Monday, January 26, 2009

alam mo, may stalker ako

late na ako sa klase kanina kaya nagmamadali ako. tapos habang
ako nang mabilis sa soccer field walkway, nakarinig ako
ng boses, tinawag ako.
EJ! paglingon ko, may babae pare.
kaso di ko makita yung mukha,
nearsighted ako at wala akong
salamin na suot e. so, di ko siya pinansin.
late na kasi ako e.


nagtext sa akin 'yong kapitbahay ko, sabi niya natatakot siya.

kasi may isang tricycle driver daw na hiningi sa auto-loading station
'yong cel no. niya. tapos tinetext daw siya. ang gusto nung tricycle driver,
ihatid-sundo siya palagi, parang private service raw.


natatakot tuloy ako. buti kung hot 'yong babae kanina, 'yong stalker ko, e
paano kung
pangit siya? ok sana kung pagbukas ko ng multiply,
o friendster ko,
e ang makita ko sa who's viewed me e si alodia
gosiengfiao, o kaya si ashley
gosiengfiao, si tricia gosingtian,
o 'yong hot na courtside reporter ng la salle,
e pero, paano kung si majin buu ang makita ko???

nabobobo na ako sa kakaisip.


mamaya pagdating ko sa bahay, magbubukas ako ng imeem account.

magsa-soundtrip ako. "i'll send an S.O.S. to the world 2x
i hope that someone gets my 2x message in a bottle yeah."

Thursday, January 22, 2009

usapang origami

kung kaya ko lang bumuo ng pag-ibig
mula sa papel


Monday, January 12, 2009

matapos mapanood ang "the curious case of benjamin button"

-suspension of disbelief.


I can't remember how old I was,

but I used to stand in front

of the bathroom mirror, trying to imagine

what it would be like to be dead.

I thought I'd have some sense of it

if I looked far enough into my own eyes,

as if my gaze, meeting itself, would make

an absence, and exclude me.

It was an experiment, like the time

Michael Smith and I set a fire in his basement

to prove something about chemistry.

It was an idea: who I would

or wouldn't be at the end of everything,

what kind of permanence I could imagine.

In seventh grade, Michael and I

were just horsing around

when I pushed him up against that window

and we both fell through—

astonished, then afraid. Years later

his father's heart attack

could have hit at any time,

but the day it did they'd quarreled,

and before Michael walked out

to keep his fury alive, or feel sorry for himself,

he turned and yelled, I wish you were dead!

We weren't in touch. They'd moved away.

And I've forgotten who told me

the story, how ironic it was meant

to sound, or how terrible.

We could have burned down the house.

We could have been killed going through

that window. But each of us

deserves, in a reasonable life,

at least a dozen times when death

doesn't take us. At the last minute

the driver of the car coming toward us

fights off sleep and stays in his lane.

He makes it home, we make it home.

Most days are like this. You yell

at your father and later you say

you didn't mean it. And he says, I know.

You look into your own eyes in a mirror

and that's all you can see.

Until you notice the window

behind you, sunlight on the leaves

of the oak, and then the sky,

and then the clouds passing through it.

Lawrence Raab

Saturday, January 10, 2009

totoo ba?

The Secret Of Poetry

When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death I was lonely.

I suppose this error will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning

Delighted by frost, which is death,
& the trees that stand alone in mist.

When I met my wife I was lonely.
Our child in her body is lonely.

I suppose this error will go on & on.
Morning I kiss my wife's cold lips,

Nights her body, dripping with mist.
This is the error that fascinates.

I suppose you are secretly lonely,
Thinking of death, thinking of love.

I'd like, please, to leave on your sill.
Just one cold flower, whose beauty

Would leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.

Jon Anderson

Copyright 2007 ID Media Inc, All Right Reserved. Crafted by Nurudin Jauhari