Araw sa Gabi

Simple lang akong kiligin ngunit halos nalimutan ko na ang pakiramdam. Nandiyan ang biglang pag-upo sa harap ko habang nasa sa isang coffee shop o kaya ay sorpresang paglitaw sa bahay dala ang paborito kong pagkain. Sa halos tatlong taong walang seryosong relasyon, mas madaling ilista ang mga pangyayaring tulad nito kaysa alalahanin kung paano panandaliang huminto ang mundo dahil sa kilig.

Mas lalong hindi ko ito inasahan na mangagaling sa isang estranghero habang hawak ko ang ika-anim na bote ng Red Horse noong nakaraang gabi (o madaling araw). Pagkalabas namin ng Bed (sa Malate), dumaan kami sa O Bar bago umuwi. Wala pang ilang sandali, natagpuan kong magkausap kami ng isang estrangherong may kapangalang planeta - na ayon din sa isang mitolohiya ay nangangahulugang "araw sa gabi". At sa kalabit sa kanya ng isang tindero ng mga bulaklak, nakangiti nyang sinabing bibili siya kung tatangapin ko ito. Bilang lalaki, hindi ko naranasan o hinangap na makatanggap ng bulaklak, kahit pa mula sa mga dati kong nakarelasyon. Sa kalasingan (at sa kilig na rin, marahil) ay tinanggap ko ito habang ang pigil na ngiti ay namumuo sa aking labi.

Marahil ay nasa mapagbirong posisyon ang aking mga bituin noong mga oras na iyon. Kahit medyo pasikat na ang araw, at habang nakaupo kami ng mga kaibigan ko sa gilid ng Nakpil, ay may tinderang lumapit at nag-abot ng bulaklak sa akin. Tumanggi akong bilhin upang sabihin lamang niya na pinabibigay iyon ng mamang nakaputi sa aking likuran. Muli ay napangiti ako at sandali siyang kinausap bago umalis.

Parehong rosas, parehong pula, parehong nagpangiti ngunit di hamak na may kilig sa naunang estranghero. At kahit ngiti lamang niya ang naaalala ko, at kahit duda akong makikilala ko sya sa oras na magkasalubong kami, sapat nang naipadama nya sa akin kung paano mapangiti sa kilig.

At tulad ng lahat ng ngiti, napapagal at napapawi. Pagkagising ko kanina, nakita ko sa banyo ang dalawang rosas na magkapatong. Kung saan doon ang galing sa naunang estranghero ay imposible nang malaman. Ang tanging nasa isip ko ay kung paano siyang panandaliang naging "araw sa aking gabi", tulad ng sinasabi ng mitolohiya.

Joke's On Me

He passed me by while I was standing outside your door. He, a testament to my deepest lust for flesh. He, my accomplice in those one-night stands. And so, I dialed your number to ask who else was attending the dinner. That guy, you said. He, your cousin.

In an instant, I fled. "Walk, just walk," my mind said. It was a cold and windy walk along unfamiliar streets. I ignored your calls. But your text message made me stop and turn around. "My cousin told me about your past. It doesn't matter to me now. Please come back."

Over dinner, I could not fathom my presence among your relatives and friends. We had been together for a couple of months only and yet, I, stranger to everyone but you, was invited. I should have been elated to be with you (and your loved ones) on your birthday. I should be grateful to you for dismissing my past entanglement with your cousin.

Instead, I was furious. We both know that the joke was on me...and I bet it made you feel so damn good.

The Great Closeted...

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter

And my throat

Is deep with song,

You do not think

I suffer after

I have held my pain

So long?


Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter,

You do not hear

My inner cry?

Because my feet

Are gay with dancing,

You do not know

I die?


- Langston Hughes, 1959

And the Rebel Ruler.

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world,

are the ones who do. "

--- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957

Tesseract

Government Bar, Makati
around 2am, March 2005

Strangers as we were, we could not help but smile upon finding each other. This is how our beginning was planned - two people finding solace on the second floor. Looking down at the dance floor, the lights danced furiously with the music and the crowd cheered as if the best was yet to come.


Bed Club, Malate
sometime after 12m.n., several years after

Like strangers, we barely nodded upon bumping into each other.  I went on partying with my group on the dance floor while holding a glass of empty Blue Frog. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of you on the stairs leading to the second floor. You smiled, but it could have been for someone else.

I guess we will never, never know the in-betweens.

Birdhouse In Your Soul

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul...

- Birdhouse in Your Soul, They Might Be Giants

To Those We Don't Write Poems About

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.


The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy, Jeffrey McDaniel

Freeway

"People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles."

This is a line from Bret Easton Ellis' novel Less Than Zero which I am reading, once again. I first encountered it while taking a college literature course as an elective. After spending hours at Booksale the other day, I found it hidden among stacks of Mills and Boon's, old issues of National Geographic magazines, and some Atkin's diet books. Bought it for 40 bucks. Cool.

If Jack Kerouac's On the Road is an exalting read for me, Bret's debut novel is an exhausting experience. Using stream of conciousness, Less than Zero has tempted me to have a taste of decay, not only from the novel's characters, but also from things happening around me. The book shows how lives can be devoid of passion and full of hollowed dreams. For the characters, as well as for others in the real world, detachment was, and still is, a cure.

As I finish the last page, I stare blankly through the window of my 4th floor apartment and see the city lights gradually come to life. I know that later tonight my friends and I will be in some meaningless meanderings, club hopping, drinking, flirting - just living the youthful life - and beneath are still afraid to merge.

Or is it not? We all head for the freeway, after all.