Refresh, Restart

It has been a while. A year actually. I just finished college. I contemplate whether or not I should pursue law school or just proceed to a life taking and leaving jobs. I am not sure if I can make it alive in law school, but I am considering it only in light of the dearth of opportunities for an AB English graduate such as myself. Either path I take will not change the kind of life I want to pursue, the kind of name that I will make in this world, the contributions I want to offer to advance society. A life of learning and illuminations to chart the path against a future that is becoming more treacherous with each passing day.

Though right now, I am open to failing. I acknowledge that whatever opportunities I pursue, I must pursue them along the conditions that cage me, influence me, and build me. I will not stop living my dreams, but I will bow down gracefully to a defeat in the duel against life and its restrictions.

Hey, did you know that I just self-published my first poetry book last November? It sold decently, though I was personally dissatisfied with many things. My lay-out was a bit too tacky, my business plan nonexistent, my sales a bit ughh. Good thing it was a small project; the loses aren’t that great. I was even surprised with the demand. I only had an initial print run of 20 copies; but requests from both my family and my acquaintances compelled me to release an extra 50 more. I think. I do not have track of the sales, but I was certain it was around 30-50. Decent enough for a poetry book in a city without a collective reading culture.

From the mistakes of my first publication will emerge the wisdom of another. It has been just two months since then; I took a rest, refreshed my mind, and faced the reality of my situation. I need to find odd jobs to ensure I have pocket money for emergencies. But that need should not stop my legacy to my own province. I must continue to write.

I am to append some of my early works in this blog, as well as others that do not belong to the direction of writing which I seek to be renowned. In lieu of my self-directed scholarly pursuits, I will be focused to writing poetry on technological, geopolitical, phenomenological, existential, ethical, and ethical themes. Mostly technological. Successful attempts to write poetry that satisfy this so will be released on another blog. If I were indeed successful, I will let you know.

This blog is one of those I will never regret. It would be sad if I were to abandon this, even after a stagnant year. So, let’s look forward to another productive and poetic life ahead. Cheers.

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Drinking with my laptop screen

Cheers to you my loyal servant

On this night we call ours

for the parks outside are shouting

with fireworks and trashy concert music

you and I are proud to get away from.

Let them celebrate our silent communion;

I with these cheap canned beers,

You will the juice of my nearly

unpayable electric bill.

Remind me to get this dream over with.

Remind me to settle my debt with my cousin

and ask money from the pension of my grandparents.

Remind me to remind them that together we

will finally work out our best masterpiece yet,

sharpened from the million words

my fingers dug in your

miraculously enduring keyboard.

Remind me of the good times

when stories didn’t make me remember

my grumbling stomach

and my worn shoes because they weren’t.

Remind me of my sacrifices, will you?

My friends, my lovers, my one-night stands?

And do the reminiscing for me

for I do not wish to wake up

from the hangover

tomorrow.


finally. Poem No. 7 for this week’s poetry theme, “writing summer.” Must. Read. More. Books. You must read more of my poetry too. Just kidding, but if you liked it, why not? hehehehe

a sedentary day

there are these waking hours

when your to-do list

eludes you like forgotten keys

or prodigal sock pairs

or vanishing combs

such that the fire

of your morning brew

leaves your fingers cold

and your screen (or paper) empty

and your imaginary people

whose lives you are destined to chart

sleep in their locked VIP rooms

with their demons and personal assistants

refusing the taste of pancakes

or bread or cereal or tobacco.

these are the waking hours

that work not like the egg timer

but like the plastic Scrabble hour glass

with the pink sand that does not always

flow when it is your turn

to use your Q and Y and Z

and your mind is as blank

as your playmates bored

and daydreaming.

Let your mind roam in this empty day.

Let it soak in the sun

or the rain

or the smoke and fog–

whatever keeps your town alive.

Let it be a dwarf as small as your pixel

or pigment ink and make it uncover

the expanse of your overstuffed rooms

and treacherous, roach-infested dungeons

before finding a crack in the window

and float like dust in the ebb

of the whispering streets.

Or let it be a giant and make it trample

against the brimstone you have long

prayed to be unleashed against the lives

of your most hated:

your math professor,

your bully,

the douchebag on television.

Let it relish the attention of helicopters

and missiles and screaming ants

before mindlessly wandering

in the sea of your imagination to rest.

Don’t drag it yet with the productivity mantras

you practiced from your newsfeed

but let it guide your fingers

in the tango of the blank page

that will call on you tonight.

And of course you must be waiting

and of course you must not deny this

for the table is now a palace

and the page a ballroom floor

where your people will dance

and you will dance with them

the song of all their nightmares and dreams.


Poem No. 6 for this week’s theme, “writing summer.” I need to begin looking elsewhere for ideas.

In my room are dragons. I am one too.

Once, they told me, I ate a lizard’s tail.
My flattered ears overcame the suddenness
of my once overcurious infant tongue
and thought I was destined
to conquer great walls
with my astounding sense of balance,
reptilian flexibility,
and a strong gut for all things disgusting.

But I didn’t become a gymnast.

My cravings for the way
of the video game warrior was
impeded by my muscles
stiff from the long hungry walks
across many dusty pavements of my town.
But sometimes when small concrete bars
split the land between the living soil
and the trodden concrete
like a child I trod my feet
one over the other
and spread my wings
with both confidence and cowardice
like the spirit of the hero
against the lava pit of hell.

And when friendly faces
urge me to abandon my way
and share in the flowing
cornucopia of blinding lights
and blasted sounds
and bubbling drinks
I with my proud mouth and neck
decline, for my mouth
blessed me
the warrior’s way
I presently tread.

 

And this is what I’ve become:

a magician against the untamed ether,
a soldier against a faceless war,
a priest against a tempting stillness,
a thief against an encrypted maze,
a god, a creator, against a void
that creates me.

I look inside me
and stare at it
and traverse it
and chart it
with the instruments
and puzzles that are my memories.

Will it be filled or
will it be the act of filling it
that will make or break me?

Breathing, I look at the beige walls
that shelter my path and paint in them
the sky that used to morph
the landscapes of my youth.
On them lived small kings
who crawled and conquered walls
and destroyed bugs and ants
with the terror of their tongue.

This– the taste of freedom.
The same I blessed
my foolish mouth to have
as I face again the blank wall
I too was meant to conquer.


Poem No. 5 for this week’s theme, “writing summer.” It has skies, so it’s related? (I am running out of ideas here. hahahahahahaha)

the evening star is not a star

The stars charmed your heart like a child
but it is like a child with ears shut
from the truth that not all of them are.
For you they are only flowers burning in the sky,
the names that burn with them
irrelevant to the way they lit softly
the emptiness you shelter away from
in the comfort of your laptop
under the flourescent-lit ceiling.
And you chose to ignore the relentless gaze
of Venus with its rain like acid
to the young, untested heart
crippling its unhardened muscles
and tugging it towards
your youthful ignorance
of what is love
and what is proper for love.

Your heart remains to be tested today

as the scolding hammers the

muscles and molds it

against the heat

against the damage of the acid

that seared the eyes of your heart

away from backward whispers

and into the intoxicating laughter

and kisses that sheltered it

against the burning dreams

of your imaginary (yet unmapped) constellations.

You are still but a child

and your heart still has to open

to the truth that the skies and the stars

can’t be molded to the whims of your youth.

They have to be learned and faced as they are

like the world, like life.

Then love.


By the time I wrote this, my sister was scolded because of reckless teenage love. I don’t want to think about the details (don’t worry, it’s not pregnancy).

Poem No. 4 for this week’s theme, “writing summer”.