Matter Snipers

   

The silent dog bites;

the barking dog runs.

—a local proverb (free translation) 

Here come the poets mmmm

upon pens so remot mmmmmm

e from knowledge mmmmmmmm    ( e  .  c  .  h  .  o  .  e  .  s )

                                                             m m m m m m m m m

                                                             m m m m m m m m

                                                             m m m m m m m

                                                             m m m m m m

                                                             m m m m m

                                                             m m m m

                                                             m m m

                                                             m m

                                                             m

unlike the warrior the poet doesn’t think of

enemy lines though he roams about in exclamations—

while one soldier stalks . . . here climbs a belfry

for a better sight a proper knowledge of where

to shoot. the poet shadows an enemy line entirely

different, in a war of trying to get the print to

kill you, his enemy quite unseen. ho-hum.

whereas the warrior now sees the enemy camp,

the ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

poet still snipes for imagery in polemic subject-

predicates, structures, tones, and so on . . . with

a blind sight. and so on, and so on, and so on, and

so,

when the warrior dies

        blood drips from open mouth,

                a shriek from a TV scene viewer.

the poet dies in bed silence,

        too much lost through unneces-

                sary sermons ‘n’, oh you know

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ?

—23 Oct.--23 Nov. 1990

Epistemology of Calendars and Hourglasses

If we’re to wait for love
or death, won’t fate then
be nice to each human? Li
fe is wet on rainy days and
uh quickly dries, summers!
Just try and burn your v
alentine and then de
fine your every
dinner. Lo
ve is we
t in rai
ny walk
s but coul
d be dry as si
lver-dower : it’s
best when love is li
fe itself, as weak in bo
ne as clam in chowder. A
s truly fine shall be its tast
e, if not its every savour. L
ife is good if we can wait b
efore our hour is over, for
then you’ll see your every
walk as part of time’s des
ires in glasses’ bowers.

Testigo (Witness)

Ha halaba nga pulong, bisan marampag
                ha dughan
An pagmakasasala mo ha bagting
Han ak’ simod, ako la gihapon an
Mapainubsanon, ako, ako an madarahug
Nga ‘say naangay makigbisog ha lawod
Han kaarawdan, kay ikaw an naghalad,
Ikaw an kinmarawat han ak’ kamaisog
Nga malunod an ngatanan nga paghusga,
                O gugma.

Ha halipot nga pulong, bisan buong,
                bisan.

-------------------------------------------------

In the long way of saying it, although
     it’s flowery on the chest
Your sinning upon the tolling of
My snout, I am yet the
Humble one, I, I am the oppressor
Who deserves to fight at the depths of
Shame, for you were the one who gave
     offerings,
You were the one who received my valor
That all judgments drown, o love.

In the short way of saying it, though
     broken, even so.

Note: English translation from the original Waray by the poet. The line “bisan buong, bisan” (even broken ones, even) is derived from the local call of the used-bottles collector in Leyte (called magbobote in the Tagalog regions) who frequented the poet’s street in his childhood.

Ukol sa Isang Protestantismo Laban sa Inobasyon (On a Protestantism Against Innovation)

Kampanaryong di luhain, sin-
     turunan mo po ang
Simula nitong koronasyon,
Itong may mapanghamak na
     kopya
Ng pagbubunyag ng mga
     manlilinlang ukol
Sa kasariwaan ni Ptolemy.
                       Harinawa’y poot
Ang maghari sa palikuran
Ng mga pakitang-giliw na
     matutunghayan niyo
Sa kayo ng aming kapilyuhan
(Na magawi noong lumago
                       ang tunog nito
     laban sa kalakal,
Nguni ngayo’y nagkukumot sa
     pugad ng pagkaasiwa o
     pag-aalala)—dahil, sa huli,

Ang ngitngit bang yao’y minithing
     manira? Di ba’t
Ang dúke ng Luteranismo’y napaiyak
     lamang sa tuwa?

---------------------------------------------

Belfry not wont to shed tears,

        belt please the

Start of this coronation, this

With the scornful copy

Of an exposé by the fraudulent

On Ptolemy’s freshness.

                        Hoping that rage

Would rule in the toilets

Of affectionate display seen in

The paper of our prank

That used to bloom with an

                        anti-commerce sound

Yet is now blanketing itself in

                        a nest of unease or

        worry—for, in the end,

Did that heat seek destruction?

                        Didn’t the Lutheran Duke shed
        tears of delight?

Pasta Noodle Armies

   

“I mean, if the spaghetti hits the fan, now we’re really in trouble.”

—Gen. Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) in Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove

swimming with spaghettis

around your neck

                your death

                nears,

the color of spaghetti sauce

almost the color of

                        and you look

like me, er, like meat

ready for dinner, whichever—

                        ready-to-eat,

                            each

                        a ready meat,

                        ready me

                        ready to eat,

in spaghetti sauce!

ideally in communist countries

they serve dinners for

            the whole community

which in democratic countries

are self-served

            tho individuals have

            a choice . . .

but their choice engulfs them

            in desire that

            they become too

noisy to ever notice other

                dreamers

            dreaming of swimming

            in sad wine after

getting bits of pork.

in communist countries

they serve dinner for

            the whole community,

ideally, but their communities

            engulf them in such

            a passion that

            they become too

noisy to ever notice lone

                dreamers

            dreaming of swimming

            in unique recipes after

getting sauce.

whoosh! whoosh!

we look like meat—er, meet

            let us!?

ready to cook, ready-to-eat

ready meat, ready to eat—

never mind the sauce

reminding you of,

or precisely coz sauce
is almost the color of

Dump

  

As for those who would take the whole world

To tinker it as they see fit,

I observe that they’ll never succeed:

For the world is a sacred vessel

Not made to be altered by man.

The tinkerer will spoil it;

Usurpers will lose it.

For indeed there are things

That must move ahead,

While others must lag;

And some that feel hot,

While others feel cold;

And some that are strong,

While others are weak;

And vigorous ones,

With others worn out.

So the Wise Man discards

Extreme inclinations

To make sweeping judgments,

Or to a life of excess.

—R.B. Blakney’s translation of

Chapter 29 of the Tao Te Ching 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

And that is my poem.

—23 Oct. 1990

Ruskin’s Pathetic Fallacies for a Garden City

 

“I wonder mightily what sort of creature I should have turned out, if instead of the distracting and useless pain, I had had the joy of approved love, and the untellable, incalculable motive of its sympathy and praise. It seems to me such things are not allowed in the world. The men capable of the highest imaginative passion are always on fiery waves by it.”

—John Ruskin

 

Look, yellow-blue leaves! tumbling athletically
Downward without a parent. Typhoon’s giving

Them a dose, a treatment, and a last beating, as
I watch the play bemused, before the finale—

In heaven I can now see plant and man created
Equal, Gethsemane then, a garden. But that day

We clung to roots. Looked for our Asian lands of
Fading spaces and food. Ruskin thinking too much?

Ruskin, no doubt, was a city boy. So, we said, talk
To the leaves now; they looked often at me like

I owed them a poem. See, one day, my ill Wisdom
Did whisper to me: “would you want to buy some

Vegetables or would you rather farm yourself?
Well, even grasses need songs, so to forget their

Dream of walkin’ to Desertia.” I said, ach, my Sir,
Only snakes hide in grasses! Only fools speak

To bushes. “O okay, okay. So that’ll be your epi-
Taph, I don’t mind.” He closed a book of poems.

—2 Jan. - 7 Nov. 1986

Home-front

His neighbor threw him a cellophane bag o’ large fish innards, 
     his dog surveyed the treasure.
He started smelling it and then he saw it. His other neighbor 
Had a new stereo set from Saudi Arabia and it played a load 
     of love songs loud for the 
Whole subdivision to divine—So he sat at his 2nd-hand PC
     with a dirt-cheap CD drive
And played his own brand of intelligentsia rock, but another
     neighbor’s jeepney parked right 
In front of his house with its own splendid car stereo, its reply-
     sound of quick cymbals and drums
Transforming the subdivision into a sophisticated community.

This was a day in the democratic life of the poet from his
     imagined tower, from where he
Wondered when a neighbor’s jeepney parked at his window
     won’t fume a morning rage of
Diesel smell on his breakfast, from where he thought of
     emigrating to lands where the people
Play not their properties at each other, morning lands where
     maybe people won’t spit at complaints.

Soltanto per mezzo della fede

Go after a “big fish” yet still live, die with Marcos’
     democracy, 
That’ll keep the Philippines in touch with the world
     banks 
Now, as then, and well into the greyest future: no further
     hope?

There are our “progressive” telecommunications companies
     praying
A late Hail Mary from a diaspora. But you know the
     plutocracy,
the statesmen-merchants for leaders keeping the
     Philippines

In touch with the aid, and, uh, Vatican? What banks? What
     touch?
What’s the point of all this fasting for mother Earth? Nah—
     indiscriminate
Logging, mining, labor exploitation, manufacture of poverty,
     now the

Eternal clichés. So, let them reign forever, . . . end her like
     used-up
Sand mines at a beach, bitches. Let ourselves rot for now, and
     bleed
Fear! Oh, sure, okay, let help stalk the provinces while wary
     o’ the

Red-baiting, as you hop from station to station, slowly onto a
     platform,
Another perpetual agony whence we can trade jokes again,
     laughing
O’er the horror of ghost roads, the ultimate political and
     economic joys

We are all familiar with, can relate to, through the Marcoses
     in us,
With us, US, China, forever flaunting telecommunion lines
     direct
To our religious palaces, part of the rest of their providential
     world—

Mythological America, God-building China, in whom our
     palaces trust
Their profits (dangerous as superpowers might be
     should
They lose their G8+5 seat). Then, for a long time to come,
     push

Our women to look up to Mammon’s priests circling scraped
     skies
With blade-carrying phalluses, eagles from a monastery, laugh
     against
Marxist productions of judgments now on trial, crucified like a
     suspected

Liberation theologian, gone after! Our big fish of neoliberal
     poetic
Justice, juried by erring militarized personnel, shall inherit the
     forests,
Beaches, their temporary heaven, until we, resilient, learn to gush
     out—

Water, flooding “I have the floor”s with a change of climate, no
     doubt.

—1999-2026

Two Ghostly Jobs

—for Josephine Patrick*

The restaurant’s full of people. Wow 
I’m gonna enjoy this, I say to myself. 
But I wish you were here to attend your 
Own death anniversary party: Ghastly! 
It’s full of people who really know your 
Father who’s really the celebrity here, 
You weren’t considered society like 
Your father. He still has his factory.

You go work at that factory now you’ll
See how he’s treating us all today, now that
You’re gone, now that nobody’s running 
Our cause, but why did you ever have to
Get smashed by unknown persons at your 
Pop’s factory? You had this restaurant.

—*Josephine Patrick became the companion of the Filipino American fiction writer and unionist Carlos Bulosan. This poem is not about her as much as it is about what her persona in the fictional picture represents as a native daughter of neoliberal America.8

A Materialist Dialectic (An Americanized Foreword)

Taking away your
                                 silver dower,
Show me now the sandwiches.
Show me
                   working electricity.

And tell me no fantasy
                                        lurking
In the factual, some magical
          geometry. For

Is there any way to avoid, escape
          our arrival
At the knowledge that we
          are all each
                              a composite of atoms

That will later change into another?

We’re . . .
          are living in the finest

Hours, showing us
All the flowers,
Showing us
All these structures . . .

Telling us all energy
Functions with a marginal
Dependency—i.e., in wavering
Religiosities/
                    And is there—

Are there really ways of enhancing . . .
Is there any truth in “romance” or
Or . . . no survival really
From the knowledge

That we
                are all

Each a composite of atoms
That’ll later turn into another!

   Well, dowry-giver, . . . you gave me fine containers of wine
        and meat.
     Then we changed cars to one with another color:
          and how can I forget the quest of-
               of making it through

                                        the present way of Asian dragons?

               where Mechanics, Science, and other labels,

                                 have still only

                                 gone as far

                                 as one’s

                                 desire

                                 could

                                 see.

—23 May 1988

Paramaterial Dialectics

1. All Inner Walks are Outdoor Walks

A pedantic paradox, even this corporeal
Thing, a crystal ball you hold in your hand.
Though theoretical is weighed, considered
As a compass to a pole treasure for Mani.

“Badness!”—you laugh; I say, is it not
Objectified, like the wanted man without
Whom we’d be left wanting, mere wanton
Vandals set free outside example boxes?

The invisible good is here, we believe.

2. Immaterial Dialectic

Immaterial, not. By itself is already
contentious, for conflicts have materiel.

3. How

What does it matter?
Is it matter or what?
Where? How’s it made?
And, really, as what?

4. Why, You Say

Why? ‘Cause the poorest
Questions, asking proofs
Of existence, or of death-
Proof qualities, are already
Matters of life and passing.

5. Behind the Skulls

Beyond the mechanical, neuroscientific poetry.
Beyond political realities, utopia, fantasy,
Where each ghost makes cups and plates float,
Upholding boredom with sheer materiality. 

6. Therefore, Paramaterial

Material argument, not purely.
Immaterial, neither. Each of these
words, these poems, is begging for

proof, but of horror! Or beauty!
The significance of which begging
is in its calling upon a city of gods.

—April 2010

Alternative Prosaicnesses

In spite of the ongoing Congressional investigations over sub-standard dikes and national ghost projects and so on, . . . today I am still starting the blog-posting of my oldest poems, opening with the virtual-last-page piece "Alternative Prosaicnesses" from my first virtual poetry collection eponymously titled Alternative Prosaicnesses, a collection first self-published online in 1999 and re-published (again exclusively online) in 2009 under the same title but containing only the first half of it. As an online book, both collections were made available for free. I am therefore making it available for free reading again today, returning the collection online, one refurbished poem at a time. Without further ado, here is that virtual book's virtual-last-page poem, which was added to the collection as a title piece in 2013:

Alternative Prosaicnesses

I’ll lay it all down like a Proustian fountain sprout
from an involuntary spring of spontaneity, however
the lines shape themselves from Mondrianesque
atria.
Each leap
will welcome wanton jeers from purists and precisians,
them there partying with their bias, like stockbrokers
and fiscal polygyny, oh bulbous am I with my helium.

Every story that pours out of the woodwork is sweat
of some purple prose, fruitage to rococo buffs and
baroque bulls, jazz to the fanciful, puzzle to pedants,

putrid nonsense to your legalese or journalese or . . .
Have you heard from Helen? Has she phoned us
yet from Troy? So do I digress, as is my wont, . . .

Worm. That’s me. Call me Proem or Pee. But do not
make the mistake of thinking me dull or dodo-esque,
being Mondrianesque in my prolificacy or industry.

In the end I’m only like you, who tend to go round and
round in a calculus of thought that may never come full
circle to a halt like you’d hope for. But that’s the idea.

I’m essaying points not to extend your agony, sorry,
but to apprise you, prosaically but briefly, of the reality
of the situation, these abject objects’ objecting to our

contemplating in words gods. That Helen? I’ll take it.

— February 2013

Tsika-LIT: Literary Conversations Episode 1: Poetry (Vicente Soria de Veyra's "Testigo")

 

A BREAK from Perennial Measure with this video from University of the Philippines at Tacloban featuring Prof. Jessa Amarille and Tsika-Lit host Mars Briones: https://bit.ly/3db68Cc. Thank you, guys.

Here's the text of that Waray poem of mine being discussed in this talk:

TESTIGO

Ha harayo nga pulong, bisan marampag

                     ha dughan

An pagmakasasala mo ha bagting

Han ak' simod, ako la gihapon an

Mapainubsanon, ako, ako an madarahug

Nga 'say naangay makigbisog ha lawod

Han kaarawdan, kay ikaw an naghalad,

Ikaw an kinmarawat han ak' kamaisog

Nga malunod an ngatanan nga paghusga,

                     o gugma.

Ha halipot nga pulong, bisan buong,

                     bisan.

WITNESS

In the long way of saying it, although

          it's flowery on the chest

Your sinning upon the tolling of

My snout, I am yet the

Humble one, I, I am the oppressor

Who deserves to fight at the depths of

Shame, for you were the one who gave

          offerings,

You were the one who received my valor

That all judgments drown, o love.

In the short way of saying it, though

          broken, even so.

X → Y

Eczematous existences excite

none, much less the egregiously

glamorous in thought & spirit,

the excrement to our ideology

now extremely laughing at the

ideas of extremal epimorphism.

May dudulog at mangangako

ng karangyaan mula sa galit,

pagkainggit, pait ng salita,

piitan ng kaluluwa. Ideya ito

ng araw-araw na pangangati sa

lansangang may patay na buhay.

Iilang Tao (o, Plutokrasya)

At tayo’y dumating, dala ang paniniwala sa malaya

at bukas na lipunan sa ating bayan. Samakatuwid,

yanig nung sabihin sa ating ang kataastaasang diwa

sa lupain natin ay ang pagsunod sa mga batas, hindi

ang diwa ng boses na kumukuwestyon sa kakulangan

o kabaliwan ng iilang batas. Kaya tayo’y nanatili,

na may hikbi sa dibdib na kabado sa armadong may

kautusang panatiliin ang kataastaasang katwiran

ng nangangatwirang mga batas, kahit pa nangangatal

na ang gutom-sa-hustisyang lipunang sabi niyo’y

para sa kanila ang batas. Kaya tayo’y nagpupumilit

sa paniniwalang ang pagsuway sa iilang maliliit

na batas ay ang tanging daan tungo sa paghubog ng

bagong malalaking hakbang, tungo sa kataastaasang

diwa ng tao, mula sa tao, at, oo, para sa tanang tao.

Dalawang Tula

1. Himig ng Commuters sa Umagang Lunes

—bilang lyric-song tribute ko sa dating naririnig sa mga jeepney na mga awitin ng
        Juan de la Cruz Band tuwing umaga

Halina, mga ‘pare ko’t ‘mare, sa rush hour ng

bagong umaga’t simulan na ang Lunes ng rice

and fish ‘n’ chicken hunting week nating ito!

Bagamat lumang gawi, na di mapawi-pawi ng

madulas na lotto, at kahit hindi madali at sa

katunaya’y sing-hirap ng mahirap na kirot sa

marrow ng inyong mga buto, sasabihin ko pa

ring halina today, halina for tomorrow, sa

siglong wala pa tayong magagawa kundi ang

sumabak nang sumabak sa balong malalim na

‘to—sa rush hour ng nag-oopisina, ng paring

wala nang misa, ng magbobote’t magbabakal,

ng pulis, ng kriminal, ng Presidente, ng mga

walang pulitika’t lubog lang sa kanilang arte,

ng madaldal na contrarianist, ng nagtatagong

communist, ng stockbroker, ng economist, ng

chemist, ng mga nars na nag-night shift, ng

duktor na magkiklinik, ng naghihintay na

promotor, ng pagod nang janitor, ng naghahanap

ng mapapangasawa, ng naghahabol ng kerida,

ng tao, ng hayop, ng insekto sa mga bus, ng mga

dyaryong di naubos, ng taho at puto, ng kapeng

di barako . . . Lakad na, iwan na natin ang

barangay sa kanyang mga housewives at house-

husbands, mga palengkera’t tsismoso, mga

drayber ng traysikel at mga tulog pang basag-

ulero, mga ngumunguya pa ng pan de sal, mga

walang almusal, mga retirado, mga pensyonado,

mga naghihintay ng pagbukas ng bangkong me

padala ng kapamilyang OFW, at mga walang

trabaho, at mga nag-iinuman nang nawalan ng

trabaho. Lunes, Lunes! Tapos na ang Linggo ng

mga kristo, ng ating Kristo. Bilis, bilis! Mahuhuli

ka sa bundy clock ng late magpasahod mong amo.

Give us this day our daily bread, O Lords, O

Plutocrats. Give us this day our inheritance, O

Luck, O capital lottery pot! Nawa’y ang economic

planning na pinag-uusapan sa radyo ay gisingin

tayo pagdating ng carpool ng commune sa istasyon

ng inutang na Manila Metro. O, halina, mga ‘pare’t

‘mare ko, dito tayo magkombo, sa rush hour ng

milyong gumagapang sa bagong umagang ‘to

patungo sa gubat ng business districts kung saan

naroon ang hunting ground ng daily rice ‘n’ fish ‘n’

chicken ng working class mula probinsiya at mga

projects na tulad natin. Ito ang ating balong malalim.

Araw-araw, beep beep beep beep, hanggang Biyernes,

ito ang himig nating aawitin. Limang araw nating aawitin.

2. Linggo

Ito ang sermon ko sa pulpitong bato sa Lunes na totoo,

labas ng “cosmic entertainment” ng Katolikong Linggo,

says Frank O’Hara, at sisimulan ko ang lahat nang ganito:

Ang buhay, ayon kay Longfellow, ay pinapanday ng

arkitektong nakatago sa kaluluwa mo. Gisingin mo ito, at

idisenyo ang panaginip mong bahay-kanlungan ng sarili

mong pagkakuntento. Maaaring ito’y sinlaki ng Gobyerno,

o sing-lawak ng kaalaman mo sa mga mikrobyo, walang

bahay ng buhay ang hamak at dapat hamakin maliban

sa bahay ng nabuhay sa krimen. . . . Ikaw, naaalala mo ba

ang iyong mga panaginip, little or big fellow, bago ka

nilamon ng kolehiyo at trabaho tungo lamang sa life of

contentment . . . sa buwanang suweldo, insurance, new

acquisitions, bagong titulo? Ito ang sermon ko sa bato.

So, kumusta, arkitekto? Nasiyahan ka ba sa bahay mo?

O masaya ka na ba sa magarbong inihanda mo nang

mosoleyo at nitso para sa pagkamatay mo at sa plano

mong orkestra na tutugtog sa lamay mo? Di ba mas

mabuti pang pagtuunan mo ng pansin ang buhay mo

kaysa sa mosoleyo ng kayamanan? . . . Ano ba naman

ang magmunimuni ka muna sa iyong engineering bago

kumilos nang kumilos, magdrowing nang magdrowing?

. . . Ito ang sermon ko sa pulpitong bato sa Lunes mo, di

‘to mula sa mala-palasyong Linggo, pinatayo ng Obispo.

Poem In January

Nag-iwan na naman ng Post-It ang kaluluwa ni

Frank O’Hara sa monitor ng PC ko, God rest his

soul, kaya kinaya ko sa aking kalasingan ang

magbasa ng sangkaterbang dyaryo, sansakong

libro tungkol sa kasalukuyan, kung totoo nga ang

kasalukuyan at hindi panaginip lang, o kung

panaginip man ay panaginip ni Magritte sa Enero

1936 na isyu ng New York Times (di bangungot

ng Marso 1912) na sabi’y “SHOW LISTS

WORKS OF SURREALIST ART; Paintings of

Rene Magritte Are Seen for First Time Here at

Julien Levy Gallery. OBJECTS IN ODD

RELATIONS Canvases Arid With Respect to

Esthetic Content -- Shock of Metaphor Is Seen.”

Sinagot ko si Frank O’Hara sa blog ko, sabi ko,

“Mr. O’Hara, sir, kung iyo pong mamarapatin,

nararapat ba talagang patayin ang Kasaysayan

at Literatura para sa karangalan ng indibidwal?”

Hinatak bigla ng hanging di ko maunawaan

itong kanang-kamay kong magaan, at banat

hanggang sa buto ang balat ng mga daliri ko,

mga daliring nagpumilit na magsaboy ng punla

ng mga sagot: “Eto ang sagot ko sa ‘yo, on

behalf of Frank who is presently shaving the

armpits of the Devil in Heaven, hahahahahaha.”

“Who are you? Magpakilala ka.” Huminto ang

lahat. Nag-brownout, kumulog, at dahan-dahang

pumatak ang ulan at tumugtog ang Piano

Concerto in G ni Maurice Ravel, si Marguerite

Long sa piano, sa ibabaw ng Enerong speech ni

Adolf Hitler sa Industry Club na tungkol (di sa

Enerong pagkamatay ni Alois kundi) sa parating

na Enerong Chancellorship niya tungo sa

inaasahang parating na Enerong Wannsee

conference para sa Final Solution. Kinabukasan,

nag-iwan na uli ng Post-It si Ginoong O’Hara.

“Haha,” sabi, “haranahin mo ang tenses, wasakin

ang tonsils ng mala-Hitler na pagpupunyagi.

Huwag mo lang akong isali riyan sa kalokohan

mo.” “Subalit, sir,” blog ko, “ang present tense

ay Tula, at ikaw ang nag-ukit nito sa epitaph ng

nitso mo hindi lang last All Souls’ Day, di ba?”

Hinangin ang Post-It, at palipad na pumalit ang

pahina ng classified ads na galit sa headlines at

natutuwa sa pribadong mga pangangailangan.

Hinawi ko ito at wumagayway ang screensaver:

waling-waling na walang kulay, nakatigil na mga

larawan ng limot nang monitors ng Kasaysayan.

Limang Tulang Alay Ko Kay Rizal

1. Heksagram 13, Para Sa Aking Ka-Tulaan

Nakipaghuntahan ka sa iyong kapwa

sa sala ng iyong tahanan, at wala

akong nakikitang kamalian. Tunay na

itong pakikisalamuha mo ay hindi

dahil sa isang biglang pagkapukaw mo

sa mga nakamamanghang sarap ng

pakikipag-kapitbahay. Oo, maaaring

ang papel mo rito ay hindi sinasadya,

ngunit ang aking masasabi, kumare,

manatili tayo rito at tuloy-tuloy na

makipagtalakayan, dahil sa kung sa

kapwa intelehensiya lang mananatili,

tayo ay magsisisi dahil bilang ang

kasama. Ito ang panahong kailangan

ang pagkakapitbisig nating mahaba at

malawak, hindi ba? Sabi mo pa nga, di

tayo snobs, ‘pare, hindi makitid sa

pananaw ng nakararami. Subalit, itago

muna natin ang mga patalim, at

magmasid muna sa tore ng ating mga

nalalaman; tunay na hindi pa nga

napapanahon itong ating pagbunyi ng

mga esoteriko, at heto at kahahakbang

lang patungo sa gitna ng lipunan, sa

kalipunan ng di naman makasariling

mamamayan. Ang ating pinunla sa

harding ito, tanging tiwala na di tayo

sasaksakin sa likod, hindi hahamakin

sa pagyakap natin sa mga bagay-bagay

na di natin noon lubos na maunawaan.

2. Heksagram 29, Para Sa Aking Kapwa

The floodwaters of the English river will

       soon break the levees

of the Tagalog purists, my friend; do you

think we should do something to weaken it?

Pero teka lang, kaibigans, this burgeoning

Englog is by itself an Order unto itself,

needing no Orderlies to whitewash its ways,

tama ba? Why even bother to keep Tagalog

pure, putsa, to satisfy some nationalist

illusions, when we ourselves belong to them

Englog malls where the price of the same

organic bread is hiked to suit protectionist

pretensions? Calling Anthony Bourdain & all

those peasant-food sympathies of his at nang

mapakain nating lahat ng mga ka-mall nila

sa kamayang totoo, Creole cuisine-like talk

for all this creolization of language from all

the classes.

                       I say, ‘pare,

huwag na nating problemahin ang mga problema

nila. Take comfort in the fact that Tagalog’s

waning purism has no less of a frustrated Order

than the ongoing mess inside English’s own.

3. Heksagram 27, Para Sa Kapwa Ko Wage Slaves

First of all, huwag kang maiinggit sa mga may

     kari-kariton na yaman.

Pangalawa, may simpleng yaman kang makakamit

     sa araw-araw.

Pangatlo, may mga gawain ka pang lingid na sa

     ‘yong bulag na paghahangad ng yaman.

Pang-apat, heto’t ika’y pinagpalang nagnanais

     at may mithiin pang yaman!

Now, having said all that, walang kamalian. . . .

Lalo’t tanaw mo ang iyong pagkainggit, tanging

     diskuntentong pagkapagod, mga

mali sa buhay, at ang walang humpay na

     pananaginip ng buo mong tulog na

pagkatao na maya-maya lang ay . . . magigising?

4. Heksagram 12, Para Sa Manlalakbay at Mambabasa

Sa ating multicultural world, . . .

ang wikang hinati-hati ng mga

watchmen sa ating boundaries, ng

kasamang prejudices at comedies.

Matuwid man ang gawin mo,

makasisiguro kang mayroong

magmamasama sa lahat ng utopia

ng iyong grupo. Reader, manatili

ka sa walang saysay na tulay at

matatanaw mo ang kapayapaan ng

Pragmatismo. Kailan ba kailangan

ang mga bagay na kinailangan,

ang mga bakod at bakuran na di

madadalaw sa paglalakbay ng

iyong katawan o pang-unawa?

5. Heksagram 6o, Para Sa Mga Tulad Kong Mahilig Manggaya

Teka nga muna, teka.

Teka, teka, teka. Teka lang,

teka! Ano ba talaga

ang balak mong makita?

Tulad mo, ako’y sarap na sarap

sa panggagaya, pagpalakpak

sa banyaga man o Bisaya,

sa galing ng itinuring.

Subalit di ba mas sapak ang

ipasak mo ang lahat . . . sa

pagkatao mong wasak, upang

makita mong iyo na lahat?

Pumalakpak ka at gumaya.

Gamitin ang magagamit at

ang di swak ay iwaglit.

Manggagaya? Teka lang, teka.

2 Tula

1. Tula ng Misantropo

Anong “tula, tula, mahal kong Tula!” ang

pinagsasasabi mo? Di ba’t doon ka rin pupunta,

sa dambana ng kumikinang na simbahan,

mabangong restoran, matamis na urban park,

maluwag na karaoke booth, mahalay na

furniture shop, marupok na Cinema, taimtim na

department store, matuwid na zoo, magalang na

city hall, matalinong art gallery, bobong roller

rink, matunog na duckpin bowling alley, bulag

na alcohol-free bar, mala-langit na resort, mala-

impiyernong Jacuzzi, walang-panghihinayang

na rides at arcade games, inspiring na gadget

shops, perspiring na pizzerias, pare-parehong cd

music, patay-sinding Christmas trees, atbp.,

isang linggo bago tayo maghiwalay sa Pasko?

Hindi sa terrazzo walk of fame ng sarili mong

barung-barong ka maglalakwatsa, ikaw at ng

iyong thirteenth-month pay, . . . di ba? Sigurado

ako, doon sa coffee house mo dadalhin ang

iyong mga libro ng tula, at doon babasahin ang

mga linyang sumasayaw lang sa harap ng

magagandang taong may mga tula rin sa labi na,

kung susuriin, wala sila rito, ang tanging mga

narito ay mga mamamayang may mga holiday

hot tsismis lang naman tungkol sa kanilang mga

minahal sa nagdaang taon, na, tamang-tama,

iyan ang s’yang napaksiw nang paksa ng tula

kong ito na naghihintay sa ‘yong opinyon dito

sa pinag-ipunan kong cold front ng iyong

paboritong terrazzo floor, dito sa malungkot

mong favorite Starbucks store. Teka, bakit pa ba

magkikita? Mga pangngalan ang iyong

bukambibig, mga pang-uri nasa aking mata.

2. Ang Vlogger at ang Kaniyang Ninong

Pasko, Pasko, Pasko. Pasko na namang muli at muli

kitang nakitang naglalaba ng costume mong Sta. Claus

para sa santong Biyernes ng gabi, noong 2009 Dis.

Muli na naman kitang naamoy, na para bang kasama

ka sa mga baboy at manok ng iyong adobada, ng iyong

menudo, ng ‘yong arroz caldo, at ng iyong piniritong

polvoron “for the poor,” sabi mo. Sino ba ako? Ako

po ito, Ninong, mano po, Ninong, kumusta po kayo?

Kumusta po ang cancer ninyo, balita ko may sampung

taon pa kayo bago mapanalunan niyo at last iyang lotto

sa Langit na balita ko, ayon kay Monsignor B. Nucboc,

ay nakalaan sa ‘yo at sa mga tulad mong pinagpalang

Santa Claus ng munisipyo. Puwede po bang makisakay,

Ninong, at nang ma-video ko ang tour niyo sa Putikan

Street ng mga squatter ng barangay at ang paghahanap

niyo ng ninakaw na kampana ng kapilya? Puwede? Ang

totoo niyan, Ninong, kaming mga nabubuhay na patay,

isang taon naming hinintay itong pagsapit ng Pasko,

di tulad mo, sampung taon pa bago matulad ka namin.

“Haha,” sabi mo, “sa’n mo ba nanakaw iyang camcorder

mo? Aminin.” Sa iyo po ito, bigay niyo! Kaya pangako

ko sa ‘yo, mula ngayo’y irereport ko ang kadakilaan

ninyo, despite sa sikat nang katamaran ko. Tugon niyo,

“‘di tamad ang mahihirap na tulad mo, hijo, namulat

lang na walang kapital, di tulad ko, may namanang

talento at titulo, at tipikal na pulitiko!” Akala ko po ay

negosyante kayo. “Amen. Sponsored ng meyor dito.”

Nang siya’y mamatay, ako ang naging bagong Ninong

ng baryo, bagong mabait na Ninong ng lahat ng tao rito.