By Chance

Seeing my house: a wasteland
Of things I am unable to use 
On a daily basis. I live beyond 
my means. Am I rich or am I
Irresponsible? Rich enough to own trinkets. 
Irresponsible enough to be in subtle debt. 

It’s a cycle of consumerism. Impulse ate 
My virtues. Any concern of wastefulness 
Or nature, from which this all came from, 
Thrown out the window. It is then shut
To prevent carbon monoxide from entering. 
Of which I have contributed a great percentage 
By existing. Regret comes in a blind box. Which one 
Is it today: a glorious high or buyer’s remorse?
‘Oh’, just a sigh powered by capitalism. 

Writing, Hemingway, and Paris

Writing, Hemingway, and Paris

‘I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there.’

– From A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

How I Feel About My MFA Thesis:

Ahead of the tapestry, a weaver 

Does not philosophize about the thread.

Shed. Pick. Beat. Repeat. Not relishing 

In completion, only fixating on

pushing the weft into place. 

And yet, here I am, blocking 

the stark sunlight with the promise

of a curtain. They lift and lower with 

Control. Altered tension breaks 

The monotony of color. Rhythmic but 

Not musical. I celebrate at every beat, 

Grin at each syllable that’s stuck 

In the drafts formed by fleeting discipline. 

Unable to finish. Unable to let go.

If Hokusai Depicted the Shore

I wrote a poem inspired by an artwork at Singapore’s ArtScience Museum.

If Hokusai Depicted the Shore

I found that things do not stagnate
Always inching towards flourishing
Or decaying. Maybe enchanted
By the ocean or engulfed by the flood.
It is water in essence yet functionally
Different. I’ll fixate on this: Could they carry
A drowning man’s struggle for the surface
To the nearest shore? Please send
Help – someone help him float – hope
That it gets to the one gasping for air.

Give it a century, the man is absent
The shore is no more. The water’s 
Approach to tranquility til there’s no more surface to cover. It would be difficult
To hope otherwise.

RPF

He was fast, smart and tried
To scribble through the great war
Scrambled through numbers
In desperation or drought he fought
For his wife or for science – I can’t
Tell the difference. How could he live
Her last few months speaking
In coded letters that required someone
Else’s eyes. And then whatever was to him are numbers was someone else incinerated on the other side.


No one there put a bullet through someone’s brain, at least a helmet could
Catch it. Eureka! meant death, instant,
Unknowing, or unfollowed by pain.
No one dares to light the third match. 

JAN 14, 12:05 a.m.

I have two memories of loss:
The monumental less scarring
Than the mundane: mourning the shadows
Of missed chances than an urn’s silhouette.
Some chances are abruptly cut. Rejected
Before the brain could process the loss.
I cry over small things and win
Over trauma. This equation does
Not need structure. Adrenaline works – like
Climbing a treehouse fueled by the fear
Of heights or gracefully free diving without
Learning how to swim. It might be the breeze
From above or the stillness of the water.
I do not falter when loss is apparent.
I could only tremble at the imagined.

APRIL 11, 2023

Jigsaws are falling into place, yet dust gathers 
In spaces between the pieces. Willingly, I knock 
Them over. Wreck a focal segment, just to entertain 
The thought of destruction, to see in what ways 
I could adjust to the ruin. Pick them up once again, 
Undo the damage, test my ingenuity. I never once 
Bothered for the entire picture. How can I? 
Maladies erupt within days, the ones with the privilege
To dismantle an era. I put to sleep the resolve
I once had, the dissolution of daydreams, and whatever 
Was keeping me alive. And now, I will just breathe. 

On Still Nights

Someone decides to play
God on an impulse, taking
Advantage of the hour
Before anyone glorious enough
To stop you is awake. An exercise
On digestion: stretch the tract’s
Limit before it churned the last
Excess dose. If one is lucky
Enough, you’d taste what
Mother made for breakfast, brew
A fresh pot of coffee and limp
Through another day. Here’s hoping
The next time that thought
Plays, you’d be strong
Enough to recognize it.

Respeto is on Netflix!

Hip-hop, drugs, violence, and martial law are the themes that prevail in this distinctly Filipino stitching of City of God, Finding Forrester, and Hamilton. Despite being three heterogeneous storylines, fragments of those stories jive into a musical that is both timely and entertaining.

Respeto begins with blossoming ambition, continues with breakneck rap verses embellished with witty banter, only to end in despondency. It is a successive mingling of hope and despair, it is quality ale with a bitterly strong aftertaste, making the palate yearn for its flavor, only to be surprised with its tangy revenge. Yet I still continued watching, I am tired of the hero’s journey, I hanker for precise metaphors and commentaries of our damned society.

As for the visual aesthetics of the film, the cinematography is a vision that encapsulates the sweltering heat of Pandacan with a surreal mix of warm colors. The subtle imagery ranges from the bicycles that resemble an impoverish version of Harley Davidson big bikes, to the secondhand bookstore, and hangouts at the cemetery. These are allegorical to the culture of pauperism typical to Metro Manila slums, possible soundtrack would be Sia belting her hit song, I don’t need dollar bills to have fun tonight, I love cheap thrills!

The sound editing provides an idiosyncratic appeal to the ears. It captures what hip-hop is about, just as Lin-Manuel Miranda said “Rap is at the bottom, the music of ambition, the soundtrack of defiance, whether the force that must be defied is poverty, cops, racism, rival rappers, or all of above.” This is what Respeto willfully declares. There is a poetry in rap that is shrouded by profanity, thumping rhythms, and scantily clad women in music videos.

The film unravels the superficial cloak of mainstream hip-hop by the juxtaposition of Filipino poetry with hip-hop verses. This disentanglement illuminates that importance of poetry as commentary to our lives. It coincides with Mary Oliver as she declares “Poetry is a river; many voices travel in it; poem after poem along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves.” The film jumps into that metaphorical river and swims upstream, fighting against the current of prejudice against Filipino hip-hop culture, and leaving the audience with a developed admiration for the genre.

Watch it on Netflix here!

Mother’s Day Poem

Hello! I want to share this childhood memory, a little sad for mother’s day but this is the first memory I have of how much my mother loves me.


1997

My mother lost balance as I
Tugged her hand, running
Towards the ice cream truck.
The dual dismay of the dessert bar
Fleeing and mother’s left eye
Bleeding from the fall. She had to
See New York through tinted lens
And I through the trauma of never
Holding anyone’s hand too tight.
No one should fall flat on the floor
During a vacation. It still lives through
photo albums, even the fullness of her
Smile could not hide the hematoma peeking
Though sunglasses. My Mother would always
Say it is fine. Even when it is not. She is rational
But never fully harsh. Whatever shallow remorse
A seven year old could or could not
Show, or duties a thirty year old child
Conveniently neglects, a mother will always love.