I have with you.
I hide under the blankets. I am not ready to
give anything back.

To Petra, who decides not to return

The day you decide when you've had
enough of America,
I know that you will start longing
for the tart taste of fish sauce on
your tongue, the smell of onions emanating from your
mother's fried rice, weather that's as inconsistent
as a lover, the privilege
of spitting on walls that are stained with
irresponsibility.

That day, I know that you will
be talking about how it was during
afternoons when you watched that funny game show host
and laughed loudly, wholly
with your friends, whose skins were as
brown as yours was. You will talk about how
hollow you felt
that day when you were walking along
the cold, unfamiliar streets when everyone,
for minutes, looked like patches. You remember hugging
yourself fearfully, wondering how you came to this.

Then, I will know that it has happened;
You pack and unpack the memories that you
stowed away in boxes to make them seem less real to you, less
reachable somehow. You let them caress you now; let them bear fruit.

I realize that we now speak in different languages.
I can no longer tell you that
there is nothing more beautiful than
walking home in the afternoons and watch the sky turn grey
after a rare rainshower. Or how
good it feels to read DH Lawrence while eating
pumpkin sweets in the afternoon
Or even just the simple clamor that the bottle collector's bell
makes as he goes home
to his five children, all of whom do not know
the difference between an empty and a full stomach.

One day, I plan on sending you a postcard. On it, there will be nothing but
a quaint picture of dried leaves and at the back, I will write
Forgive my happiness.
I have betrayed you all.