Post Script to the Forgetful Mind

Rented

A space in your head

Eviction is the price I paid

Summer 20XX

I still recall the smile I've immortalized in longhand

and held still in photographs; do you remember that summer

when we've talked of our dreams and were flung to our

newfound world of idealistic desires? We marked the trees and benches

of our youth once-upon-a-time. I was struck

with that moment of permanence (or should it be permanence of the moment?)

and suddenly, we were broken off of our reverie.

Holding on to my paintbrushes is futile

(being that artist I can never be)

if I only have blacks and whites for painting

my newfound world where you're not there;

maybe you have taken hold of your own little world too.

Maybe someday they would meet again (or crash, probably).

Maybe then, I could have found the orange and yellows

and reds and blues to sketch my reality anew.

(and still, at the back of my head, I pine for that rare shade of russet

so as to keep remembering that summer when we were still

foolish little children.)

A Good Memory Gone Bad

We break off and tell each other whatever

sincerest could come out of us; and I would remember

those lonely April nights when I would find my prayers

reduced to tears

I would wish then that you were a poem that I penned

so that I can call you mine.

In my mind resounds the childish glee as we

ran around in our little world; lines printed in my journal

and old conversations and pinky swears; conspiratorial grins

on wallet photographs; lazy chip-and-soda weekends;

words of comfort, silly promises

Have we become too old for remembrances?

I was still dreaming of chocolates and of our previous mischiefs

when you tore my little fantasy world apart and turned

every dream interval into a haunted montage

of what-had-been and what-could-have-been

We forged hatred and misery at the back of our minds

and turned our little jokes on ourselves

What naughty kids we have been.

Bus Ride at 5:30 in the Morning

Nais kong masilayan

Ang unang pagdilat ng liwanag;

Ang maningning na kahel na humahalo

Sa tumatakas na dilim ng gabi

Nais kong maabot tanaw

Ang unang biyaya ng araw

Sa natutulog na mundo

Nananaginip at walang malay

Nais kong marinig

Ang tinig ng kalikasan

Bumubulong; nakikipagsagupa

Sa maingay na mundo

At hayaan itong maging musika

Ng aking kaluluwa

Nais kong mahimbing

Sa kanlungan ng mga bituin

Sa ilalim ng madilim na kalangitang

Pinagliliwanag

Ng mga libong matang nakamasid

Ang Pagkamatay (at Muling Pagkabuhay) ng Musmos na Pangarap

ako

ang agila

na nagnanais kumawala

sa haraya

ng bawat walang muwang na bata

ang magandang musikang

hindi mo maririnig

ngunit hayaan mong kulayan ito

ng aking mga pinsel

ang pakpak

ang pakpak ng pangarap

na napugto

nang ako’y mangahas

na makipagsapalaran sa malayo

ang tula

na isinulat sa puti at bughaw

nang makita ang nakaraan

sa kasalukuyan

at sa darating na hinaharap

ang pag-aasam

na nasa puso ng bawat isa

na isinantabi

sa pagdaan ng mga taon

sa akin na lamang

magugunita

ang bukang-liwayway

kapag ang lahat

ay bumalik sa abo

sa pagbitaw mo sa akin

ako na ang sari-saring kulay

ng puti at itim