May 2012
40 posts
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Gray Comfort
Clouds curdle overhead, grim behind the shadows of branches that form grotesque canopies. The light slinks like smoke. The cold bed feels like a marble floor, or a coffin-shaped memory. Trapped in its frost, I yearn for you, black rose lover, an angel with silver skin and the feathers of a crow. I dream of bright blue light, of sweltering suns milking passion from surfaces. I dream of arms and...
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20 Tips On Winging It
Lay claim to a pen and a journal. Choose them like you would a set of wings: check for wingspan, quill quality, wearability. Stylize, if that’s how you like it. Your pen and paper is customizable anyway. Add extra limbs if need be. Rub with pixie dust or a psychopath’s venom, if that’s your thing. The skinny: a psychopath’s venom is not in their molars. Check their childhoods for more info.
Put...
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What A Writer Is
In the beginning, be a weird kid. You’ve always known you were different, anyway. When the shoe fits, wear it. You start eating bits of newspaper at age seven so that by age eight you can start dining secretly on Reader’s Digest. Let a picture of a makeshift graveyard in a war issue stick in your head. Make your own version in the backyard for the toys you no longer play with. Decorate the graves...
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Apparently, all I can do now is reblog.
Because, pretty soon this blog will be no more.
Hold it. That was an intentional pull. Writer’s rule and shit.
I am going for some changes, and it’s not something I am doing for anyone else. My craft online seemed to have reached a plateau and my desire for blogging has all but diminished. I don’t know when it will happen or how. But certainly, the contents in this blog will be...
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Floodgate
I hate myself when I get meditative. This happens without warning, no preamble of any sort. Sometimes, I wake up and feel the weight of the world. Then I’d just start reflecting, mostly on useless things. Throughout the day, overflowing with this loneliness, I’d find myself falling in love a hundred times, and half of those times with inanimate objects. I’d love the way sunlight trickles through...
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An old post. Similar Questions In My TA
What does your writing center around? Or are all your pieces so different? Tumblr, for me, is a personal platform. Very few people post full-length stories here, and when they do, a very small number of people read them. Consequently, the result are short monologues. These “musings” are not publishable in print. I do what I can with them, experiment with style and the like when I want to. I...
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ordinarywonder replied to your post: Poetic Justice a.k.a The Dark Side Of Things
Seriously. I thank the Tumblr gods every day I see you on my dash.
Posting because I don’t get these comments often and this just knocked my hangover off (just “woke” up).
Thanks, darlin. Not just for knocking off the hangover, but for everything else. hehe.
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Poetic Justice a.k.a The Dark Side Of Things
Distance cheats. Emotional and physical. Take forbiddances and miles, if you need an example. Proximity is important to lovers, families, friendships. The physical nearness is crucial to the growth of relationships. How many of those has Distance destroyed? How many semblances of affinity have been crushed or snuffed out like a candlewick? Distance takes without mercy. His dark silver skin shines...
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Suffering The Daylight
Today’s birdsong is especially sweet at 7:30 a.m. It carries the sound of possibilities. For a second it’s almost believable that there is hope beyond your bedroom door. But the headache pounds and you’ve only had four hours of sleep, and even though your eyes carry the weight of a buffoon you can’t return no matter how hard you seduce sleep to ensnare you. Even the dreams refuse to touch you. Not...
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The Portrait Of A Writer As Recluse
In your mountain your blood designs the flow of greens. In your wooden chair you dream of shadows and sheens. Sometimes you wish you were one of the oldest trees that reside in the forest of life. Weatherbeaten, timeworn, formidable, and wise. You would know secrets most of us live for but die before discovering. You would know the stirrings that stream the glade. You would know the music of...
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You Are
To me you are really beautiful. Drew me in, like a slurping – soul gone, my bones with it. Yet as soon as I heard you speak those words, I knew I wouldn’t believe them. For a second there, you seemed like a blind fanatic, heaping praise at the wrong pedestal. When has someone ever said those words and meant them to me? A person who looks at the mirror and sees only disarray. See, there’s a movie...
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I Am Real
Sure, I didn’t grow up with you. And even if proximity wasn’t an issue, we wouldn’t share the same life stages, or homerooms, or parties. What with our age gap and everything else surrounding the many differences and improbabilities. Sure, I wasn’t there when you fell in love and got dissed for the first time, or when you realized you were a nerd and needed someone to support you no matter what,...
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Boats
Intoxicated. Not from liquor. But the shadow of its ocean. The space outside my door is wreaked in complexities. I might as well be eternally drunk, confused by the sandstorm of feelings and images. If only I could reach inside myself and stay there without the help of affirmation or the need for witnesses. Imagine dying without anyone knowing about your death. My greater fear is living without...
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The Smile
I fooled you with a smile That reaches neither eye; Charmed by my pretense you are.
My eyes are murdered, The funeral was a decade past But my smile is persistent.
The lips are cozy shells of meat that hides a multi-teethed hell of fires kindled from suffering;
And I cry out from the furnace With a loudness you cannot hear. Your apathy does not notice the flames.
Flames like hard-bodied men!...
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At Sea
He doesn’t understand how it stopped, or why it stopped. He wouldn’t dare try to understand it. He wouldn’t dare ask why. He is used to this anyway. He is used to pinpricks, those sharp things he feels everytime his heart pulses. Besides, how can anyone miss him? In a canvas of color where he is just a speck, how can he matter? He shrugs the thought away. For him, it isn’t a lesson if it doesn’t...
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A Vignette from Real Life
“He told me I’m too intellectual.”
“Meaning?”
“God knows. I don’t know. Everything has conditions where I’m concerned, I guess. I calculate, manipulate, give ultimatums.”
“What an asshole.”
“I think I mostly agree with him.”
“That’s a shame, then. I think it’s too cynical. Do you think you’re that cynical?”
“I was thinking I’m being realistic.”
“Cynics always say that.”
“I took a shot with him. It...
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There Are Two Carcasses In My Room
Two dead, yellow eyes, their pupils filmed, stare Blindly. The head around them is abscessed–– An abject fruit in earthly disrepair, Flesh and bone besieged. A stream of illness Sings in static blood, in silent finesse, While worms beneath the organs are grinning. Decay accommodates its wanton guests: Countless maggots, distended and wriggling. Yet the lifeless body is at peace in rotting. Another...
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To You Because You’re Concerned,
Don’t use me if you don’t believe you can use me well. I am inside you. A flicker, or a burn. You have to let me brighten by using me. Continuously. Like a campfire you need to tend to, to feed, so it would slake the night. So it would slake whatever it is that led you camping in the first place. You need to let me grow until you are satisfied with my intensity. If you chicken out midway, or...
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How Tumblr Changed My Life
Neither midnight nor noon, but the thrum started at 12.
I was 12 years old when a door opened in the world of books and showed me a teeming universe where I was writing one. And so, without preamble or preparation, I wrote my first poem at eleven p.m. on a notebook lined with hubris and bound with heady ambition. Something about gayness and butterflies and unrequited romances whispered in the...
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Grips of Limbo
This is not going to be edited. And that is so much like my life. No certainty, severely uncorrected. Raw and jilted and shivering. This is how the future spreads before me. There is no heaven, no hell. Only glimpses of both. And not one of these brief tastes, not one of these fleeting apparitions, is strong enough to recreate either. Halfsies, if you will. An image can manifest, and it can begin...
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Pedro
Pedestals burning. Roosters roost on olive wood Drinking lies and cockcrows. Arrows groping From my throat, my back is whipped. Draped upon this cross, my Doorkeeper Sets bonfires on rocks. These petroleum-tasting lies Will load pews like gaping tombs. Walk on water now Before your faith fades tomorrow And devotions are clipped. Pedantic thoroughfares, Robed men coping in roadsides. I know your...
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Someone Like You
You’re not over it. You know because the dread creeps into your coffee every morning. Between that time of residual slumber and utter wakefulness, your reverie is vulnerable. You slip back to the delicious way his laughter sounds when you’re the one telling a joke. You return to those moments when he speaks your name and how you relish the syllables when they roll out of his tongue.
It...
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Harsh Lessons
Puddles 8, 9, 10 are fresh puce, Like watermelon juice under Bad lighting. I am counting them 8, 9, 10 from the rank gutter. The young man who is staring back
When I lean in, has grave shadows 10, 20, 30––age shadows Under his eyes. Marks of a life He has long despised. Iron lies Pumped into love like ventricles,
Sorrow valves of humans hidden In romance graves. Maybe it was Grave romances, I...
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Currents Of Midnight
These are all the fucks I give. Hundreds of them flipping riptides in my head. Bobbing in the timeless waves. In between the surf, I spiral in your skin, and the foam tastes like your sweat. This is where I spin, trapped in the pull of your image in my thoughts. Where my fingers seek your masculine curves. Where I run my tongue around the shape of your nipples and suckle your moans out of them....
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Coming To Terms
Giving things names quantifies them, establishes a solidity that makes waifs and concepts corporeal. There are a few names that come to mind now: uncertainty, self-doubt, depression. The three-headed dog guarding the entrance to the writer’s purgatory. The same beast that can lock a writer in. And so begins my own one thousand and one nights. Only the nights blend with daylight and are more...
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Yearning, in streams
Where do these roads go but in pining, waiting for the raindrops in the glass to stop dissolving in my cup. The steam that rises from the mud-colored drink– this is where I think, where I sink. And the digital numbers that grin from the tabletop, alchemic green, tick minutes as they drop. Away in my dreams, I age; and my blood dries and rusts. The issue between my soul and my brain is...
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A Glance Backwards
I tried to go back to it. There was a stray picture of you somewhere in my dash that floated from the clutter, breaking through the surface of my reverie like a dream emerging from the ripples of a lake. I didn’t even know you still blogged. How long ago was your last entry?
Just like that, I invoked the sensations that have for so long been associated with you. The photos I used to skim through,...
April 2012
38 posts
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Jamie and I: On Submission Sites, Writers, and...
[Chat transcript]
Me: …or I stay in one site looking through past submissions and smirk at these amateurs.
Jamie: ahahah. No, no. I’m also guilty.
Me: “I’m Filipino. I know your language better than you do. Fawn at my fucking feet!” Then I come across some gem and concede (which hardly ever happens).
Jamie: I have that all the time, man. Fucking writers, being all awesome and shit
Me: hahaha...
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I Bid Goodbye With These
I’ll be gone for the rest of the day. Might be back in the evening (which would be morning for most of you). If you haven’t yet, download these original works. Okay, bye.
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A very personal project comprising 50 poems that were hard as gas to write. Download the entire book here.
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A feast for the senses told in the landscape of a surrealist dream. Download here.
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If you crave more and...
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Here
Darkness is another thing. The darkness of emotion. I don’t want it anymore, that something as abstract can grip me as solidly. I can’t escape it no matter how fast I run. How can one escape what has already taken root? No man can hide from himself no matter how fleet his foot, or how averted his gaze, or how distracted his mind. When darkness comes, it eats him from inside.
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For Giving Me Now
There’s grit in the vines that twist around the Ionic columns of our mausoleum. Beneath the tombs lay the hearts we resurrect and kill; time and time again we do it. This cycle of forever is not going to change. My heart always runs through my mouth and stands twelve steps ahead. My mind over your matter? It never works. We are a mess of errors. Pieces of shrapnel with residual flesh. I have not...
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A Little About Me
My friend Dennis gave this questionnaire a few months back. Thought it would be fun to repost it to answer some of the similar questions sent through my askbox lately.
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Your favorite tumblr virtue? Transcendence.
Your favorite qualities in the men of tumblr? Writing on Tumblr can be very personal and sharing that part of yourself with everyone reading your blog is the closest thing to...
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A Conversation With The Moon
Unprepared, he confronts the august moon–– One cannot guard completely from Her sway–– And try to plea for wisdom to come soon. He does not want the clarity of day, With it, he tends to undertake dismay; It is the words of evening that he seeks, Yet the Moon only achieves to display The ruin that he knows of as She speaks. Few escape the torture that his condition wreaks. Unwarned, love like...
“A brain scan may reveal the neural signs of depression, but a Beethoven symphony...”
– In The Age of Insight: The Quest to Understand the Unconscious in Art, Mind, and Brain, from Vienna 1900 to the Present, Nobel Prize winner Eric Kandel explores how the unique flow of ideas between artists and scientists in early 20th-century Vienna shaped much of contemporary culture. (via...
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Hideaway
The delicacy sometimes exists In the journey towards Mirrors and clocks. The cinders Evoke different shadows Than full-blown firelight. Chateau atop ransom cliff; The bricklaying in this tableau Is mauve and terrifying And the candlewick tells me Of my company. Myself only, forevermore. The divan and the wine, The glass and reflections. I wish I could burn with the fire. Candelabrum; Niche in...
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