Encarnación

One day, a little boy
asked the Universe,
"I wish to create
a playmate."

The Universe answered that
the boy must begin with
an Idea--
no body yet--
only form.

So the little boy
thought of an Idea
for a playmate.

"Then you must,"
said the Universe,
"wish with
all your might
for your Idea to
be born (with a body)
into reality."

The little boy wished
and wished and
wished very hard, until his
wishing tired him,
and he fell asleep.

When the boy woke up,
he could see a face
staring at his. That
face is familiar,
thought the boy,
and then he realized,
the one standing
before him
was his Idea,
except now, it had a face.

The little boy's
eyes twinkled,
and with a smile on his lips,
he breathed his last,
for his eyes could not handle
the sheer beauty of his
Idea incarnated.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

For Sale

Let me buy you
a drink.
A (non-alcoholic) beverage
that costs three times more
than my beer.
The price I paid for this
entitles me to un-
limited access
to your skin, your hair,
your cheap perfume
that stings my nostrils,
and to one guaranteed listener
who will listen to my problems,
and nod her head in the correct places,
and who will consider me
the most handsome man in the world--
that is, until the
drink disappears.


*post-birthday poem, 16 Dec 2009
Legacy, West Point, Cubao

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

I Stumbled Upon the Secret of Time Travel

yesterday, while I was watching Superman
on HBO. I discovered that
when I squinted my eyes
and tilted my head just a little bit to the left,
the image becomes swept in
an outward gradient
blurring the edges.

Then suddenly I was watching
Superman on another
television screen,
but this time –

I could see
     little white ants
     scurrying onscreen
I could hear
     the faint grinding noise
     of magnetic tape against chrome head
I could smell
     the sickeningly sweet
     metallic aroma of the Betamax
I could taste
     the little Horlick chocolate drop
     slowly melting in my mouth
And I could feel
     the strange tingling
     sensation in my groin
     the first time I saw Superman
     lock lips with Lois Lane.


*May 6, 2005.
**The inspiration for this was actually the movie Coming to America, but I just changed the film to something 80s that more people can relate to.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Song of the Pied Piper

"The Song of the Pied Piper" is a mythical song, which all human beings supposedly hear before they die. 

The earliest mention of this song can be seen on an Egyptian heiroglyph, circa 1300 BC, which depicts a dying man with the symbol for music around his head. 

Stories about this legendary song have been told in all continents. Ancient Chinese scrolls have described some sort of "soft music with a lot of bells" that accompany a person who travels to the afterlife. An ancient Ashanti folktale tells about a dead person "crossing over to the other side, to the sound of a thousand drums." A pre-Hispanic Filipino legend also speaks of a song that causes death upon all who hear it. An old Viking legend also mentions a death song, but describes it as full of "horns and wailing women". Roman Catholic lore, on the other hand, often describes a soul's entrance to the gates of heaven as accompanied by the "music of a choir of angels." Of course no one who has heard the song has lived to describe it in detail. 

The earliest attempt to transcribe this song was in 1711, by Austrian composer Leopold Franz van Alsberg. Van Alsberg was said to be beside his father's deathbed, when the father suddenly spoke in a barely audible voice, "What lovely music I hear!" The father, who was also a composer, was able to hum a few bars of the song before slowly going off to his eternal sleep, and Van Alsberg was able to transcribe these few bars. Van Alsberg was supposed to use these few bars as a take-off point for a full opera as tribute to his father, and was tentatively titled "Das Lied des Pfeifers", or "The Song of the Pied Piper". However, not a single note was added to the song, since Van Alsberg succumbed to tuberculosis the winter following his father's death. The original sheet music transcribed by Van Alsberg is currently in the International Museum of Music, and was for the longest time thought to be an original piece composed by Van Alsberg. 

This legendary death song only became known officially as "The Song of the Pied Piper" in 1912. British opera star Linda Delaney, then eighty-seven (87) years old, told her sister one morning, "Do you hear that song? So lovely." She began humming the song all day, and one of her friends, Gordon Copeland, a former student of hers, happened to hear her humming it. Copeland asked her, "Is that Van Alsberg's 'Song of the Pied Piper' you're singing?" To which Delaney replied, "I don't know, I've just been hearing it in my head all day." And that same night, Linda Delaney died of cardiac arrest, and the story of the piper's song spread throughout the music circles of Europe. 

Modern technology has slowly revealed that the fabled piper's song may in fact actually exist. The advent of Sensory Autopsy, developed by Swiss techno giant Technochos, has enabled science to get a glimpse of what the five human senses experience prior to death. The famous Sensory Autopsy Report, one of the first documented reports in Canada, actually revealed the existence of unmistakeable music heard just minutes before the subject's death. This music was isolated and recorded (though of poor quality), but was identified to be exactly the same song as Leopold Franz van Alsberg's "The Song of the Pied Piper", although a bit slower in tempo. Nevertheless, this finding was the first shred of scientific evidence that "The Song of the Pied Piper" is not a myth after all. And until today, scientific research is still being conducted on this subject, with all researchers hoping for the holy grail, which is to hear "The Song of the Pied Piper" in its entirety, and live to tell the tale.


See also: Death; Delaney, Linda; Legends; Myths; Van Alsberg, Leopold Franz


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Sensory Autopsy Report

SENSORY AUTOPSY RESULTS


Dear Sir:

We have here now the results of our brand new procedure called the Sensory Autopsy, which we have conducted on your wife.

The Sensory Autopsy is a unique procedure, wherein the subject's brain is plugged into a sensory scanner, which then analyzes the final data processed by her senses immediately before her death.

The findings for her senses of Touch, Taste, Smell, and Sight are consistent with a state of complete sobriety. No trace of alcohol, drugs, or any intoxicating substances were present in her system during the final minutes before the automobile accident; therefore, no finding of fault or negligence can be attributed to her.

However, the findings for her sense of Hearing revealed that she was listening to a song minutes before her death. We isolated the song and sent it to Forensics for identification. Forensics sent back their reply, which stated:

"We have analyzed the car radio from the automobile wreckage, and have come to the conclusion that no music was playing immediately before the accident, as the car radio was turned off. However, we ran the song you sent us through our database, and have identified it as "The Song of the Pied Piper".


"The Song of the Pied Piper" has always been regarded as legend and myth, and is supposedly the last song a person hears before being summoned by Death. The Sensory Autopsy result for your wife is actually the first shred of scientific evidence that the song actually exists.

If you heard "The Song of the Pied Piper" that was taken from your wife's Sensory Autopsy results, you need not worry, as it is merely a recording. It is only when heard live that it becomes a death call. We are truly sorry for your loss, but we ask you not to mourn, as every one of us will get the chance to hear "The Song of the Pied Piper" sooner or later. Hopefully not sooner.


Our condolences,

Director,
Sensory Autopsy Department



*Requiescat in Pace, Remedios S. Esquivias, 1959-2009


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Magnum Silencium

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen.

O Lord, under Thy perpetual light do we isolate ourselves
Behind walls of stone do we seek guidance.
Grant us Maximum Silence
That we may be guided by the Holy Spirit
To see who among us rests in Your favor.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord
Host of hosts
Server of servers
May we break through the firewall and connect


              CONNECTION ESTABLISHED…YOU ARE NOW ONLINE…
              NAME? Cardinale Iñigo Benucci PASSWORD? * * * * *
              REQUEST TYPE (PHYSICAL/MENTAL/SPIRITUAL)? spiritual.
              ENTER REQUEST: delete sins.
              …PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE CHECK YOUR SINBOX…
              YOU HAVE ONE (1) SIN. delete all.
              ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE ALL SINS? yes.
              YOUR SINBOX IS EMPTY. new>request
              REQUEST TYPE (PHYSICAL/MENTAL/SPIRITUAL)? mental.
              ENTER REQUEST: clarity of mind.
              …PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE IDENTIFY THE CLUTTER…
              FOUR (4) FACTORS IDENTIFIED. list.
              FAVORITISM//FATIGUE//FRIENDSHIP//FEALTY. clear all.
              ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CLEAR YOUR MIND? yes.
              …PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE CLEAR YOUR MIND…
              YOU ARE NOW ENLIGHTENED.


May the Lord guide my hand
As I choose who among us shall lead the Flock
That they may not stray far from Your holy light.
May Christ guide my conscience
Knowing I have chosen right
Even if I have chosen
Myself.

Amen.


*Requiescat in Pace, Karol Wojtyla a.k.a. Pope John Paul II
circa Apr 2005

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Sestina of a Psychotic Mind

What are you looking at? You looking at me?
Do you have a gun, you punk? You must
have a gun if you want to look at me like that.
Go ahead then, take it out, why don’t you?
Well, so you do have a gun after all then.
You didn’t act so tough when you were alone

without it the other day. Both of us are alone
right now, punk. It’s just you and me
right here in this room. Think then,
before you act. In fact you first must
realize that the advantage is not with you;
I have a weapon with me exactly like that.

Yeah, that’s right. What, you thought that
I’d let you get away with it? Now leave me alone,
I don’t want to see you or anything related to you.
I’m sick and tired of you following me
around everywhere ─ literally. Must
you be present wherever I am? Then

why are you following me? Go on then,
speak up, punk. Say something! What? Say that
again? Were you talking to me? You must
be talking to me. Remember, we’re alone
here. Go ahead ─ why don’t you explain to me
how is it possible for me to catch glimpses of you

even in the most unlikely places? You
once appeared to me in the bathroom; then
again in a crowded street, you looked me
straight in the eye. The only bad thing is that
it seems no one else can see you. I alone
can sense your presence. This must

mean that you’re not real. Then I must
be going nuts! I’m real, I exist. But can you
be real if you exist in my imagination alone?
How do I tell truth from fiction then?
Both of us cannot be real, therefore that
means one of us is an illusion, either you or me.

Only one must be left standing alone. Let’s agree then
to draw our weapons and fire at the same time, that
we may know if you are real, or it was all just me.


*circa 24 Mar 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Villain Nell

Where is the villain Nell Gonzales?
That guy will be surely missed.
But now no one knows where he is.

He believed in what his parents said;
from birth, a naturally-trained leftist.
Where is the villain Nell Gonzales?

New ideas blossomed in his head,
made him a prominent youth activist.
And now, no one knows where he is.

Because he loved the color red,
he was unjustly labeled a terrorist.
Where is the villain Nell Gonzales?

A million people on the streets he led.
His picture’s on the wanted list.
But now no one knows where he is.

To the mountains he has fled
to live the life of a Communist.
Where is the villain Nell Gonzales?
No one knows where he is.


*circa 7 Mar 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

World War II Ghazal: The War in the Pacific

Soldiers’ screams of satisfaction heard in the air
Wails of the women whispered in the air

My trauma of killing can be traced back to this memory:
Bayonets and babies butchered in the air

On those dreaded events like a village raid,
The amount of fear can be measured in the air

Pandemonium has taken control of the streets
Mickey Mouse banknotes fluttered in the air

Fearsome as dragons, the kamikaze planes
Birds of freedom are slaughtered in the air


*circa 2 Mar 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

World War II Ghazal: The European Front

Another round of mortar shells exploding down the road
Battle-clad G.I. Joes strolling down the road

Change of plan, let’s take the west path
There’s two squads in ambush hiding down the road

Hold your fire! Civilians on center stage!
Women and children running down the road

The boys have landed. They’ve locked out the beach fronts
A caterpillar of tanks is rolling down the road

They were like corpses – the sons of Abraham
At the prison camp we saw while driving down the road


*circa 2 Mar 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Infidel (Sonnet)

1. The first time my wife went abroad was the first time I slept alone since the day I got married.

2. The first time I took off my wedding ring left me with discomfort, but I didn’t believe you would go for me when I learned that you were married.

3. I remember us exchanging small talk at the grocery, which raised my spirits until you smiled, turned around, and walked away.

4. I remember wishing your husband was absent also, upon learning that you too had no children and you lived only two doors away.

5. Nothing happens the way you plan it, for even as I promised myself to steer away from you, I couldn’t believe my luck when you offered me a ride in your car.

6. Nothing compares to a ten-minute walk with a woman you like, and as I carry your groceries home, I thank God you didn’t take your car.

7. Since my wife departed, the loneliness finally sank in, and I couldn’t believe it when you appeared at my doorstep with a bottle of tequila; I let you in at once.

8. Since I was pissed drunk the previous night, I acquired temporary amnesia, so I could hardly believe it when I saw your naked body beside me; I jumped up and got dressed at once.

9. You rolled down your window and offered me a ride again; I suddenly realized that you have an annoyingly whiny voice, and it would be torture to talk to you.

10. You showed up at my door again with pornography and another bottle of tequila, and I can’t believe that you only look prettier the less clothes there are on you.

11. As you bombard me with psychotic messages (I leave unanswered), I leave a message at my wife’s hotel, telling her to call me as soon as she gets back.

12. As my cellular phone keeps ringing (which I don’t answer), my wife calls long distance; I tell her I miss her and can’t wait to have her back.

13. Looking out my window, I saw you waiting in your car for me to come out, and I just couldn’t believe that what I wished for actually happened.

14. Looking up the flight schedules, I carried my bag to the departure gate, where I would soon be joining my wife, and never breathe a word about what actually happened.


*circa 24 Mar 2006. Original version circa 13 Feb 2006.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

(Dis)Like Father, Like Son

              “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”


In the name of the Father,
forgive me, my Son.
My sins have been pre-ordained
even before they were committed.
Polygamy is encoded in my DNA.
It is in yours, too;
you have my Y-chromosome.
Do not judge my faults and failures now,
for it is your destiny to repeat them.

Bless me father,
for I curse thee.
I’m Mama’s Boy through and through.
Your name is a burden to carry.
Your third first-born is counterfeit to me.
Monogamy is a choice
you decided not to use,
showing us your papier-mache backbone.
You left behind you a virus:
mutated my memories (of you)
from happiness to hatred.
Expect no wedding invitation
for you will never understand the logic behind
wearing only one ring in your hand.


              The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
              But Washington apples are available in China.


*circa 23 January 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Directed by the Maestro

And the Lord said:
“Let there be light.”

And there was light – 2 kilowatts
(Remember, this is a 1:3 ratio
of light against shadow)
Less light on the background, please.

When we were young,
we were silent. But
as we grew older, we
learned how to create
Sound

Speed…this is
a live recording, people.
No breathing on the set.

And as we grew older, we
discovered Memory,
our mental archive
which captures life like
a camera

Rolling…and the climax
scene 1, sequence 29, shot 5
take one…this is
one long take, people…and
Action!

From childhood to growthspurt,
from growthspurt to raging hormones,
from lust, we fall
in love

But remember, that was ages ago.
Now you’re all alone. Just sit there
and look miserable. Then move
closer, close-up on the hand, holding
a photograph of that villain!
Stay longer on the photograph, and –
there we go! – beautiful
teardrop right on target.

The Lord gave us emotions;
to some, a blessing,
to others, a curse. But
the Lord also gave a gift that can
affect our emotions – it is called
Music

which slowly fades in,
there we go, nice, tear-jerking
music; not too loud,
just right. Then move back to the face –
close-up on those sad eyes,
like a dam about to break –
hold that look.

Now sometimes, we have emotions
so heavy that it becomes
a burden to bear.
On the borderline, we are in danger
of crossing over
to Insanity, or to its cousin,
Death.

But you will not kill yourself,
oh no. A broken heart does not
justify taking your own life
and ending it – No, your life
is not worth two of that scum.
You are the star here.
This is your movie.
That asshole’s name doesn’t even
appear on the poster.


Because the Lord gave
everyone of us a chance
to shine in our own movie,
and it doesn’t end until
the credits start crawling upward.

Now wipe your eyes – don’t look
sad anymore – that’s better.
Crumple the photograph, then
give us a smile. You’re single again.
And you’re happy. Perfect,
hold that face – beautiful.
And…CUT!

*circa 5 Dec 2005

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Like a Flower

we blossom with the
sunrise, and sleepily shake
off the morning dew,
and as Apollo's
flaming chariot
travels through the
sky, so
do we
open our
petals, scatter
our colors,
and spray
our odors,
attracting bees, catterpillars--
attracting life.
At noon,
the zenith, is
our prime, and later
the afternoon shower
might dampen our spirits,
but we blossom again in
time to take
in the
splendor of the sunset,
and we get ready to sleep, for
tomorrow, today
repeats itself,
over and over,
until the day we are picked.


*Requiescat in Pace, Melchor De Santos, 1950-2009

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Legend of the C-Town Racers

There is a saying that goes: When racing in the C-Town Circuit, never, ever race against a local. You will lose the lead as fast as you will lose your money. The most dreaded drivers on the streets today all hail from the C-Town.

Some say the C-Town drivers have superior skills behind the steering wheel. Almost as if they can control their cars with their thoughts alone.

But truth is, the C-Town racers are not better drivers.

They just have faster cars.

Their engines have at least a hundred horsepower-advantage over the other ordinary stock engines.

That's because in the ninth month of the ninth year of the second millenium, a great deluge destroyed and drowned the entire C-Town. No cars were spared in that tragedy. Entire engines went underwater.

Thus, all the C-Town cars had their engines overhauled, with some slight modifications from the master mechanics.

And that is why, in a street race, a C-Town Racer will always finish first, and will always leave you behind, blinded by a cloud of dust.


*inspired by The Great Flood of '09, 26 Sep 2009

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Gambling with God

When God said,
"All in",
I called His
bluff because
I had a
full house.

As I put all my chips
in the pot, I
decided to ask God
a question that's
been bothering
me for a long time.

I asked, "God,
I understand why
You destroyed the cities
of Sodom and Gomorrah.
But why,"
asked I,
"did you deliver a deluge that drowned
my quiet little provincial town,
when the souls of my townsfolk
are not even half as dirty
as the caramel-brown
filthy floodwaters (filled
with the wastes
and urine of all urban
life forms) You
sent to sink their spirits
and float their furniture?
Why must you
destroy those who
don't deserve to die?"

To which God
answered, "Because
life is like
poker. You
never know
what you're
going to get."

And with that, God
smiled, showed
His hand
(a straight flush),
and then
claimed all the chips
as spoils of victory,
while I just
sat silently and stared into space.


*inspired by The Great Flood of '09, 26 Sep 2009

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Raging River Rapids

The next time
you feel
like killing your-
self,
try taking a
ride down a
raging river.
Hopefully, you
will realize
that you are
definitely no
messiah, and you
are not even better off
than that
insect that can
walk on water;
and You are
nothing but
an insignificant piece
of flotsam,
totally powerless
against the
mighty, mighty
current
of life.


*Conception: Cagayan de Oro river, 30 Aug 2009.


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Slick Spider

Slick Spider spit
out a strand
of a lie.

Then he realized that
spitting lies was good.

So he
spit some
more strands
of lies,
and continued spitting them out,
until it became one huge web.

Then he wanted to
spit some
more, but the
web became too
sticky; Slick Spider
could no longer
get out.

He was trapped
in his own web.

And as he
tried to
spit some
more, he slowly
covered himself up, and
slowly suffocated
in his own spit.

Such is the sad, sad story of Slick Spider.


*Children's poem

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

My Monster (a.k.a. Gremlin)

I have a
monster in my
pocket.

I think
my monster
is a she.

My monster
is scary, with
big scary eyes.
A lot of kids
are afraid
of her. Because
my monster
does not like kids.

My monster
is cranky, and
has been known to
bite children's fingers off,
behaving like a brat
when she does not get
what she wants.

But
my monster is mean
only to others.
Not to me.

My monster
is really nice and sweet.
She flashes
her huge,
mischievous eyes
as she rubs
against my leg.

I have a
monster in my
pocket.

And she is mine.


*Children's poem


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Warfare of Walls (Working Title)

The problem with walls is this:

When two warring states are
separated by a wall,

you can-
not see
the enemy.

You have no idea
whether you are facing a
thousand troops
or a
single soldier.

Thus, you will have to
utilize your siege
weapons. But there is too
much math
involved. You must
calculate for
probability of placement
of troops,
plus parabolic projectile paths,
which may or may not
hit your target.

Walls leave you blind.
And so they must be broken down.

Without walls,
the battlefield becomes bigger.
And you can see with your
own eyes, whether your
archers' arrows
pierce the heart of the enemy.


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Princess and the Thief (Working Title)

They called him an amateur,
a thief who was too
flashy, too fast.
"I'll show them
who's an amateur,"
said the thief, as
he clambered up the wall
and swung over the balcony
to the princess's bedroom.
All in less than a minute.

He picked the
lock, and landed
beside the sleeping
figure of the beautiful
princess.
All in less than a minute.

The other thieves
said that he couldn't
steal the princess's tiara.
But the thief was
arrogant, and
decided he could steal the
tiara, and a kiss
from the sleeping princess
at the same time.

So he moved closer,
looking into the
princess's beautiful
face, and as he
moved his lips
to kiss hers,

she woke up.
All in less than a minute.

And the next morning,
everyone in the castle was
bustling with excitement,
to watch the execution
of the amateur thief who
got caught stealing
a kiss from
the sleeping princess.


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

They've Killed a Cat

Or more specifically,
he did, since
he was behind the wheel.
"You've killed a cat!"
she shouted,
and he quickly looked behind
in the rear view mirror,
but there was no sign of any
dead feline,
no body on the asphalt.
He couldn't have
killed a cat,
because she loved cats, and
to kill a cat
would be like
killing her too.

But he did see a
cat cross,
and he did slam on the brakes,
yet he felt something
under the wheel, and
he did hear
a thud, and a
sort of squishy sound.

They both saw it;
they both heard it; and
they both felt it.

They (might have)
killed a cat.
But the cat seems
to have vanished
without a trace.


*inspired by real events, and the poem "They've Killed a Dog" by Michael Balili


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Foul-Mouthed Fred

Foul-Mouthed Fred is a bad little lad;
he’s the kid most parents hate.
He curses a lot whenever he talks,
and to think that the boy’s only eight!

Foul-Mouthed Fred is avoided by kids,
which is why his friends are so few.
“Don’t play with that boy,” their parents all say.
“He might teach you a curse word or two.”

Foul-Mouthed Fred doesn’t mean to offend;
he was just brought up that way,
growing up in a jungle of childish adults
who never control what they say.

Foul-Mouthed Fred isn’t really that bad,
except for his vile, verbal ways.
He may curse like a convict and talk like a thug,
but his heart is in the right place.

Foul-Mouthed Fred and I are good friends,
and I’ve been trying to help make him see
that speaking bad words is really uncool.
But why won’t he listen to me?


*circa December 2006-January 2007


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Lover's Dilemma

Do I
kiss you
now,
and later regret it
for the rest of my life,

or

do I
not kiss you
at all,
and later regret it
for the rest of my life?


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Can You See the Crocodiles

Can you see the crocodiles?
One…Two…Three
Three thrill-seeking crocodiles
surfing in the sea.

Can you see the ostriches?
Four…Five…Six
Six skateboarding ostriches
practicing their tricks.

Can you see the polar bears?
Seven…Eight…Nine
Nine nauseous polar bears
hanging from a vine.

Can you see the jellyfish?
Ten…Eleven…Twelve
Twelve twinkling jellyfish
crawling up the shelf.


*circa November or December 2006


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Overseas

I took
(care of)
a child
(not my own),
while back home,
my sister took
(care of)
mine.

I did this
for ten years.

Now, my
child calls my
sister: mother,
and calls
me: auntie.


*Inspired by the documentary Kunyang, directed by Vivian N. Limpin and Kat Loreños


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Soul-Bind Spell

The spell to bind yourself to your soul-mate.


Most powerful when cast on a Full Moon.


Spell type: Recp
Pref: Out-PM; FM

Equipment:
Headgear
Magic Wand
Potion 120ml (Li)
Water (Wa)
Firestarter (Fi)
THC (Ea)
Peace pipe (Wi)
Photograph of the subject


Don the headgear, and walk onto an open field as the Full Moon rises. The headgear must not be removed during the duration of the spell.

Drink the potion. You will have 20 minutes before the effects are felt. Take the photograph, then place it on the ground in front of you. Use the tip of your magic wand and draw a circle on the ground around the photograph. Stare at the photograph and mutter the incantation nine times:

Mergis eternam te anima meæ

With the firestarter, set fire to the photograph, and use its flame to light the peace pipe. Inhale deeply, and as you blow the smoke out, speak the name of the subject, your soul-mate. Then wash your mouth with water, and the spell is completed.


* * *


“Are you coming to dinner or not?” asked the woman as she opened the door to the basement. “Your soup is getting cold.”

“Yes, I’ll join you in a minute,” he answered, still reading the page of the book he was holding.

“You’re not going through any of those old sorcery books of yours again, are you?” The woman stole a quick glance at the book. “You’d best hurry or the kids will finish off the dessert I made.” Then she climbed out of the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

The man stared after her as she left, then smiled to himself. “I have married the right woman,” he thought, and he closed the dusty book and followed her to dinner.


*circa 2004

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Elegy for Cory Aquino

They tied
a yellow ribbon
'round the tree.

They said yellow
is a magical color.

It can stop tanks
and freeze bullets;
it can lead people to the streets,
topple tyrants,
create constitutions;
it can put
martyrs on money,
and turn soldiers
against their commander-in-chief.
It can change
peoples' perception
regarding a woman's ability
to lead a nation.

The color yellow can also
unite a multitude
in one voice.

And now the yellow ribbon
has detached itself
from the tree,

and is now flying
in the wind.


*Requiescat in Pace, Corazon Cojuangco Aquino
Saturday, 1 August 2009.


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

The Emperor's Speech

Once a year,
the Emperor
speaks in front of
the people.

The Emperor rambles on
about how good
the year was,
and how the next year
could be better.

The people
(are supposed to)
listen when
the Emperor says that

the coffers are
slowly filling up;
the Empire's crime
rate has dropped; the laborers
are generally happy
with their wages;
and anything else
that would
make the Emperor look
good.

Yet the people know that
these are all lies,
and that the Emperor
is rambling on
like an idiot.

Good thing these people
are not the French.
The last time they
got fed up,
they sent their
rulers' heads rolling
into the guillotine basket.


*written Sunday, 19 July 2009 for Ugnayan ng Nagkakaisang Artista (UNA)
also published in Kalasag

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Elegy for Michael Jackson

It has been quite
some time now since
the King has left
the building,

but the janitors still
have their hands
full trying to
clean the track
marks off
the floor, from
all the people trying to
moonwalk across
the lobby.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Waiting Bed

During the day,
this is a waiting shed.
When nighttime comes,
it becomes someone's bed.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Carnivore

The first time I sunk
my teeth on some
prime, first-
class steak,

I imagined that this was how
Homo erectus must have
felt upon tasting
the meat of the mighty
bison, after he had
finally mastered fire.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Harmed Struggle

(Fact: a bullet is harm-
less outside
its chamber)

This is how to assemble
an Amaru .357:

First, combine the bolt1 and the carrier2.
1bolt─the mind:
produces theory,
which is our thesis
2carrier─the flesh of the word;
manifested as practice,
the antithesis

Insert the combined3 bolt and carrier, and push the handle4 forward.
3combined─theory and practice
becomes concrete
action
4handle─the next thesis
must be pushed
forward to create
a new contradiction

Align the hammer5 with the trigger6.
5hammer─the conscience
must be aligned with the
6trigger─the decision
to produce morals

Pull up the lock-on spring guide7, which allows you to put the cover8 back on the chamber9.
7lock-on spring guide,
to keep us in line
8cover─criticism
of others about you,
placed over the
9chamber─self-
criticism: what you think
about yourself

Then insert a fully-loaded magazine10, unlatch11 the safety12, and cock13 the handle.
10magazine─fully-loaded
arms of the people’s warrior.
To follow it, we must
11unlatch─detach:
separate oneself from
12safety─the family, the way of life
must be left
behind with-
out looking back.
13cock─get ready
for the next contradiction

The Amaru.357 is a gift
from Cuba to the Philippines (one sister to another)
two daughters of Mother Spain
forced into marriage to a bald-eagled redneck
for a dowry of twenty million dollars.

It was the same weapon used by Cuba to shoot her husband, formalizing the divorce.


*Filipino version here


*circa 24 Mar 2006

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Dominus (Radio Edit)

I may seem shy in real life,

but when I am on the air,
I am in my element.

The airwaves are my domain;
everyone tuned in, my subjects;
and my kingdom stretches as far as this broadcast can carry my voice.

The words I speak tonight
will remain in your subconscious mind
for the rest of your life.

The word can become flesh.
And the one with the microphone can change the world.


*performed at Bigkas Pilipinas, Jam 88.3, Sat 21 Jun 2009
"Dominus" original version here


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Time Capsule

Just hours from the city,
a hundred years back in time.
Back to the province.


*Some people would think that a haiku should conform strictly to the 5-7-5 syllabication scheme. But if the flow of the sound is compromised by being one syllable short, then by all means, throw 5-7-5 out the window.


**10 May 2008, Agno, Pangasinan

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Startled

Doe.
A deer.
A female deer.
Still as a statue;
eyes, gentle
like deep pools of water.
Picture-perfect stance;
slow yet fleeting,
like a dream.

Beauty like this
must be approached with caution.

Slow
and steady.
Fragile. Handle
with care.
Like carrying a Ming Dynasty vase
across a tightrope.

One
wrong
move
and---

Crack!

There goes my prey.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Frisbee

I am more like a frisbee
than a boomerang.

When you throw me (away),

I
never
come back.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Dominus (working title)

I may seem shy in real life,

but when I am onstage,
I am in my element.

The stage is my domain;
everyone in the audience my subjects;
and my kingdom stretches as far as the wind can carry my voice.

The words I speak tonight
will remain in your subconscious mind
for the rest of your life.

The word can become flesh.
And the one with the microphone can change the world.


*written (but not performed) for Poetic Soujourn, UP Portia Sorority, Fri. 13 Mar. 2009

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

White Queen to Move

Game Two.

Empty space between Black King and pawn.

White Queen moves to empty space.

Black King contemplates two possible scenarios:

First, White Queen moves into empty space purposely as bait, waiting for Black King to pounce.

Second, White Queen is only interested in the space, and as far as she's concerned, Black King doesn't even exist.

Black King needs more time to analyze.

Black King exceeds time limit and fails to move.

Check Stalemate.

White Queen: Thirty.
Black King: Love.

White Queen to Move.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Dear John

Dear John,

I know you have to leave, and no one's stopping you. Hell, if my girl left me for another guy, I'd want to see the world, too. So I took the liberty of packing your suitcase for you. I included stuff to make sure you stay on the path, my brother.

First, the Eiffel Tower. To remind you of romance. And sex. Get laid!

Second, I put some you-know-what in the secret compartment. The smell alone should keep you happy. Just don't let them airport dogs sniff it, you know what I mean?

Third, I printed out that pic of your ex kissing that guy. I got it from her Facebook.

Fourth, I included my Zippo lighter. I'm giving it to you. Once you're over that bitch, burn the picture. Shift-delete her. Only then will you be truly free.

Fifth, don't forget your cellphone. We want to hear your voice when you're screaming at the top of the pyramids.

Call us, dude. We won't call you, as long-distance rates are expensive.


Love, Paul




*writing exercise for Jam 88.3 Performance Poetry Lecture hosted by Kooky Tuason featuring Siege Malvar, 14 Feb 2009
**performed at Bigkas Pilipinas, Jam 88.3, 14 Feb 2009
***bitterness unintentional


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

How to Stop a Wolf on the Prowl

I. The Predator

A (male) wolf on the prowl is unstoppable,
with senses heightened for the kill.
His sense of smell is trained to sniff the air
for the faintest trace of pheromones.

The wolf on the prowl has enhanced vision,
seeing everything in black and white---
except of course for the females,
which he sees in full-color high-definition.

The only way to stop a wolf on the prowl
is to set a trap for it.


II. The Bait

The bait must be extremely powerful
to overwhelm the heightened senses
of the wolf on the prowl.

The bait must emit an unfamiliar odor,
like the scent of an alpha female
of a slightly different breed.
Sickeningly sweet,
like white Swiss chocolate.
Unmistakeably female,
yet something the wolf has never smelled before.

The bait must cause the wolf
visual overload.
She should be more than eye-candy;
she should give the wolf visual tooth-decay.
The bait must be larger-than-life,
like a movie star on a forty-foot screen.


III. The Trap

The wolf on the prowl will sniff the air.
He will detect the strange new scent
and hone in on the bait's fragrance.

The wolf will set his sights on the bait,
and get ready to pounce.
But like a Gorgon,
the bait's stare is venomous.
Once the eyes of wolf and bait meet,
even for just a split-second,
the wolf crumples to the ground,
powerless.


IV. The Venom

The bait's venom
is transmitted through
visual contact.
A split-second stare
will stop the wolf in his tracks.

The venom spreads
in a matter of seconds.
It causes a rush in the bloodstream,
and makes the wolf's heart
pump twice as fast.

The venom reaches the brain
almost instantaneously.
The wolf may experience slight dementia,
with faulty judgment,
and possibly even hallucinations.

The venom is not lethal,
but it is quite toxic,
more powerful than alcohol.
More potent than any psychoactive substance,
it can leave the wolf inebriated
for several days.


A wolf on the prowl
cannot really be stopped.
It can only be slowed down.

Despite the venom,
the wolf will always find a way
to conquer the bait.


Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Epic Fail in Three Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GUY -- single guy, late twenties
FRIEND -- GUY's male friend
GIRL a.k.a. HELEN OF TROY -- single girl, very beautiful, with a face that could start World War III

(Wedding reception. Food and drinks all around. Single guys and single ladies milling around.)


ACT I

FRIEND:
(approaches GUY) Hey, you seem unusually quiet.

GUY:
(stares lovestruck at HELEN OF TROY) She is soooooooo beautiful...

FRIEND:
Go talk to her!

GUY:
Later, dude. Let me work up my courage.

FRIEND:
Whatever.


ACT II
Thirty Minutes Later

FRIEND:
Still staring at her?

GUY:
Yes. And just so you know, she's been staring back.

FRIEND:
Really? Have you talked to her yet?

GUY:
Not yet. I'm really shy.

FRIEND:
What? Ask her to dance with you!

GUY:
Huh? I can't do that!

FRIEND:
Why not? It's a wedding! Oh look, some guys are talking to her. You're really slow, you know that?

GUY:
Okay, I'll talk to her. But I'll wait for that other guy to go away.


ACT III
Thirty Minutes Later Again

FRIEND:
You haven't talked to her yet? She's all alone! And I think she likes you.

GUY:
Okay, okay. I'm going.

(GUY approaches HELEN OF TROY)

GUY:
Hi.

HELEN OF TROY:
Hi.

GUY:
Um, are you a friend of the bride or the groom?

HELEN OF TROY:
(in a sexy French accent) Actually, the groom's cousin is our auntie. So the groom is like our uncle.

GUY:
Oh okay. Wait, the groom is kinda like your uncle? How old are you?

HELEN OF TROY:
Oh, I'm seventeen.

(Insert video footage of atomic bomb being dropped and a mushroom-cloud explosion.)


END

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Forever, Eternal

Thirty steps to the altar
is a very, very long road.

It should only take around thirty seconds,
yet I have walked this road my whole life.

I have dreamed of this before.
You and me.
Your world and mine.
All of you and all of me
gathered under one roof
in one celebration.

I have seen this many, many times,
even before I met you.
I have been asked these questions
countless times before.
You already know my answer,
same way I know yours.

I have seen this before,
in my dreams.
But today is different.
I know that this is not a dream,
for I can feel the warm tears
streaming down my face.


*Wedding poem for Jim Bacani and Bang Yanga, 05 February 2009, Caleruega

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

Not Even a Cup of Water

"We are not to even as much as aid the infidels...even to as much as handing them a cup of water during battle."
- Muhammad Ali


(For purposes of this discussion,
the word "infidel" shall include
those who left and ran off
into the arms of another lover.)


Now imagine yourself
seated beside the infidel
listening to a three-hour lecture.

Somewhere during the second hour,
the infidel will ask you for a drink of water.

Sting Lacson

A writer. By degree and by profession. Also strongly advocates ten-finger typing to all writers because that's what you do for a living, so be efficient at it.

My Literary Side

"The Words come from the Divine; from the Muse the Idea. The Poet merely transcribes." ┼Old Sumerian proverb

(Kidding, I made that up. LOL)

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