Rust-proofing the Writer

take a deep breath.

the earth still revolves around the sun.

night and day continue to trade places.

nature replenishes its wealth.

time moves for everyone

no matter the wisdom, the status, the races.

it’s not over, yet--

we hold on for the coming dawn.

we will stay in our spaces.

I start with the edges,    to get a definition    of where things are    supposed to go

Framed, I begin to segregate    colors, shapes, empty spaces--    begin with the easy ones,    understand where things go

Time passes, sometimes slow    flying when I get absorbed    into building this world    falling into this hole

Formed by hand, yes, and by    memories of being alone,    of other people too,    and spending time with you

Around a puzzle that continues    to evade completion, even    when only a few pieces    remain loose

waves pull      stronger in the morning      with few souls to see

          days are brand new      and yet the same old problems exist

sirens call      as light breaks they sing

peaceful           serene                          gone

"I have to marry her."

"Have to?" Peter watched his best friend Lee pace around the room; the gravity of him knocking someone up finally hitting him. "A marriage is not something you have to do. It's something you do because you love. It's a sacred vow between two people who want to spend the rest of their lives being with each other...loving each other.

"Do you love the girl?"

"As much as you love your wife."

Mrs. Benedicto was there every day. Well, I don't know about every day, but every time I visited, she was there. At the beach. Building sand castles.

Back when we were kids, my brothers and I thought she was always a little weird. Now that I'm older, she just seems sad. Building her sand castles. Waiting for the sea to take it away.

And then starting from scratch the next day.

She never built the same sand castle. It was different every single time. Every single time I've seen her, anyway.

I have always wondered why she does this. I never asked her though. I didn't want to be intrusive. She looked so serene: piling up the sand, forming the towers, carving the turrets-- I didn't want to disturb her. She looked so happy, finishing the castle, waiting for that one big wave that would take it away.

And what would you suppose the answer is, when you're too afraid to even know the question?

That was the last thing Monique had said before she left for New York. That was the last thing she said to me, ever.

I loved her. That's what I told my best friend, Danny. That's what I told my family--and even people I barely knew. I loved her. But did I really?

I've been asking myself her question since that day, ten years ago, when she asked me to come with her to the airport. So she could spend her last morning in Manila--in the Philippines--with the one person she's going to miss.

I was her friend.

I friend-zoned myself.

Because thinking about her as more than a friend made me queasy. It brought about feelings that I was in no way capable of understanding. But that's what love is, Danny had said to me one time. And I believed him.

So I told everyone that I loved her. Everyone, that is, except her.

Did I love her?

Really love her?

A lot of my friends have gone and faced the unfathomable horrors of relationships. They've fallen in love. Emphasis on the word 'fallen.' They've done the cheesiest things for their significant others.

And yet I wasn't even able to tell Monique I love her. I wasn't even able to ask her if she felt the same way.

It's been ten years and Monique is coming back to the Philippines. She arrives tomorrow.

Some days

it gets harder

to smile--

Some days

it gets harder 

to get a smile and

not

want

to

punch

it--

Some days 

i've always been 

the type to deal 

with everything

on my own

//

so when you 

turn your back to me

i know you won't stop 

to think that's not how I feel

//

hear me 

hear me out

hear my muffled cries

and my silent tears

//

when i say it's okay

(when i say it's okay)

when i say i'm okay

(when i say i'm okay)

can you please, please, please

//

stop 

//

and turn back around?

//

when you close that door

behind you

i wish you'd stop

and turn back

to ask me

ask me, please

//

because sometimes

all i need 

is for someone 

to stop 

//

and save me

Fall back,

The Chief said 

To the ranks below him,

//

We cannot see 

Where we are going, we cannot know

What to do.

We cannot have, we cannot

Risk.

//

The ranks below open

Their mouths, but realize

Their place

Is to suffer. It is

The Chief who calls the shots.

//

There is fear 

Trembling in their Chief's voice,

Fear

In and among themselves.

//

It was here

Before. Several times.

//

The ranks below wonder,

The words burning

A hole at the back 

Of their mouths;

//

Might it be time

It's dead: the one ticking over

My wrist, and yet the shadows

On the street grow 

Longer, blacker, steadier.

//

There shall always be

Time to think, to plan, to dream;

Never any to be ready  for when

Time rears its tuft’d head .

//

The now is here, but we gain

Nothing. Blindfolded

From the actual sight, the actual sense,

Every thing is moot until

The present moves to past.

//

We fail to recognize experience

During the experience: Useless sign

Readers, failed finders 

Of the signifier before the signified slaps 

Us in the face.

//

Mindlessly, we march

To the ticking and the tocking – 

The reducto absurdum: fighting

A battle that is never won,

A battle not even fought.

//

We must choose. Act. Carpe Diem. Seize

It by the forelock hanging

Over its head. Subdue it as it subdues

All others. It's about 

She wanted nothing else in the world than to cradle his head with her hand.

Her eyes smiled, bright, like the blade coming home in his neck, her voiceless laughter echoing (so fun! again!) in his head.

Inside me, wild, it hisses for release.

He smirks.

I blink.

Black.

His name is Arvin, 17, a child trapped in a young man's body. He approaches with a coin in his hand and shoulders hunched upon himself, his body unconsciously clinging to his remaining possession. His voice is earnest, his eyes bright in rising hope against despair, his words firing out in rapid bullets of desperation. He's been there since 10 in the morning without a means to call home. He lives far away, nearer to a province than the city where we are. He's pleading, he's hungry. He wants to go home.

He reminds me of my siblings.

I look longingly at the bread shop, a few steps ahead, and to a fastfood restaurant that is right behind me. He tries to explain but I cannot hear his words, only his tone, his pitch, his bright bright eyes. I turn and grab his wrist, pull him to the fastfood with its redwhite neon. He begs. He just wants to go home, he doesn't need to eat. I cluck my tongue and pull him inside, grip tighter, more insistent. I order for him and we wait on our table. Two pieces of chicken with rice and an exta one, a large Coke with straw. I ask a waiter for another glass and I take some Coke from him. I give him a paper bill.

He and his classmates have a project. Some time while going to the mall he lost his only paper bill, and his classmates pulled a prank on him by leaving him in the restroom after making him wait. He asked a guard to page for them, carefully recited their names. None came.

Throughout the day he only managed to eat one measly donut. 

He's a working student. He studies in public school, a member of its varsity team. He wants to take up Hotel and Restaurant Management - he's the one who cooks at home, his mother too tired from working, and his parents are separated. He has a younger brother and they hardly ate the week before because both he and his mother got too sick to go to work.

He does not finish his meal so he can bring them home to his brother.

I tell him to study. To forget his classmates, they are a worthless lot and he should not hang around them anymore. I tell him to use a wallet, to carry an ID always because it is important. I tell him he's terribly unlucky to have approached someone who does no have a mobile phone. I tell him I want to buy bread.

He thanks me, profusely. He apologizes, incessantly. I tease him, are you going to cry? No, he says, and I nod and say good or else I would punch you.

We reach the terminal and we part ways. I remind him to contact me, to look at the paper I gave him with my information. He nods. He's smiling.