Ang Apo ni Tasyo ay Atorni

Marahil kung ipunin ang bawat
minutong aking ginugol kapag
naghihintay tawagin ang aking
kaso -- dati nga nakatitig lang
ako sa dingding, hanggang natuto
na akong makinig sa huwes, tapos
naging alalay sa mga kapwa
abogadong kapos sa palusot,
at sa labis na ngang kabagotan,
inisip ko na lang na kunwari
isa akong preso, nagnakaw ng
motorsiklo, carnapping ang kaso,
trip lang ng barkadang paglaruan
ang Shakey's delivery, eh hindi
pala ako marunong mag-motor,
kaya tinakbo ko na lang, ayun!
Nahuli tuloy. Ngayong umaga,
sesentensyahan na raw ako. At
nasa dulo kami ng listahan.
May abogado rito na gusot
mayaman ang Barong, siya ay ngiting
asong nakatitig. Kung sana ay
ako kaya ang abogado at
s'ya ang preso? -- Malamang may sagot
na akong naisip sa tanong ko,
ang paghahatol ba ay tulad ng
delubyo nang wasakin ang bayan
ng Sodom at Gomorrah ng apoy
at asupre, o di kaya naman
nang magwika ang bayang Judea
ipako'ng anak ng karpintero
sa krus dun sa bundok ng Kalbaryo?
Ay naku! Magkaiba ang sagot! Kung ako
ang abogadong taga-usig o
ako ang inuusig na preso!

Home is not a place

Last night I dreamed I was back in Pola,

lying on the bed where I used to sleep,

in the old house made from trunks of Narra.

There were strangers who were welcoming me

“You’re finally home,” they said, “You’re the boy 

who was brought here when you were just three months

old.” Indeed, I recognized the same house 

by the sea, the sound my Grandma makes as 

she sweeps the street in the early morning,

the gentle rhythm that used to calm me.

But not last night in my dream as I was

restless. And I shouted at the strangers.

“Where is she? Take me to her! This is not

my home!” And I woke up and clutched your hand, 

thinking, my home is wherever you are.

Tango Celeste

You’d be surprised to know this tune

is about winning a horse race

Por Una Cabeza, which means

by a stallion’s head. It reminds

me how twenty one years after

we’re dancing to this beat, inspired

by Al Pacino. Taking turns

to lead and follow, trying not

to break the rhythm, laughing

”wide, wide, quick, side, slide, turn, again”

and being laughed at the way that

we normally do, when someone

has taken a thing seriously

like me tonight, tipsy on gin,

dancing like a Japanese pug.

The night that I asked you to be 

my wife, I almost missed, because

a meeting took too long, traffic

got in the way, you’ve been waiting.

You left, your patience expired

I caught you not a second late, 

Por Una Cabeza, I could 

be singing this song instead, me

alone, guitar in hand, childless

”wide, wide, quick, side, slide, turn, again”

”wide, wide, quick, side, slide, turn, again”

were it not for a stallion’s head.

Holy Iron

I was a teen-ager when my Grandma 
took me to task for this ministry of 
well-pressed pants. Why should I dislike, she asked, 
the long preparation to gather the
leaves of bananas, light the coals, set them in
the flat iron? 

To patiently wait as I fan them ‘til 
the heat is right, ready for the smoothing?
And there is a method to this ritual, 
she said: You start with the pleats
and pockets 

and make your way to the cuffs.
Follow the 
rhythm as you hold the pants 
on the board  — 
fold, press, back  to the dock, fold
press, and back 
again. If you mind yourself 
long enough, 
it resembles the sound 
on Good Friday 

of penitents passing. There is a small 
pail of water to soften the textile, starched, stiffened, and baked.
You dip your fingers 
a bit and bless the  fabric. She had more things to say: the scent of burnt leaves
reminds her of monks praying. The clothes make 
the man, I know, but Grandma taught, the soul, 
vain, reckless, is mastered in the pressing.

Some deaths stay with us

Oh, I will never forget Palomo,

black-spotted Dalmatian who came every

now and then to bark and get some viand

leftovers before lunch as he goes to

market; he'd do a few tricks for us like

stand on his hind legs, pretend his human.

He's someone else's dog really but he

pays us a visit like the friend who comes

for coffee to share some thoughts on a bit

of politics, history,  relations,

except that he's a dog.  Until one day

somebody rushed to the house, "Palomo's

been poisoned!" Palomo walked to our yard,

he's making strange noises, his mouth dripping

with bubbles, and he looked at us as if

begging us to do something. Someone said 

make him drink Coke with sugar. My Grandpa

obliged, held Palomo by his neck and

poured the concoction on his mouth, but poor 

Palomo laid down sideways on the ground.

My Grandpa wept as he held Palomo,

who took his last breathe shortly. I touched his

soft fur to say goodbye. Wet eyes staring

on blank space.  Ah, this happened 40 years

ago; I sob like t'was this afternoon.

Dose

Nung araw, nagtayo kami ng team

Iba’t-iba ang pinanggalingan:

Probinsyano, batang squatter, rich kids

Pandak, matangkad, payat, mataba

Problema lang, lahat kami point guard.

Pag-hawak ng bola, dribble, dribble, 

tuloy tira basta maka-shoot lang.

Ay! Walang panalo kahit isa.

Ngunit minsan dumating si Coach Jay.

Marami siyang itinuro sa’min.

Gumaling kami. Natatalo rin

pero iba. Kung baga sa pan de

sal, tinama niya ang mga sangkap

harina, tubig, pampaalsa at 

asin. Minasa ng katamtaman.

Kaya kami yumabong, nagbigay

ng lakas, ‘di lang sa amin mismo,

pati na rin sa mga kalaro.

Isang gabi bigla siyang hinuli 

ng mga sundalo, rebelde raw.

Isa sa aming dose rin pala

ang nagsumbong. Ang balita namin

pinatay siya sa bundok kasama

ng mga magnanakaw. Subali’t

anuman ang sabihin nila ay

pinagmamalaki namin siya at 

maski kailan ay hindi namin siya

malilimutan. Mula noon ay

palagi naming inaalala

sa kahit anong gawain, mapa-

laro, trabaho, o pagsasanay: 

Sino sa atin ang gaganap sa 

papel ng minamahal na Coach Jay?

Borong Borong

Let me tell you how I learned empathy.

I was probably three years old back then.

My parents were in Manila; I lived 

with my grandparents in Pola, small town,

by the bay, lush mountain, sweet bananas.

One day while playing on the street, I met

Borong Borong, a boy older than me 

by a few years. He had a scooter, which

was made of scrap wood and junk steel wheels,  which

he used to roam around town for errands.

Now, my Grandma asked him to come one day

To get some stuff from the market on his 

scooter; he asked me to come along with 

him. I gamely obliged riding on the

platform, while he stirred and pushed as we rolled.

So, Borong Borong got the stuff and we 

went back home to Grandma who was  waiting.

She was so happy when we arrived and 

she handed him a coin in gratitude. 

And I protested as she didn’t give me 

any, not even a poor “mamera.”

But Grandma told me Borong Borong was

an orphan, and the coin is for hot soup

for him when he gets hungry when there is 

no one to feed him and he misses his 

mommy. And I don’t know what hit me but

I cried so hard and pressed my face on the 

wall, surprised that Borong Borong, jolly 

fellow with the wooden scooter, had no

mommy or daddy. And until now I 

regret why I felt I wanted that coin.

Elegy

Almost done with breakfast,

got startled as you shreaked

begged me kill the cockroach

under the table please.

As I stood, knife in hand

searched for the intruder

Stepped on the evil thing

smashed, squished, and crackled so

the sound of frying egg

“I killed it with a knife.

That’s truthful, isn’t it?

Misleading, but valid.”

I saw the insect’s kin,

the corner of the room,

A whimper, “You humans!

Your words hide cowardice.

By an assassin's Crocs

My dear daddy is dead.

My mother will be shocked.”

Prelude to a Fight

Said the white rooster 

to the red

“Don’t you tire 

of this pecking? 

Our beaks are sharp

our necks strong and flexed,

are we meant

to serve 

a higher order?”

And the red replied,

“Impertinence!

Bury your claws on 

someone’s throat.

To perish with 

bloodied combs,

no reason 

can be as great.

And the white

turned away,

flapped, jumped

and crowed in 

memory of a love, 

who laid,

with ketchup 

by her side.

Plato in Boracay

Charming island 

blue sails

where coconuts

grow on sand;

warm afternoons

on your cold floor

lured everyone to come.

Athens of the east

to all who search

and the few who find.

With you the hemlock 

is sweet 

escape from 

sophist souls.

Die if we must here.

Kant is a moron.

The truth is cradled on

your shores.

Foucault gets drunk on Good Friday

What knowledge can be 

more powerful than 

knowing that You are

God?

A thousand different 

things I would do if 

I suppose I were 

You.

I snap my fingers

Calvary would have 

turned into a crois-

sant.

Your trick turning blood

into wine but I 

prefer a Pinot

Noir.

Pontius Pilate I 

would have turned him in

to crumbling cheese of

blue.

Yet two thousand years

ago, You knew that

the Word that made all

words 

possible will end,

life lived well will meet 

a staggered humble

death.

And I, contemplat-

ing this last bottle

shake my head as I

sleep.

Friday Night Rhapsody

What could be a better deal than this?

I give you my money

You give me in 

toxi

cation.

The spirit I can’t hear it.

No, I can’t see it. 

Only one way to do it

in

toxik

cayshen.

Smile when I smell it

Taste but no tether

it won’t give me in

tohksi

cayshen.

I gulp and I'm done

I'm done and I'm gone.

This is how we live today

distracted by the focus

focused on distraction.

In

tok

shi

kay

shen.

Impeaching Sereno is a giant step backwards

A couple of years ago, I posted here that the appointment of then Justice Sereno is the most important defining moment of the PNoy Presidency. She was the only nominee who was insulated from powerful interests and  with a reputation for academic excellence, and integrity. Further, being the youngest nominee,  she could ensure that the Supreme Court would be stirred towards independence beyond the terms of succeeding presidents. And she proved PNoy’s appointment motives right when she herself voted against the PNoy Administration’s pathetic defense of the infamous pork barrel scheme known as Disbursement Acceleration Program (DAP). 

Is it therefore any wonder that the agenda of the Duterte Administration is the impeachment of CJ Sereno? Duterte wants things done and the last thing he needs is an indepenent court run by an academic with an apolitical leaning. He and his people have said many times that the drug addicts are not human and they don’t deserve due process. In his first State of the Nation Address, he grumbled about human rights, in the process revealing his authoritarian leanings. Duterte and Sereno stand in opposite poles of the political spectrum, one a despot who fashions himself as a spartan; and the other, a religious libertarian free of Vatican dogma.

I’m afraid CJ Sereno’s ship, which once stood as formidable, has been found to have holes. Her issue with her Statement of Assets and Liabilities and Net Worth is not a magnet that could rally thousands to oust her; but, since her predecessor stumbled on the same thing, it’s a legal excuse that the Senate and Congress dogs of Duterte can use to impeach her. Never mind if it’s not even a high crime as required by the Constitution.

I’m looking at the Senate line up whose votes would determine CJ Sereno’s fate. What would be their gains in voting for CJ Sereno’s acquittal? It doesn’t look good. If only CJ Sereno can rally people to her side; yet her pedigree is anathema to the ways of the morally-compromised politician that sadly is the proto-type of a Filipino leader. The people should realize that the impeachment of CJ Sereno is a re-establishment of the old order, a return to the ways of the “bata-bata” system that made it possible for Ferdinand Marcos to legitimize his cling to power in 1972. But nobody cares at this point. Duterte has the nation bewitched with several narratives that cut across interweaving interests; the Chinese invasion of Philippine territories, the tax TRAIN, the drug menace, the roll-out of  infrastructure projects, and the Dengvaxia vaccine fiasco, among others. 

What depressingly interesting times we live in. 

#StandwithCJ