good fun good dope

2007-10-14T00:03:00.000+08:00

anymore

i really can't stand it anymore
it's just so very quiet
i'd like to hear your voice again
i want to find meaning again
i really can't stand it anymore

2007-08-09T21:05:00.000+08:00

vanishing words

the words were there, ready to
emerge and blossom
but they vanished before
even coming into existence,
aborted without delay

2007-02-23T01:24:00.000+08:00

inscriptions

i'm supposed to be writing here again
forming these silent syllables in my head
spilling them out even more silently
amidst the clatter of keyboard keys
and the knowing witness of my screen

but nothing comes out
except these empty words.

2007-02-02T02:36:00.000+08:00

today

i am just a phone call away
but you never call
anyway

i'll wait a little while longer
i'll feel that little bit stronger

if only you'd stay
today

2006-12-18T00:52:00.000+08:00

'he's quiet', she said

shuffling his feet, he left the
room when the first thread of
curious sunlight found its way
onto the placid wall, splitting
it into two.

there was no song in his head
today. but the silence birthed its
own melody, in layers of pitch
quiet, shades of stillness,
reminiscent of the clamor of a
swirling silent movie.

never uttering a word, he lived.
and she never understood it.

2006-12-11T23:20:00.000+08:00

growing pains, shifting lanes

the silence so became unbearable
that it imploded upon itself

2006-04-20T11:21:00.000+08:00

restoria

reclaiming the memories of places
and replacing them with new ones,
he began his project of restoria.

painting over worried faces
and brushing over the old ones,
she walked towards the peoria.

and they never met again.

2006-04-04T12:23:00.000+08:00

cry

A voice says, "Cry out."
And I said, "What shall I cry?"

- Isaiah 40:6

2006-03-18T22:49:00.000+08:00

the thing about seeing

if you don't cry
it isn't love
if you don't cry
then you just don't feel it deep enough

- stephin merritt.

strangely enough, our subject didn't cry.
even though he was quite sure it was still love.
the tears just couldn't well
but the chills cascaded down his body
striking him like a plague
paralyzing like a reckless smack in the face.

merritt's love songs came in three volumes,
yet he remains fine without the first
knowing full well the incompleteness lasts longer
than a midsummer's nightmare.
but showtunes did make some good.

perhaps it's time to laugh instead.
at the lunatical pranks that get thrown about
that hit random people in their faces
each time they get up
to try again.

but perhaps it's also time to cry without the tears
to transcend the rigidities
of experiential emotionalism.
to be the one telling the jokes again
without hitting people.

2006-02-12T23:42:00.000+08:00

removing the blindfolds

dark

if the carnivalesque was meant to deliver to the Individual's eyes
that indescribable sense of belonging,
then our friend's disorientation must have been a result
of his blindness.

light

not that regaining his sight pronounced the demise of Memory,
but rather the influx of vision
gave back to memory that skill of Imagination
it thirsted for ever so longingly.

2006-02-05T21:59:00.000+08:00

speaking words into character

in lieu of the silence enjoyed by insofar anonymity
(indeed as a memorial referral to the site, situation)
our Character inserts itself
into the precocious boundary that divides, yet merges fiction and reality.

along with fleeting trail, of cigarette in hand and lonely muttering in tow,
She takes firm root of her throne,
the site upon which the conception of character is allowed to mainfest,
and imagined personality (as intermingled with performative reality)
given room to be negotiated by all who gladly sit before her.

perhaps taking cue from our generous allowance,
She recomposes her posture, kneading her wartorn feet in therapeutic relief,
as if the bruises would erase themselves upon repeated appeal;
her eyes, darts not of pleasure but paranoia,
throwing the occasional glance back at the inconceivable observant.

but just as images solidify and reputations take shape
She leaves with the same awkward hobble that characterized her arrival,
creating and also closing our fragmented lieu de memoire
for now.

2006-01-31T01:15:00.000+08:00

the sophomore leap

perhaps the second step would be even harder than the first.
while the birth of the text groans in clenched labor, gasping at unfolding lights,
the growing pains of its first steps stretch towards prolonged anticipation,
facing in its stride the temporality of every step
that may be retraced and reattempted 'til the novelty of the dance wears thin

perhaps the second step would be better known as the step of a million more,
or an armful of dancing possibilities,
each thrown against the tireless wind into bursting existence
each finding its way into what makes the final step a thunderous leap.

2006-01-28T21:24:00.000+08:00

newness of life

this time, it may actually work,
for space set apart to house the animal that remains solely in writing,
for words to take a life of their own,
unhindered by the sensual intrusions of everything visual.
for birth demands space; and space, significance.

for kundera, the poet's birth is marked by the arousal of consciousness of
one's utterance of significant words as recognized by others.
that which is significant, however,
lies not in the consensus of the distant public,
but in the bridged relationship with the intimate other.

the birth of a text is thus no significant matter
except in the eyes of the Individual,
to whom intimacy is bestowed and reciprocated.
in that narrower realm, afresh is birthed -
a newness of life.