Look Ma, I'm a Writer!

The little children stood
lined up by the side
of the dirt road
outside their school,
most in slippers, some barefoot.
Then the teachers signalled
for the kids to start waving
the little flags they made,
crayon colours on
scratch paper stuck
on barbecue sticks,
to welcome the guest as he
approached the assembled
students in his gigantic SUV.
When the vehicle
came to a complete
stop, one of the 
heavily-tinted windows rolled down,
and out peered a fat old man in
heavily-tinted sunglasses.
"Good morning, congressman!"
the children exclaimed.
The old man just looked at them,
and after realising they weren't
old enough to vote, he muttered
a gruff acknowledgment. 
Then he rolled his window back up,
and his SUV sped away,
the huge wheels stirring up
a heavy cloud of dust,
forcing the kids to
cover their faces as they
watched the vehicle
disappear in the distance.

circa 2017

The taller one was

Who am I?

I'm not Batman.
I'm no crime-fighting caped crusader
that flies to the rescue faster than 911.

Who am I?

I'm no chameleon,
no top-secret US Army stealth project.
I'm no master of disguise
yet I can disappear at will
with no invisibility cloak or hocus pocus.

Who am I?

I'm no gladiator,
no Russell Crowe.
No King of the Jews holier-than-thou messiah
that will sacrifice my life to save your ass.

I'm nobody.
    The person behind you in the grocery,
    that noisy guy beside you in church,
    the classmate you forget as soon as school's out.
I don't deserve any special treatment
because you don't really care anyway.

So who am I?


circa 8 Nov 2005

for the job interview
was short and straightforward:

Name all prime numbers
between one (1) and one hundred (100)
from the top of your head.

She proceeded to answer,
“Three,” trying to
“Five,” figure out if this was
“Seven,” some sort of trick question–

(She skipped 1! thought the examiner,
a good sign, because
no one else noticed
the use of “between”.)

–“Eleven,” eventually realizing
“Thirteen,” that it wasn’t.

“Really,” rolling her eyes
as she stood up to leave,
feeling insulted that
such a question
was being asked of her.
But before she had made
an effective exit, the examiner’s
words stopped her momentarily.

“You’re hired.”



circa 4 Jul 2015

These are the words
of the Honourable Judge
in the case
People v. Philippine Writers Bandwagon.

It is quite
disappointing to note that
despite coming from
similar backgrounds,
similar interests,
and similar philosophies,
all of you
cannot seem to
face this Court
as a united front,
especially regarding
a crime as
seemingly universal
as rape.

Therefore,
you the jury
are hereby ordered
to cease all further
action in the case
before us for failing
to reach a unanimous
verdict, and for
failing to achieve
unity and solidarity
in these trying times.

So ordered.



*For T & T and the 26th Fellows

Before it was shut down, the Amicus Project was the research and development project whose main objective was to create a wormhole, a portal between the two galaxies of Acquintas and Amicus. It was supposed to be remembered as the bridge that cut intergalactic travel time down to milliseconds. Instead, the Amicus Project would go down in history for the reason it was shut down─the glitch.


BACKGROUND:

Acquintas Nebula
Designation: Galaxy, Third Class
Star systems: 5
Inhabited: 3
Major planets: Acquintasia, Deluzian I, Phasmid-XG
Dominant species: Human
Dominant race: Acquintan

Amicus Galactic Federation
Designation: Autonomous Galaxy, First Class
Star systems: 23
Inhabited: 17
Major planets: Amicus Primus, Amicus Secundus, Dabarquad V
Dominant species: Human
Dominant race: Amici


* * * * *


The Amici imposed
very strict requirements
regarding entry into their system.
Generally, third-class galactic citizens
were considered by the Amici as
a lower species, sub-human,
infinitely inferior.

In selecting the Guinea Pig
for the Amicus Project,
three factors were
taken into consideration.

First: Genetics.
The Guinea Pig must be
of Amici descent.
Second: Intelligence.
In the event of a succesful crossover,
the Guinea Pig must be equipped
with the same intellectual abilities
as any ordinary Amici citizen
to be able to integrate fully
into this new system.
And third: Expendability.
In the event of a failure,
the Guinea Pig must present
no significant loss
to both galactic governments.

After an extensive selection process,
the Amicus Project selected
for their Guinea Pig
Acquintan prisoner number 8997161,
for satisfying all the requirements.
It was agreed that
as long as the Guinea Pig
successfully crossed the portal,
dead or alive,
he would be honoured
as an Amici citizen.

Finally, on the
day of the crossing,
a hundred billion Acquintans
tuned in to watch
the historic event.
But as soon as
the Guinea Pig
entered the portal,
it happened.

The glitch.

At the exact moment
the Guinea Pig was
inside the wormhole,
the power surged,
causing all the equipment
to flicker and reboot.
And in that split-second,
the Guinea Pig disappeared.
He went into the portal,
but he never came out of it.

It has been theorised that
the wormhole could not handle
the mass of a human body,
which caused the wormhole
to collapse on itself,
obliterating the Guinea Pig,
disintegrating him
down to his atoms.

Others believe that
the Guinea Pig did not
disappear. They believe
he actually went
somewhere, to that place
which was neither
Acquintas nor Amicus.

The Guinea Pig
of the Amicus Project,
Acquintan prisoner number 8997161
is believed to have gone
all the way back to
the beginning,
back to when he was
nothing.



8 Nov 2013

A woman was crying
over a pregnancy test kit result –
one line –
considering her age
(she turned 42 last week),
over ten years married
and still childless

while from another bathroom window
one floor above

a woman was crying
over a pregnancy test kit result ––
two lines – –
considering her age
(she turns 22 next Tuesday),
unmarried
with four children
from three fathers.



*conceived circa Jan 2017
written 30 May 2019

Bong! Bong!
said the bells,
tolling for the death of
democratic oligarchy and
the return of the prince,
son of an exiled king,
who never dreamed
he would live
to see himself one
step away from
seizing the throne
that once belonged
to his father.

I have been painted
Evil in a thousand ways
In a thousand eyes

They headed north,
way up in the
Mountain Province,
riding a local
bus, but
seated way in the rear.
It was freezing;
you could turn on the
airconditioning
by opening a window.

It was her first time,
but he'd been here before,
when it was still
a provincial mountain town,
both a tourist destination
and a hashish haven.

They wanted to do it
like in that
romantic comedy movie,
hoping that
pines
ferns,
and evergreens
would be enough
kindle to reignite
their spark
that was lost.

All they could see
were mountains,
far as the eye could see.
A mountain view
so spectacular
that only
360° IMAX
can capture it
with justice.

But that night, no
sparks ignited.
No lost emotions
rekindled.
Instead,
foundations were set,
expectations were levelled,
and lessons were learned.

Marriage is a mountain,

one which you must
climb. And conquer.
That would be
going against gravity,
so there will be
effort exerted.
There is no
straight road
to the summit;
there are zig-zags,
blind corners,
and alternating
one-way passes.

Teamwork is crucial.
Climbing is a team effort.

There is no such thing
as a solo mountaineer.
There is a team;
an expedition.
At least two, there are.
A climber, and a belayer.
And they can switch roles.

That night,
down on the forest floor,
looking up at the
star-studded sky,
both of them
wondered what it would
be like to live
on a mountain.



*Sun, 31 Jan 2015. SAG.MTP.PHL.

She watched through
blurry eyes, this
reality cooking
show on the telly, which
she never was a fan of
before. But now,
with everything
going on
in her mind, she found
it interesting.

The challenge: Make
the bitter gourd palatable
to those who hate it.

And seeing one of these
would-be Master
Chefs washing his bitter
gourd, hunched over the
sink, she slowly
felt waves of
sadness, like running
water washing
over her, the
bitterness sinking to
the pit of her stomach,

She watched the chef
boil the gourd
in saltwater,
to lessen its bitterness,
but the taste of salt
in her tears
did not lessen hers.

The chef took
the boiled gourd,
and with his sharp
kinfe, sliced
it thin, with
deft, deliberate
strokes, as she imagined
parallel bleeding strips
if she applied the
same knife strokes on
her wrists.

And finally, with
time running
out, in
an act of desperation,
the would-be
Master Chef tried covering
the bitterness in a sweet
caramel cover.
But she knew this chef
would lose the challenge,
for no amount of sugar-
coating can conceal
the bitterness
hidden underneath.

He had tried all the amusement

Scientist Hangs Himself After Groundbreaking Discovery
Arizona State University – Police found senior faculty member Dr. Andre Brody hanging dead in his office yesterday morning after a phone call from the head of campus security. Dr. Brody became famous after the publication of his paper on "fetal microchimerism".

Dr. Brody's fiancée, a single mother, was devastated by his death. "This has been a very tough ordeal for me, and especially for my son, who has grown to love Andre as his real father," she says. His fiancée's 10-year old boy, though not his biological child, was chosen by Brody to be his best man for his wedding scheduled next year.

"Fetal microchimerism" discusses the phenomena of "fetal cells", which are cells from the fetus in a mother’s womb that leave the placenta during pregnancy or soon after birth, and take residence in different areas of the mother’s body. That means a mother has her child's cells within her, and can stay with her for up to three decades. (Associated Press)

***

Suicide Note of Dr. Andre Brody
O, I write this letter
with a heavy heart,
knowing that in my experiment
I have not only proven that
all mothers are chimeras,
but also that my fiancée
has the DNA of her ex
inside her.

He thrust all of them inside,
the skeletons–each and every
broken and brittle bone in the body
–skeletal systems in shambles, shoved
haphazardly in the tiny
confines of the cluttered closet,
which he then forced shut,
padlocked, and bolted.

A skeleton should
remain where it
belongs: buried,
hidden, forever
trapped in a tomb,
as it should be,
never to see
the light of day.

But he forgot a couple
of things about this closet.

First, it was not
a soundproof closet.
Once in a while,
the shifting bones would
create a clattering
noise that would
bother him.
Second, it was not
an odour-proof closet.
Every now and then,
a whiff of decay
would cause him to cover
his nose at the foul
stinking stench of his skeletons.

was projected on a gigantic
outdoor screen, viewed
by a stadium of
Filipinos – all classes
considered – the velvety-
soft skin of the wealthy
sweating side by side
with the dry
sagging skin of
the have-nots.

The hot, humid, heavy
air ignited
the passion of the
crowd, cheering
the Filipino boxer
with every punch
landed, thrown
with the collective force of
98 million fists.
But the dripping
salty sweat from
their brows blinded
the punches
thrown and landed
by his opponent.

But in the
month of May,
the Philippine weather
was as unpredictable as
any true fist fight.
After ten rounds,
dark clouds began to loom,
and by Round 11
the crowd sadly watched
their national hero outboxed,
with the skies growing darker
and darker, threatening
rain on a parade
that would most likely
be cancelled.

By the twelfth and final round,
the Filipino fighter’s fate
was sealed. The loss
of the biggest boxing match
in this or the next lifetime
was a loss carried
by all Filipinos everywhere.
As the time faded closer
and closer to the final bell,
the May weather manifested
itself in an unusually
strong summer rain shower,
which helped to
secretly hide the tears
of an entire country,
who cried in defeat
yet wept like winners.


*ASC, QC. 3 May 2015.

He turned
his back on her,
stormed off
in a rage
and muttered,

"Stupid fuckin' waste of time."

And she stood
there, surprised,
mouth open,
eyes slanted
in anger, because
all she heard
were the words
"stupid fuck".

There are
different types
of communication.
Although the
message and the medium
may vary,
there are
elements common
to all of them.

First, the Idea,
which comes from
the Divine.
Second, the Word,
the Idea's thought
made flesh.
And third, the Medium,
the vessel for the Word
in physical form.

There are also
different types
of silence.
The rarest type
is called
"The Vacuum".

What's strange
is that while
the act of
communication
involves a
multi-step process,
it still requires more
effort and energy
to maintain
the silence of
the Vacuum.
■

What angered
the Filipinos
and the rest of the world
was that despite
the Philippines being
hit by history's
strongest storm,
and despite the
prompt response of the
entire international community,
local officials
of the Philippine government
had the nerve to slap on
donor's taxes,
import duties,
and other tariffs
on relief goods
and foreign aid
arriving in the aftermath
of the supertyphoon.

But although on the surface
it looked like highway robbery,
this was actually
way more than the
State skimming
a few pesos off the top
using the cleverly executed
sleight of hand techniques
of a certified public accountant.

For every dollar
in foreign aid sent
by our international neighbors,
two percent is taken
by the government.
But the amount collected
does not go to the
local government coffers,
nor does it end up
in the pockets of politicians;
instead, these taxes
are being used
to fund



The Philippine Jaeger Program
The Philippines is known for a lot of things. It is famous for its beaches, its islands, its festivals, and its people. It is also infamous for its dirty politics and rampant corruption.

The pork barrell scandal which rocked Philippine politics just months earlier saw the disappearance of millions of pesos into bogus beneficiaries and non-existent NGOs. It seems public trust has disappeared with the public money, and after a tragedy like Typhoon Haiyan, which devastated the Philippines last November 8, you can't blame the public for their vigilance.

What most people don't know is that the people's taxes are being used for a noble purpose: the funding of the Philippine Jaeger Program, or the PJP.

The PJP was inspired by decades of exposure to Japanese mechas, and most recently, the release of the film Pacific Rim. Jaegers or battle mechs are huge, gigantic robots controlled by pilots, and are humanity's last line of defense against giant monsters.

"The PJP is doing practically the same thing as the anime battle mechs," says the Honourable Jorge "Bolet" Banal, Congressman of Quezon City's 3rd Legislative District and Chairperson of the Philippine Jaeger Program. "Our goal is to create even bigger, more gigantic robots capable of battling the weather."

That's right–it's Man v. Nature on the road to extinction. If you've seen the satellite photographs of Typhoon Haiyan, then you know why it's called a "supertyphoon". To combat gigantic storms, you need gigantic robots, which is why Philippine Jaegers are generally two to three times bigger than the Jaegers in Pacific Rim.

Because of the sheer size of the robots, two pilots won't be enough. "We need four to five pilots to control a single Jaeger," says Banal. "So in a sense, our pilots are closer to a proper Voltron or Voltes V team."

Chairman Bolet Banal also took the time to explain how a Jaeger is deployed into action. "What we do is we have an early warning device," he explains, "which tells us if we have a typhoon forming in the middle of the Pacific. Then we deploy the Jaeger to meet it halfway across the ocean, and here it unleashes an array of weapons designed to weaken the storm. That way, should the typhoon still make landfall, it would be reduced to gale-force winds."

Following the movie Pacific Rim's tradition of Jaeger names, the Philippines's first Jaeger prototype has been christened "Snyper Bolet", in honour of PJP Chairman Bolet Banal, and is expected to be deployed with the next supertyphoon.



16 Nov 2013

As the setting sun
coloured the sky
from blue to orange,
the boy touched
his little sister
on the arm,
letting her know
it would be dark soon.

And as the sky
changed colours
from orange to purple,
the children headed back
to their assigned shelter,
shielding their noses
from the stench of death,
looking away from
the corpses, recognising
their dead neighbors
who were alive just days ago.

And as the sky darkened
from purple to black,
the boy and his sister
reached their home
─their temporary
roof of thatch and
waterlogged lumber─
shared with a thousand
other refugees, grumbling
stomachs silenced by
very meager dinner rations
enjoyed under the yellow glow
of candlelight and gas lamps.

And as the night sky exploded
into a thousand celestial lights,
the boy and his sister
found a small patch of grass,
where they lay down,
hugged each other,
and cried,
as every star in the heavens
twinkled with the reassurance
that tomorrow would bring
a new day, and
a new hope.



15 Nov 2013