News Flash

People do stop waiting, at one point or another.

And the pendulum swings

I've been thinking about deleting my friendster account for some time now. This has made me think of moving instead.

Harhar.

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Hide-and-Seek

Someone hides from someone
Hides under his tongue
He looks for him under the earth
He hides on his forehead

He looks for him in the sky
He hides in his forgetting
He looks for him in the grass
Looks for him looks
Where he doesn't look for him
And looking for him loses himself.- Vasco Popa, translated by Simic

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You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Because she wants to touch him,
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him,
she keeps silent.
Because she wants to kiss him,
she turns away
& kisses a man she does not want to kiss.

He watches
thinking she does not want him.
He listens
hearing her silence.
He turns away
thinking her distant
& kisses a girl he does not want to kiss.

They marry each other--
a four-way mistake.
He goes to bed with his wife
thinking of her.
She goes to bed with her husband
thinking of him.--
& all this in a real old-fashioned four-poster bed.

Do they live unhappily ever after?
Of course.
Do they undo their mistakes ever?
Never.
Who is the victim here?
Love is the victim.
Who is the villain?
Love that never dies.- Parable of the Four Poster, Erica Mann Jong

Here's where the story ends

People I know, places I go,
make me feel tongue-tied
I can see how people look down, they’re on the inside
Here’s where the story ends
People I see, weary of me showing my good side
I can see how people look down
I’m on the outside
Here’s where the story ends
Ooh here’s where the story ends

It’s that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore
Oh I never should have said, the books that you read
Were all I loved you for

It’s that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes me wonder why
And it’s the memories of your shed that make me turn red
Surprise, surprise, surprise

Crazy I know, places I go
Make me feel so tired
I can see how people look down
I’m on the outside
Oh here’s where the story ends
Ooh here’s where the story ends

Oh the devil in me said, go down to the shed
I know where I belong
But the only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong
It’s that little souvenir of a colourful year
Which makes me smile inside
So I cynically, cynically say, the world is that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise

Here’s where the story ends
Ooh here’s where the story ends- Here's where the story ends, The Sundays

let me tell you the truth

it is this:
i have forgotten about you.
i have carefully moved on, like a
tidal wave, a jack in the box sans the spring. see me, the vehicle stealthily
moving upwards a steep slope. however
gradually, i will get there. i am now dreamless and righteous.
my head, a bubble burst out
of proportion.

the chair where you sat on no longer holds
your weight. i have smoothed over the creases on the
side of the bed that used to have your imprinted shape,
lying sideways. i have forgotten to pick up your laundry.
your photographs are now quietly burning in the furnace.

i have contacted my woman support group. on tuesday, we'll be going
to the beach. we'll be carrying cartolinas adorned with the words, "will have slings
like last summer."
our shoulders are festooned with anxious roses. of course, it is
inevitable that flings would be more than welcome.
i am hoping to meet the man of my dreams. or at least someone who is uncannily
unlike you. someone who is a long stretch, a dream of summer.

i have signed up for yoga class and i feel my center now.
i did not realize that it was as cavernous as it is. i also shop alone
and even went to the zoo once.
i see my face in the mirror and check my teeth for stains.

but lately, the strangest things are happening. i am reminded of you when
i am shopping for cinnamon. your hands jump out of the
page of a book i'm reading. the busboy is you, as well as the lady
who is saddened by green dresses.
my mind has turned traitor. it is spinning me in circles and is hurtful when it rains. the
beer has gone bad without prior notice. suddenly, i
feel a chill everywhere. i am not stronger.
the clock hands stop moving and i write about you.