Hands

by E. Wong Martin



Big
Are my hands
Sturdy as a farmer’s
Precise as a surgeon’s
Flexible yet controlled—

Perfect for driving you home,
or where you want to be
But tonight, sweet stranger,
Would you please drive me
Crazy?

Long
Are my fingers
Deft as an artisan’s
Swift as a plumber’s
They’re sharp yet graceful—

Perfect for a Russian ballet
Or late night Thai massage
My fingers like exploring, too:
Could I possibly make a map
Of you?

Wide
Are my palms
On which can perfectly fit
A burger, or credit card,
An apple, your heart…

My palms, my fingers,
They are all yours now
As I wish yours are mine
Is it okay if I hold your hand
Just for a time?

_____________________________________
Artwork: "Holding Hands" by Angela D. Mathew

Time

by E. Wong Martin



(1) There was once a story that starts with something like once upon a time.
(2) But I’ve forgotten what comes next…
(3) There are too many once upon a time’s, that’s why.
(4) Or too many princes and princesses. And knights-in-shining-armour and damsels-in-distress.
(5) One of these days, they should all meet up and drink all night until they couldn’t recall anymore who their destined partners were.
(6) There are too many storytellers, too. I am not one of them.
(7) Storytellers are liars. I am not one of them.
(8) They always have ulterior motives beyond the glorification of fiction.
(9) Or fictionalisation of glory.
(10) Storytellers don’t always tell stories about others; sometimes it's about themselves. This is not one of them.
(11) There was once an old woman who lived in a brick tower who had never heard of any of those storytellers’ stories.
(12) Well, okay, let’s say that she had been told just one single tale.

(13) This particular story tells of a young soldier who has won countless battles for his mighty king.
(14) Well, let’s say that the woman was one hundred years old. But she didn’t know it because there was no calendar in the tower, only a clock that had been ticking for a hundred years as well.
(15) Because she was very old, she couldn’t remember the exact tale. Her memory so muddled, she owned the story as about herself.
(16) One of these days, the young soldier would rescue her. But from what?
(17) The old woman thought again, she had lived a whole century just fine, so what on earth would the young soldier save her from?
(18) In the recesses of her mind, she discovered an ancient word: loneliness.
(19) One of these days, she said to herself.
(20) But the days had already turned into months. Years. Decades.
(21) She fumbled that part between her wrinkled breasts, the place that, as far as she could remember, held her heart inside. Where are you, my sweet soldier?
(22) I have been waiting too long, she cried.
(23) With what remains of her strength, she grabbed the clock off the wall and threw it out the window.
(00) The tower was too high for her to hear it break.
.
_______________________________________
Artwork: "Dein Aschenes Haar Sulamit," (1981, Anselm Kiefer)

Decaf

by E. Wong Martin



You are such a sad drink,
my hot friend decaf, why
did you let them take

your soul just like that?
Now you do not taste as sincere
or sensual; do you even hear

the protestations of the cup?
You may have earned some
finesse, but baby, you reek

of false bitterness! Swirl
with as much sugar as you can,
but never will you ever be sweet

again. So now, sleep, forever
if you want, I'd rather stay up
with my chocolatey friend.
.

The Village (I)

by E. Wong



The village slumbers in anticipation,
without malice but full of lust, awaiting
the onslaught of desires—dams
need to unload their waters, jungles

must shed off dead leaves: Dream,
you sleeper, as your sleep begins.

The elders wouldn’t concur, but the shade
of poison trees feels like home, doesn’t it?
And would it be too much for one night
to be weaving tapestry that might as well
serve as blanket over feverish bodies?

Now, you may not need to consider
exchanging your sly wakefulness
for the furtive wisdom of the village
idiot. But you must envy him,
nonetheless, as on nights like this,
he is happier than everyone else.

This is not the time to think about drought,
you curious cat, for the dogs are friendly
tonight, as all the members of the Kingdom.
Matriarch also lost her knife in the kitchen,
and so for now, and just for now, your tongue
may speak of any profanity it wishes to tell

the ears, neck, breasts, and other distant
relatives. You may not have enough time,
but you can always say ‘I’ll be sailing off
in an hour,’ yet stay docked in this town
until all drowns in your gentle hands.

The village resists the rising of the light,
but the sun has its age-old job to do.
Won’t you shine a while longer, O shadow
safely obscure in the night? Yet the day

does not forget the dusk: Sleep,
you dreamer, while your dream lasts.


_________________________________________
Artwork: "The Starry Night" (1889, Vincent van Gogh)

Belle and Sebastian's "Funny Little Frog"

*Para Kay B(arbie)

To a stranger nice and fine

by E. Wong Martin

Booze: what you are to me,
and a body-tight shirt, perhaps,
or even the stubborn dirt
under my fingernails,
and all other things sweet
that lovers fail to see—
But not now, not yet,
for you are still a stranger,
a beautiful one, and you don’t
even know it. You are all these,
but I will tell it to your face,
a beautiful one, in the future
a beautiful one, I pray
suddenly.

It sucks that I couldn’t go
any closer to you on our “first”
meeting, because booze
and blaring music (a.k.a. noise),
and smoke and drunken
sleep were not in my favor.
But it was so nice meeting you,
though the meeting was not
so nice. And notwithstanding
(what a wonderful complex word!)
that you could break my heart
with a single touch, I dreamt
that you held me, carried me,
to the heights of nostalgia,
nudity and nonchalance, all those
wonderful complex words
in the vocabulary of an occasional
alcoholic.

But the lights are back on,
the party's ended, now I’m sober
and a little somber, too. Yet,
the fermentations in my gut
haven’t stopped to fuel what
could have been just a dream
of utter intimacy with a fine stranger
with a smile for everyone. How much
does it cost, anyway? I would buy it
and keep it in my pocket, together
with either sunshine or sweet rain,
depending on the season of (what
could be called) love. And I sing
like Joni Mitchell sometimes, too,
like today, I could drink a case of
you.

Although this early I know
I could not have you so easily,
as you are trapped by this wall
erected by some stupid
love of yours for some stupid
(son of a/b*tch), or so I heard.
But nonetheless, I am thankful
for the little moments spent
on one night: me, you,
my brusqueness, your finesse.
My sleepiness, your wakefulness.
Looking back, I was just a boy,
standing weak in front of
draft beer and cocktails. But you,
you are fine in the nicest way,
and nice in the finest.
,

Makoy Dakuykoy's "Emotero"

There's an "emo" in all of us.

And whilst I don't get to read and write at all lately, my friend Mark has just released his second awesome book. (He didn't pay me to advertise this; worse, he didn't give me discount for the two copies I bought...)

"Mark Angeles, also known for his cybermoniker Makoy Dakuykoy, releases his 2nd indie book, Emotero.

The book is a collection of 88 100-word narratives inside a story. One day, the main character Karl Mensaje received a package. Its content: a notebook full of stories. Angeles dares us to step into the labyrinth of the book.

He poses, “Is it a collection of stories or a book-length short story? Are the stories drabbles or prose poems?” “I laid down a handful of puzzles in Emotero,” he added. “Start with the main character. Even the book cover design is an enigma. They are all related. You have to read the book from cover to cover to understand the mystery.”

Emotero tells the tales of a prostitute, a bisexual, a transexual, an embalmer, a magician, a prison warden, tollgate keeper, fortune teller, magician, ex-military, sympathizer and member of New People’s Army among others. Even the stories of a cow, a goat, and a sheep.

Angeles’s first indie book, Patikim, a collection of his notorious love poems has been received well by both the academe and literary enthusiasts. He is a Palanca awardee and an activist."

(from panitikan.com.ph)

To order: send an email to akosimakoy@gmail.com. Or msg me.

How I Met Dog No. 5

Hush, puppy!

So my sister and I were on our way to the palengke to buy fish and rice and dog food when from up the dog heavens appeared my Dog No. 5. And he’s no ordinary dog. My newest child is a cute, adorable foundling with very long ears who was eating grass and scouring the garbage for anything that could be eaten. I didn’t want to get him at first since it would have been a form of stealing and that he might bite. Ergo my sister and I walked on, but some divine power tugged at my dog-loving heart, and so apart from the dog food which I intended to buy for my three hungry dogs at home, I also bought a leash so that I could go back to the barren grassland where we spotted the “stray” dog and rescue him.

By the time we returned to the lot, the dog wasn’t there anymore. I felt deep in my bones, though, that he couldn’t have gone too far. So we walked on further and there he was, down the street across the Zagu Pearl Shake store, still digging for food, mud and twigs stuck to his ears and body. I quickly took a handful of Beef Pro Puppy pellets and tossed it to the ground. When I sensed that he’s no biter, I took some more dog food and let him feed off my hand. He was hungry as hell, he must have been out on the streets at least two days. So I slowly tied the leash around his neck and then hailed a tricycle. A part of me felt like I was a kidnapper, but the better, stronger, handsomer part of me dictated that I am saving someone who could die of starvation or disease or end up with drunk people who like eating exotic dishes.

It was when we reached home when I finally remembered the word I’ve been looking for: Dachschund. My uncle said 'hush puppies,' but I corrected him: Dachschund, in my best attempt to sound German. And so my little sister got to learn another spelling bee word. So I fed him more and gave him water, and then came out the soundliest gulps from the Animal Kingdom we’ve ever heard. He was really, awfully starved and thirsty. We could also see and feel his spine and rib bones through his black fur. My mom pitied him so much, especially that it rained so hard last night, where in the world did he stay out?

My three dogs weren’t very welcoming towards him, as expected; there was a long series of smelling and barking and more smelling of each other's snouts and asses. But I know my one-year-old, white Dog No. 3, Tan-tan, will get along fine with him. They’re almost the same size, and I could already foresee a riotous dog play around the house. My Dog No. 4, Tentay, and the only bitch, kept yelping in her soprano voice, but I know pretty soon they’ll be civil housemates. We are yet to introduce him to our big brown Dog No. 1, Bogart, whom we had to keep in our big dog/cat house (what used to be our sari-sari store) lest a barako fight might erupt. We're too familiar about this alpha male complex, and we had to plan their “introduction” well.

Instantly my whole family fell in love with this cute dachshund who is no longer a puppy but has the size of one. I figure he's about two years old, judging from his teeth and his developed man-nipples, but just the same, to us he is a new puppy. We couldn’t carry him yet and hug him because he smells terrible, he had the odour of someone who hasn't bathed for two weeks. But he’s very gentle and lets anyone touch him, unlike most dachshunds who are rather standoffish to strangers. He doesn’t mind our other dogs, too, but there’s just one problem: he keeps barking at our cats!

Everytime I bring home a new dog, my mom would always get nostalgic about Dog No. 2, Princess, our beautiful puppy (mix of Spaniel-Spitz-Beagle) who died of parvo two years ago. Perhaps she was the divine spirit who urged me to rescue this poor long-eared vagabond in search of a home and in need of love. And so there goes the story of how I met Dog No. 5.

So, what name did I give him? Well, after much thought: Zagu.



-----
ERRATUM: My new dog is not Dachshund, after all. Thanks to Anne V for clarifying it: Zagu is a Basset hound. :-)

No such thing as bad bye

.
This particular stream of words and thoughts will not use the word love (well, just this once) for I am definitely not in love with you (okay, make that twice). I want you to know, however, that you are special to me even though it could never have been obvious—well, for obvious reasons. It wasn’t meant to be, not that I would have wanted anything to mean something. Now, let me tell you that when I use indefinite pronouns at least twice in a single sentence, such as what I just did, that means something special. Oh, I already said you are special to me. Well, you are special, just as you are, without any reference to me. And you know you are. And I told you that. Not per se, but you know what I mean. I’m glad I did, at least at the very last time which is, in fact, an irony for a first moment. Some things begin last. Well, isn’t that a swell oxymoron! Or was I a moron for not having taken chances?

My thoughts are as mixed up and muddied and confusing like that 13th zodiac sign brouhaha, but I want you to know that if things worked out differently, if I had behaved better (not that I had misbehaved or anything), I would have really wanted you. I am listening to P_____ N______’s albums right now without looking at the titles of songs. I love the rustic tunes, but I never get to know their titles, really. Maybe his music could work as a metaphor for you: I don’t look, I just listen. Sometimes I would shut my eyes and just listen. To you. And I would feel your soul, one that’s so gentle I would think it was mine to bathe in forever. Well, that f word’s an exaggeration. Just like, er, love. So I would just swim in your reverie, without you knowing it. Sometimes hear, but always listen. To you. Even if you were not there. As you are now.

If P___ N____ doesn't work for you, let me just sing in the similar laidback fashion of Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová: I don't know you, but I want you all the more for that...

Hey, do you ever think of me? Even ill thoughts would be fine, haha. Now I think of what could have been. Poets of the world, why does “hi” rhyme with “bye”? I’ve said good bye, haven’t I? And yes, it’s a good one.

Living in a Library

Reading is an activity subsequent to writing--more resigned, more civil, more intellectual. - Jorge Luis Borges

What used to be just a crazy home idea finally happened: my housemate and I sorted and catalogued our books as we moved to the apartment unit nextdoor. And it's not even our books, it's our other housemates.' Well, that's what I get from choosing to live with a UP professor, a UP student, and another bookworm of a friend. And being a former Comparative Literature student myself, this should definitely feel like heaven for me.

So there were more than 400 books logged, and those are just the literary books, because we wanted to keep track of which novels we have at home and eventually make a reading list. We ended up sorting in these categories: novels, poetry/tula, short stories/anthologies, children's lit, young adult lit, Philippine fiction in English, panitikang pilipino, and essays/memoirs. There was a special section for Japanese authors, and of course, we had a separate shelf for our favorite authors: Gabriel Garcia-Marquez and Michael Chabon. And those are just half of the whole collection that my housemates have; the others, un-catalogued, are non-fiction books on sociology, politics, economics, Marxism, feminist and gender studies, cinema, documentary filmmaking, media studies, anthropology, cultural studies, photography, and other fields of interest like sign language and sex. We were so overwhelmed by the humongous collection, and it is so much more difficult now to decide which one to pick and read first.

Although our apartment is usually messy like hell, I love this home of ours, because it makes me feel good, even just the sight and smell of all these books, which I believe must number almost a thousand already. I figure that if I would be able to read them all, I'd be so damn smart and crazy, but intellectual, (in a sexy way) nonetheless.
.