Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world
Painful to me
Pierce right through me
Can't you understand
Oh my little girl
.
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
.
Vows are spoken
To be broken
Feelings are intense
Words are trivial
Pleasures remain
So does the pain
Words are meaningless
And forgettable
.
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
.
Enjoy the silence
- Depeche Mode
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Reception
He would watch television soon after waking, catching up on the world lightly spinning
.
and headily, with the latest news soon forgotten and washed over wars and stars brutally
.
fighting for air time beauty soap commercials breakfast shows morning mass broadcasts
.
take all tragedy cruelty comedy beauty barrage garbage god in without blinking perhaps
.
only seeing static, both cataracts were growing worse, into a translucent screen showing
.
only shadows, blurred pain. Out of nowhere he would chuckle out of cue, missing punch
.
lines, while someone got left behind by the love of her life, a politician danced and sang
.
in a campaign ad, another typhoon drowned another poor province, ending credits rolled
.
and every time I would bite the ache back and laugh with him. I remember getting asked
.
how I saw death. Someone turning the TV off, I said and it seemed so witty at that time.
.
I would watch him as snow slowly came into the picture and ask to hear one more story
.
about him, the war, grand old films, the ground orchids he kept, wanting to stay tuned in
.
but he would only look at me and absently smile. During the funeral rain fell right on cue
.
and messed up the reception so badly I saw almost nothing, only people planting flowers
.
deeply in the grass. Yet whenever I rewound, replayed the episode I would always hear
.
a light laughter, on particular scenes, like when they opened his box for a last screening
.
of sorts, then the rain of flowers. Like I am hearing it now, soft and scratchy and surely
.
not of this world, this electric wound, as I switch to a station-less channel and patiently
.
search among the static, stars and planets for him staring at the screen as I am, waving.
for Lolo Kanor
.
and headily, with the latest news soon forgotten and washed over wars and stars brutally
.
fighting for air time beauty soap commercials breakfast shows morning mass broadcasts
.
take all tragedy cruelty comedy beauty barrage garbage god in without blinking perhaps
.
only seeing static, both cataracts were growing worse, into a translucent screen showing
.
only shadows, blurred pain. Out of nowhere he would chuckle out of cue, missing punch
.
lines, while someone got left behind by the love of her life, a politician danced and sang
.
in a campaign ad, another typhoon drowned another poor province, ending credits rolled
.
and every time I would bite the ache back and laugh with him. I remember getting asked
.
how I saw death. Someone turning the TV off, I said and it seemed so witty at that time.
.
I would watch him as snow slowly came into the picture and ask to hear one more story
.
about him, the war, grand old films, the ground orchids he kept, wanting to stay tuned in
.
but he would only look at me and absently smile. During the funeral rain fell right on cue
.
and messed up the reception so badly I saw almost nothing, only people planting flowers
.
deeply in the grass. Yet whenever I rewound, replayed the episode I would always hear
.
a light laughter, on particular scenes, like when they opened his box for a last screening
.
of sorts, then the rain of flowers. Like I am hearing it now, soft and scratchy and surely
.
not of this world, this electric wound, as I switch to a station-less channel and patiently
.
search among the static, stars and planets for him staring at the screen as I am, waving.
for Lolo Kanor
Sci-Fi
It was about how each time we turned
the aircon on, or drank soda cold
from the ref to quench this heat
or, prepping up for a party in the ‘80s,
sprayed our hair stiff, we punched
holes through the ozone and let a bit
more sunshine in. Just how much
Robert Smith contributed to this
I don’t know. Luckily, the scientists,
saviors of the day, found out before
we turned toast. They banned CFCs.
I remember how as I kid I almost
flunked a final because I couldn’t
spell Chloro Flouro Carbons. It also
showed people being sorry in the whole
wide First World. They took the invention
back, siphoned it from car engines
and other machines using these metal
digital leaches, safely stored it somewhere
else, the postmodern shamans, sucking
the poisonous substance from this
throbbing urban heart. I remember God,
the universe and here we are at its center
warring with ourselves, both the virus
and the cure. I was counting
on shamans and their newfound magic,
science before we all self-combusted
but who was I kidding – who prepared
the potion in the first place? I fetched
another plastic bottle of iced cola,
flicked a burnt cigarette butt out the
apartment window, flipped channels
and, knowing exactly what I was,
raised my arms up high like an antenna
calling for aliens to blast me quick,
welcoming the heat.
the aircon on, or drank soda cold
from the ref to quench this heat
or, prepping up for a party in the ‘80s,
sprayed our hair stiff, we punched
holes through the ozone and let a bit
more sunshine in. Just how much
Robert Smith contributed to this
I don’t know. Luckily, the scientists,
saviors of the day, found out before
we turned toast. They banned CFCs.
I remember how as I kid I almost
flunked a final because I couldn’t
spell Chloro Flouro Carbons. It also
showed people being sorry in the whole
wide First World. They took the invention
back, siphoned it from car engines
and other machines using these metal
digital leaches, safely stored it somewhere
else, the postmodern shamans, sucking
the poisonous substance from this
throbbing urban heart. I remember God,
the universe and here we are at its center
warring with ourselves, both the virus
and the cure. I was counting
on shamans and their newfound magic,
science before we all self-combusted
but who was I kidding – who prepared
the potion in the first place? I fetched
another plastic bottle of iced cola,
flicked a burnt cigarette butt out the
apartment window, flipped channels
and, knowing exactly what I was,
raised my arms up high like an antenna
calling for aliens to blast me quick,
welcoming the heat.
Erasure
When you treaded mountains together.
Because you renounced your god
Marx, and have become one of
the people you used to laugh at
smoking in Session together
Remember. when you treaded mountains
with him it wasn’t you being Jesus just
you being drunk and dreaming
of revolution; not to save
but be saved. Safe in your urban ways
years later, you still dream. Sometimes
when the traffic is bad and you have time.
You wonder if he’s one more of the missing
they parade in rallies, his face a relic,
testament, argument, the equivalent
of an ad poster. You wonder
why he deleted you from his Friendster©
friends a month ago.
Was he trying to save you
from being tagged “Terrorist”
and dragged into the cause by
not being friends with you anymore
or do you think too highly of him? and he
has become your God and condemned you
middle class. Here in the country,
the traffic’s always bad.
Your pointer finger taps your chest
you can’t bring yourself to beat
anymore, searches for Backspace
there. between the quiet beats. of
some sad mtv© generic. you know
he’ll never sing. again.
Because you renounced your god
Marx, and have become one of
the people you used to laugh at
smoking in Session together
Remember. when you treaded mountains
with him it wasn’t you being Jesus just
you being drunk and dreaming
of revolution; not to save
but be saved. Safe in your urban ways
years later, you still dream. Sometimes
when the traffic is bad and you have time.
You wonder if he’s one more of the missing
they parade in rallies, his face a relic,
testament, argument, the equivalent
of an ad poster. You wonder
why he deleted you from his Friendster©
friends a month ago.
Was he trying to save you
from being tagged “Terrorist”
and dragged into the cause by
not being friends with you anymore
or do you think too highly of him? and he
has become your God and condemned you
middle class. Here in the country,
the traffic’s always bad.
Your pointer finger taps your chest
you can’t bring yourself to beat
anymore, searches for Backspace
there. between the quiet beats. of
some sad mtv© generic. you know
he’ll never sing. again.
Digital Deaths
It had girls in various stages of undress
and decay, this video I caught in the net
while paddling from the beach that was
this computer café. They resembled fish
I gawked at as a kid who went with his
mom to the market after Sunday mass,
cut up and bleeding, scaled, their gills
scooped out so I was sure they were
beyond saving, the girls on screen,
shots of them interspersed with scenes
of the band playing a song about them.
I marveled at how death is nothing
but death, only bodies in music
videos. While beside me a boy cries
out as he dies and dies and dies again
in an online game, outside the world
is plugged in to this electronic vein
sucking the blood out of those living
and dying in digital, I am visiting
your blog, a graveyard for your words
unread and wishing I brought flowers,
mourning the radiant epitaphs.
.
.
Comic Aging
You always arrive in the studio
first, the more popular of the cast
being fashionably late, keep in mind
the few segments you will be in
totaling less than ten minutes
but still you wait for hours until
show time. And still you wait
your turn for the bright lights,
canned applause. They call you
out for one of the main portions
along with the other hosts and you
excitedly ask a staff if she could
please put more powder on your nose.
You walk out and wave at the crowd
clapping at someone else, an upcoming
comedian whose wisecracks you
find offensive and you do not get
why the bastard is suddenly so
loved. Throughout the competition
you try to loosen up contestants,
asking silly questions and making
sillier faces and feel a twinge every
time someone answers wrongly.
Meanwhile, the bastard is cracking
up the house again. You deliver
a joke you made up that morning
while waiting in the dressing room
and nobody laughs. The klieg lights
start to feel oppressive and you
wipe your eyes with a wrinkly hand.
You look out at the audience,
afraid they might have noticed.
Seeing nobody looking back, you sigh
and pine for the old days, how they
cheered. If only you could watch
yourself. If only you could watch
me here in the couch rooting for you,
remembering, old clown,
big baby, I love you
three times
a day.
.
.
Ghosts
We were checking the mountains
for ghosts. Watch out for flickering
light, moving shadows, warned one
of us shaking in sudden awareness
of the cold, possible encounters.
Submitting myself to the spirit
I pushed off the cliff and let go
of your hand, hovered over land,
brushed the edges then plunged into
the blackness of forests, the heart
trembling with discovery. Then I felt
something jerk me up and toss me
to solid ground, and when I looked
I saw your hand firmly around mine.
There are other things to worry about
you said and we all fell quiet.
We were thinking about the men
who wandered the vicinity while
we ate dinner with striking miners,
their M-16s, and the pockmarked face
of the mountains. Fearing the worst,
I wanted to cry but you took my hand
and thumped it against my chest. I want
to tell you how that night I heard
beating chants, epics echoing from beyond
the trees as I strayed from the group,
before you found me. But I have drifted
farther than you could have imagined,
thinking of a radio script for acne
cream here in the office, looking out
at the tall, flat buildings, and you
have been gone for years.
Opening a window, I lean against the
black sky without wavering and see
myself falling on the passing traffic.
All this time I have always felt
your hand, that now I have no fear
or wonder or even flowers
on my desk, only confessions
to make, this version of faith.
It had girls in various stages of undress
and decay, this video I caught in the net
while paddling from the beach that was
this computer café. They resembled fish
I gawked at as a kid who went with his
mom to the market after Sunday mass,
cut up and bleeding, scaled, their gills
scooped out so I was sure they were
beyond saving, the girls on screen,
shots of them interspersed with scenes
of the band playing a song about them.
I marveled at how death is nothing
but death, only bodies in music
videos. While beside me a boy cries
out as he dies and dies and dies again
in an online game, outside the world
is plugged in to this electronic vein
sucking the blood out of those living
and dying in digital, I am visiting
your blog, a graveyard for your words
unread and wishing I brought flowers,
mourning the radiant epitaphs.
.
.
Comic Aging
You always arrive in the studio
first, the more popular of the cast
being fashionably late, keep in mind
the few segments you will be in
totaling less than ten minutes
but still you wait for hours until
show time. And still you wait
your turn for the bright lights,
canned applause. They call you
out for one of the main portions
along with the other hosts and you
excitedly ask a staff if she could
please put more powder on your nose.
You walk out and wave at the crowd
clapping at someone else, an upcoming
comedian whose wisecracks you
find offensive and you do not get
why the bastard is suddenly so
loved. Throughout the competition
you try to loosen up contestants,
asking silly questions and making
sillier faces and feel a twinge every
time someone answers wrongly.
Meanwhile, the bastard is cracking
up the house again. You deliver
a joke you made up that morning
while waiting in the dressing room
and nobody laughs. The klieg lights
start to feel oppressive and you
wipe your eyes with a wrinkly hand.
You look out at the audience,
afraid they might have noticed.
Seeing nobody looking back, you sigh
and pine for the old days, how they
cheered. If only you could watch
yourself. If only you could watch
me here in the couch rooting for you,
remembering, old clown,
big baby, I love you
three times
a day.
.
.
Ghosts
We were checking the mountains
for ghosts. Watch out for flickering
light, moving shadows, warned one
of us shaking in sudden awareness
of the cold, possible encounters.
Submitting myself to the spirit
I pushed off the cliff and let go
of your hand, hovered over land,
brushed the edges then plunged into
the blackness of forests, the heart
trembling with discovery. Then I felt
something jerk me up and toss me
to solid ground, and when I looked
I saw your hand firmly around mine.
There are other things to worry about
you said and we all fell quiet.
We were thinking about the men
who wandered the vicinity while
we ate dinner with striking miners,
their M-16s, and the pockmarked face
of the mountains. Fearing the worst,
I wanted to cry but you took my hand
and thumped it against my chest. I want
to tell you how that night I heard
beating chants, epics echoing from beyond
the trees as I strayed from the group,
before you found me. But I have drifted
farther than you could have imagined,
thinking of a radio script for acne
cream here in the office, looking out
at the tall, flat buildings, and you
have been gone for years.
Opening a window, I lean against the
black sky without wavering and see
myself falling on the passing traffic.
All this time I have always felt
your hand, that now I have no fear
or wonder or even flowers
on my desk, only confessions
to make, this version of faith.
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