I can hold my
breath underwater
for as long as anybody; or,
I just cannot seem to groan enough.
Who will take the shells away
from me? Am I not making waves yet?
I take pains, a turtle-dash a day,
until I get there to claim my pit.
I love the sting of gashes under
my feet. Some skill I never learned keeps
my throat awake to amniotic laughter;
God, am I still aloft this deep?
I just cannot seem to croak enough;
this is the way I want to sign off.
2. Last words
I bother for
a second
opinion on the weather;
I mean, I tend to lose my
way around the familiar.
I have stalled here for too long,
the days of the world begin
to smell; I admit I need
a new shirt to falter in.
Saints and angels are marching
in; I sense something crucial
about to happen. Sendoffs
hem the incorrigible.
There are now enough stones to
go around, dear folks; I guess
I have to show you next a
side of my face that heals best.
I mean, you can shake me down,
cut me all up limb by limb,
and burn what is left of me:
I belong to something green.
Apat na Tula ni JuanCarlo dg Toledo
1. Para
hunos dili...
pag-sumakit bigla-
ng tigil. pag-sumabit
biglang lingon.
laway na sumemplang
sa dila, sa huli
ang sisi. ang ibinuga,
isinuka, kakainin uli
at huli
na ang lahat.
hindi na makahinga,
maka-higa sa kama.
hintaying ang hangin,
ang lindol.
sa pagpanaw; hintayin
ang huling dalaw,
ang ning-ning
kalawang na mga tala.
hunos dili...
pag-sumakit bigla-
ng tigil. pag-sumabit
biglang lingon. sa tabi,
para...
2. Hilo
nakabuntot
ang keridang buwan,
hinimas-himas
ang mga mapait
na alaalang ating
pilit binibigyan
ng mabuting
kahulugan at
happy ending.
sa mesa nagkalat
ang bote ng sigarilyo
at kaha ng alak.
sinamantala
ng mga lamok
ang ating pagka-
praning. ang dalamhati;
ganyan talaga
ang buhay
masalimuot at
tragic
hinihila na tayo
ng antok at kung
saan na tayo
nakarating. tila
malayo na ang
ating nalakbay.
sa bawat tilaok
ng mga manok, nagpapa-
alala ng madaling araw,
sumuyaw tayo sa
keridang buwan at
mga lamok;
hindi na tayo muling
pahihibang sa mapanlinlang
at nakakahilong ikot
ng mundo sa palad
ng ating buhay.
nag-shot ako
ng marlboro,
nag-yosi ka
ng gin
at ating nilimot
ang lahat.
3. God bless us
may mga kamay.
kamay, kapit-kapit
ang dilim. sumisid
sa talinhaga. saklolo!
nawala na lang.
minsan lilitaw, lulubog.
lilitaw.
may mga bulaklak.
bulaklak, sing-bango
ng awa. at tawa
sa langit- ang abuloy;
sampay na piso. umiyak
ang pusa. kumamot
sa tenga ng tanga.
tanga.
sa gitna ng mga hita,
ang bulag na araw
sumampay. lubog
ang katawan, lutang
ang mukha. anong silbi?
nawala na lang.
minsan lulubog, lilitaw.
lulubog.
4. Ataul
saan na ba ang taong
nasa likuran mo?
parang nananakit 'tong
rayuma ko sa kaka-hanap.
umuulan ng barya
hipuin mo ang ataul.
mga lumuluhang kandila
tila yata napakabilis
ang pag-upod.
mahiwaga na panaginip;
sinasakyan ang usok
ng sigarilyo-
matalim at maputi
bilog na nilalaro.
kilabot sa hugis
at mukha ng buwan.
may pantal ang sahig
ng kalangitan.
pira-pirasong lungkot at alaala
parang tren na papalayo.
ang ingay, yugyug at
lahat ng bagay ay 'di na madama.
munting sulyap, sa bintana
ng kasikipan.
p r o s e
[fiction] Paltry on the rocks by Jaime Mendoza
So I was told that I had won third prize in the annual Barangay Manolo Bingo Bonanza. Now I am here in Baguio smoking a pack of Marlboro a day. Big fat deal. Things could have been better if Agnes would have come along. What really drives me nuts about her is her skinny yet circular ass. It's always a nice butt that gets my attention when it comes to girls... women, I mean. It suddenly hits me that I just turned 23 last month, so I might as well look for women instead of girls. Specially with this RECLUSION PERPETUA thing my lawyer cousin keeps on mentioning over large mugs of San Miguel beer. Mines View Park gets a little boring after 3 hours. I'm better off jerking somewhere else.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" I suddenly dropped my half-finished cigarette. What the fuck was that? "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" Like a karaoke microphone overkill."WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN? Is this one of those Charlton Heston movie, where a booming voice starts asking about life and starts giving orders like kill a sheep or tell the world about his teachings? Is this who they call God? Why me? Does He have a great cosmic chore for me? A message for the world maybe?
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" There it goes again with the divine question. How am I supposed to know? The truth is, I haven't given it much thought. We are not that rich. A little maybe. But dad always told us that they started out small, mama and him. Even bought their first set of dishes when kuya was just a baby, and he-dad-always told us to be humble. Well humble my foot! He was never humble.
What is the meaning of life? Don't ask me, I've been asking myself the same question since... since... since mom and dad's separation. Can't really blame dad for leaving mom and living in with Tita Bless, our so called family friend. I just realized that this is all Tita Bless's fault-not our miserable family's, I mean. It was bound to crumble down. What I mean is, for my trip here to Baguio, since she's the one who gave me those bingo tickets. This great voice should ask my mother about this meaning of life shit; she always has her way of being on top of everything. Always letting people know how great she is. Or maybe ask it of my father, he's the macho guy in the family... in fact too macho for my homosexual big brother.
My kuya is not your typical shoulder to lean on, he's more of a shoulder to hang your beauty parlor robe on. I always thought there was something wrong with him. He was always quiet and never played with my G.I. Joes. He'd rather stay in his room or talk to girls on the phone. When he was about to graduate from high school, he talked dad into letting him study in Manila to take up engineering. Until a couple of years ago, when he graduated,we found out he took up fine arts instead and went into the fashion business. Dad went ballistic, of course, but soon forgot about the whole thing when he saw how much money kuya Santino was making. Mom, on the other hand, was pretty cool about it. Even her amigas were a bit impressed with kuya's creations. But Vanessa is the most frequent customer Santino has ever had. Not that Vanessa made him rich. How could she? She never paid him. It's because she's our half-sister, my half-ate, as a matter of fact. I couldn't believe my father was already screwing around with this real estate broker even before I was born.
She's a nice girl, not too bad for a half-sister. Well most of half-sister stories I hear involves murders or public cat fights. Banny, as we call her, is a relaxed individual. I could never recall a moment that she panicked or freaked out over something. One time dad bought her a new car. When she saw it and when dad handed the keys to her, she simply took them and gave dad a very simple and brief hug, whispered "Thank you," and drove off. And while all this was happening her face never changed. Like giving a robot a new space ship. She was like a piece of pebble, cold and lifeless. Or maybe it was due to too much drugs. Banny, a great laid-back junkie.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" This voice is beginning to annoy me. Maybe I'm too young to answer that question or maybe I'm too stupid. Can the meaning of life be found below these cliffs. This could be the turning point of my life. But that's what I said when Banny caught me masturbating in front of the TV while watching Iskul Bukol. Luckily, it was no surprise to her since she knew already that I often did it. Actually, she watched me anytime she got the chance. If this voice must insist, I'd say the answer is as silly as the question. There is no definite meaning to all of it, if there is then we don't need such voices in our lives... we shouldn't believe in them.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" How could you do this to me? Is this some holy joke? Are you trying to be a God with a sense of humor? "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" I don't care anymore! If you would've asked me that question a long time my life might've been easier to live! If I knew all along that you could make me feel that you are there, then I would never have pretended that I am strong. All those college books, all the Nietzsches, all the Schopenhauers, all the Freuds, and all the Kafkas mean nothing to me right now.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" Shut up, God!!! Maybe the only time a person gets the meaning of his life is when it ends. So here, if I jumped off this cliff would I find the goddamn meaning? Answer me, oh dear Lord! Omnipotent piece of shit! Will I see the answers before my body slams against the boulders below? Or maybe sex is the meaning, the holy trinity, the holy threesome, fuck! Maybe sex is the answer! I know! I'll call Agnes so she could come up tomorrow and we could fuck like stallions and mares.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" Stop!!! "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" Fuck you, God!!! I'm sorry for everything that I have done!!! So please stop! "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE FOR A RICH MAN?" I don't know! This is not fair! You were never fair, not to me, not to my brother, nor to my sister, and especially not to my parents! So I'm gonna tell You straight out, I don't know the answer! You miserable excuse for a god! "TIME IS UP!!!" What in Zeus's butt hole did you just say?!?!? "I SAID, TIME IS UP!!!" Don't do this to me! What do you mean time's up?! "TIME IS UP MEANS YOU DON'T KNOW 27-DOWN, NOW HELP ME ANSWER 34-ACROSS... WHAT IS A 7-LETTER WORD FOR....".
[fiction] The Box by Titus Toledo
1. On a night like this there is no God. Even on a brightly clear
starry night like this with the cool August breeze lightly brushing
up your face. How could there be God on a night like this when
you lay in an empty alley clutching your groin to keep the blood
from spraying out? How could there be God on a night like this
when you lay there like a fallen fetus some bitch left for dead?
You've given up crying for help because the last time you did
it hurt so bad you thought your brain was going to shoot out
of your nostrils.
Either you bleed to death or the pain kills you.
So you take the long slow road thinking you needed the time. You figure this
was smart, that you could still be lucky, that help is just a
matter of time. Just a matter of time.
If only you had more time. A few more minutes maybe: "O God, give me
a few more minutes. O God, just a few more fucking minutes."
So now you pray
to God trying hard to remember how. Now you pray to God like
your mother never taught you how. With every bone in your body.
Every muscle. You pray to God looking up at the heavens, trying
to make out his face in the brightly clear starry sky, but there is no God.
When you're alone and dying like this, there is no God.
Even on a night like this.
2. To do or not to do. That is the question.
He had, of course, seen it long before everybody else had gone
to the cafeteria--- for a cup of coffee, a stick of cigarette,
or whatever kills you. He had seen it, all right, but he is taking
way too long trying to decide what to do. Way too long.
He sits and stands and then sits and then stands: The moon waxes. The grass
grows.
He could get caught if somebody went back looking for it. They could blame
him, kick him out--- just like that. A rat like him: They could
have him locked up or licked for good if worse comes to worse.
And what if this were just a test--- part of some management crap
everyone goes into, some trap everyone knows, everyone's on to?
They could be talking about me right now, eyeing me, sizing me
up, betting the rat would take the cheese.
The fucking bastards!
He sits and stands and then sits and then stands. He lights a Winston and
kills it just when the bus driver comes out of the door, a banana in his mouth.
"Tough night eh, kid?" he wipes his mouth and fishes an envelope
from inside his back pocket.
Look at the fucking bastard! Look at him! Look at him trying to look coy!
I can see right through you, motherfucker!
"By the way, boss wants to know how you're doing. Said, so far so good.
Only you don't go around shooting crap with the boys too much."
He counts the bills--- spit on his thumb--- and hands him five big ones: "Be
here by four, understand? And quit those fucking smokes. A college
kid like you. Look at me. I'm a quitter. No shit."
3.
Dear stranger:
If you are reading this letter, it means you have found the box.
Or: The box found you.
Whichever.
The thing is, it is yours now- that is, of course, if you choose to keep it.
At any rate, it cannot possibly be mine because you do not know me and you
cannot know me- I do not think you want to know me.
I do not think I want to know you, either.
For all I know, it is you who wrote this letter, you who left the box, and you
who found it.
Stranger things happen.
Besides, even if you did find out who I am, what does it matter?
I am probably long dead by then- if I am not already dead by now— that is,
of course, if you do live long enough to find out who I really am.
Or was.
Whichever.
So: Do not bother looking for me, stranger. Do not even think of me.
It is beautiful that way.
Do you want to know what else is beautiful?
The box. You will never guess what is inside it— that is, of course, until
you open it. And even then, you do not know why.
And that is what makes it beautiful.
It is, in essence, a lot like life: My life. Your life.
Same difference.
So: Here is my life. It is your life now, just as it had been mine— that
is, of course, before you found it.
Or: it found you.
Whichever.
Here is a little secret, I will let you in on: There is really nothing free about free will.
Nothing at all.
There is only the will to be free.
But even that is not free.
Of course, your life is your choice, as my life had once been mine. That is how
it goes.
That is how it supposedly goes.
Until you come across a box. Any box.
Any sort of box.
Cordially yours,
Stranger.
4.
"Come in."
"You called me— boss?"
"Come right in and sit."
The room is dark except where he now sits beside the window where a red lampshade glares like dead siren. In the red light it looks almost bare:
There is this huge desk, which is also bare and two easy chairs.
But the room has this quality about it, this quality that says
it means business--- serious business. You do not want to go in
a room like this. Once in, you almost feel like there is no way out.
"Ever felt
like the world is finally opening up for you."
"What do you mean, boss?"
He opens a bureau and produces a box: "The world is like a box, kid. Pretty
much like this." He sets the box on the table and regards
him for a moment.
He looks at the box and then the boss and then the box. He does not say anything.
"The problem is, most people think they're in the box." He taps the box with a finger. "They think they're in the world, that the
world is theirs to keep. Something they can put in a box, tucked
away in a bureau, just like this."
"Oh-"
He stands and paces to the window: "Well, I have bad news for them. The
world is theirs all right, until they find out just how small
their world really is--- just how small--- and then it hits them."
He turns to him and then looks back at the window. "It hits
them and they realize they're boxed in. They realize they're
boxed in and they want out. They want out because finally it
is not the box that matters anymore- how big, how small, who's
in, who's out--- but what do you do with it.
"Do you want to know what happens when you're boxed in?" He is still
standing there looking out at the empty parking lot. "You
can't breathe. You can't breathe when you're boxed in. Of course,
you can't."
For a while there is silence: The moon waxes. The grass grows.
He had seen him just like this. Once, twice maybe. He had seen him standing
there, or what passes off as his shadow--- just like this. Nights
when the bus runs late, he had seen him there, all right. There:
in the sick red light, behind the window, looking out.
"Ever had problems breathing?"
"I'm still good. I guess."
"You smoke, don't you?"
"Only when I can, boss. Two, three sticks-"
"Smoke if you want."
He hesitates for a second before he goes on to light one.
"You probably know why I called you."
It was not a question. It was statement of fact.
"Let me just say for a college boy you're way too smart. And lucky too.
You're a smart lucky college boy." And you know why?"
He picks the box and holds it to his face. "I'll tell you
why. Men like us--- men like you and me--- we're outsiders, that's
why." He looks at him and then at the box. "We see
the box from the outside and we wait. We see the world from the
outside and we wait." Slowly he nestles the box back on
the table. "We wait for as long as it takes us waiting.
We wait because we know soon the waiting stops. Soon the box
opens. Soon somebody is going to want out. And when it does---"
He opens the box. "When it does open---" He makes a fist.
"We grab the motherfucker!" And slams the box on the table.
Three times.
5.
"The time to hesitate is through."
6.
Listen: There is an art to opening a box. But not a box like
this. Because whoever sealed this box wants to be sure whoever
opens it really wants to open it. It does not take art to open
this box, it takes violence.
He sits and stands and then sits and then stands.
It has been a long tough night and he has not eaten yet. But he does not
really feel like eating. Or washing up. He has not even bothered
switching the TV on, like he always does--- not so much to watch,
because there is really nothing much to watch at a time like
this- but only because he has become somewhat hooked to the flickering static.
But what do you need the TV for when you've got the box?
He lights a cigarette and settles on the floor.
From down low the box looks bigger than it really is, although it really is
no bigger than a grown man's fist--- roughly a little less than
half the size of an ordinary shoebox.
What is peculiar, though, is the manner in which the box is sealed, wrapped up
tight, with what looked like two, three rolls of thick black
tape, you had to practically guess which side goes up.
It had this certain heaviness, too. This heaviness that seemed almost unreal,
as though whatever is in the box did not quite belong in a box.
You could only guess.
A box of cash.
A box of coke.
A box of crap.
A box of cold TNT.
That is a possibility.
It could be a bomb, all right. Of course, it could. A bomb-- yes.
The kind that blows up when it's opened. Given the sort of company
he keeps: Friends, enemies. Enemies, friends. They must have
left it there, in the bus, on purpose, hoping some eager beaver
would bite the bait and blow up the whole shitload.
It takes him forever thinking about this, as though his thoughts came in trickles and took light years coming: The moon waxes. The grass grows.
He stretches flat on the floor facing the ceiling and smoking.
But what if it's money? What if it's something of value? A slab of gold.
A chunk of diamond. Some old priceless relic you could trade
for a king's ransom.
7.
What if?
8.
This could be it, brother. This could be your lucky day. It is
all up to you now---- all up to you. It happens only once in a man's
life, remember that---- only once. After that, it is gone. Forever.
Goodbye. So long. Adios. Now is the time, brother.
Now. Is. The. Time.
9.
The fucking bastard.
10.
Here is what is in the box: Sand.
And half buried in the sand--- a blue black stub of human flesh
that looks like a finger before it hits you and you finally realize
what it really is: A large part of some poor guy's pecker sliced
off badly like it had been ripped out with a pair pliers.
11. The fuckass shit-eating sick crazy motherfucking bastard.
12.
"I want to be the first one to shake your hand, kid."
He reaches for his hand and shakes it. "I want to be the
first one to congratulate you. You passed."
The hell I did. He does not say anything.
"Hey. Get off it." He takes another box from under his drawer much like the one on the table before he smashed it to a pulp and holds
it over to him: "Here. You've earned it, kid."
He looks at the box and then the boss and then the box.
"Go ahead. It's yours."
He finally takes the box but does not open it.
"Five hundred big ones. That's half a million in there. Half a million. Most people would sell you off for far less. Way far less. But you--- you are not most people, kid. You are my kind of people. Welcome
to the company."
13.
So what do you do with a box that contains, among other things,
somebody else's pecker?
You bury it.
14.
To do or not to do. That is the question.
15.
So here you are. Here you are leaning your head against a glass
of shooting pinlights that blink and blur like stars dying out
in a passing blackhole. Here you are on a bus trying hard not
to worry while the stranger sitting next to you snores himself to seepybye.
But what do you need to worry for when you've got five hundred big ones?
What do you need to worry for when you've got half a million stashed in
a box, on your lap, like a second hard on?
That, brother, is exactly what is wrong with you. You worry too much. You worry
too much because you think too much. But you could think, all
right, only you do it too much. Like those mind games you love
to play with the flickering TV on late nights when you have trouble
sleeping. The way you put two and two together, plotting out
the dots, and trying out all the possible connections just to
see where the line leads you.
Well the line here leads you to a sunny seaside town north of nowhere. The
line here leads you to little known spit of glistening white
sand hicks there call heaven.
Just heaven.
16.
O God, give me a few more minutes. O God, just a few more fucking minutes.
17.
"It's about time you showed up."
"I was going to call the office---"
"Listen, kid. Something bad's happened." It's the bus driver stooping his head and tugging him along.
It had been raining all morning and all morning he had waited
for him at the corner, smoking cigarettes.
The two walk in the rain like a couple of boyfriends. They stop
just around the bend, board a pickup truck, and drive past the
terminal where several cops in big black raincoats mill behind
the yellow line, their cars bleeding the rain.
"You better put your head down, kid." He eases through the traffic without turning his head to look at the commotion. "Good thing you've
never been an early bird. They've been out all this time looking
for you."
"You mean the cops?"
"Sure shit I mean the cops."
"What the hell do they want me for?"
"I figured that much. That's why I waited. But hey, you believe what you believe."
"I don't get get you, man."
"Look, kid, you're in big, big trouble. You need to get on the first
bus out of here, fast."
"Now hold on a second---"
"No. You hold on. You hold on and listen well, because I'm not going to
fucking say this again. You're in deep shit, kid, you hear? Deep
shit. And the only way you can keep your ass from sinking any
deeper is to get your butt on the first bus out of here, fast.
The first bus, you understand? Don't ask me why. Just do it.
You get on that bus, and you don't look back. You get on that
bus, and you don't even stop for shit. Not for anything. You go
someplace far. Someplace nobody knows. And don't even tell
me where. Don't even send me a fucking postcard. Not a fucking
word, you hear? You never saw me, and you never heard shit from
me. This never happened, kid, or help me God I'm going to have
to cut your tiny college dick off and bleed you like a pig."
18.
He has seen it.
19. "Some death."
"What did I tell you."
"It's a mess, all right."
"Well, he had it coming."
"That's the snag," the first cop says. "He had it coming
from everywhere. It's going to be hell closing the book on this one."
"I can see where you're coming."
"Leads leading everywhere and nowhere. Could be anybody."
"Could be your everyday trip kill," the second cop says.
"That's one," the first cop says. "What about it?"
"Talk about a real bummer. Combed the area--- thrice--- nothing."
"It figures. I bet we'll never find it."
"It sure is starting to look that way."
"A thing like that--- can a thing like that get too far?
The second cop shakes his head, looking at the body: "Beats me."
"You don't walk around carrying a thing like that, do you?" the first cop says. "You don't even think about picking up a thing like that and tossing it someplace."
"Yeah. Unless it crawled."
"Come now."
"You know, like snakes. You cut off a snake's tail, and the tail keeps moving for about an hour or so."
"That's an idea." The first cop smiles. "But the way I see it, it was just probably lying around here somewhere before some stray dog beat us to this place and ate it up."
A third cop butts in: "Sir, they found it."
"Where?"
"Some bus. Stuffed in some box."
"I'll be damned."
20.
ps. Just in case you wanted to know: In heaven, there is no God.
by Sendong M. Makabali
by Sendong M. Makabali
access archive: all issues