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

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.

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

She came in soaking wet,
for it was raining outside.
"The strongest typhoon
in history,"
they called it,
and thank heavens
it made landfall
on another part
of the archipelago,
way down south.

The woman approached
the receptionist,
who informed her
that the doctor
would see her next,
as soon as he was done
with his current patient.

So she sat herself down
on a couch in the lobby,
while a news broadcast
showed scenes of destruction,
as the strongest typhoon
in history
decimated the southern cities
live on national television.

She was slightly anxious,
as this was the first time
she would be going under
a surgical blade.
She began fiddling
with her nose,
touching the bridge,
feeling it in
its natural state
for the last time.
Then she put
her hand in her bag,
fiddling the thick wad of cash
she withdrew from an ATM machine.

As she was counting the money,
making sure she had enough
for her noselift,
her eyes had become glued
to the television screen,
where she saw entire city streets
reduced to rubble,
despair and desolation
on people's faces, and
not a single smile on anyone,
corpses strewn everywhere
like debris,
waiting to be collected
by street cleaners
who would never come.

When the receptionist announced that
the doctor would be seeing her now,
the lobby was already empty.
The woman had left,
braving the pouring rains
to the nearest drop-off centre,
where she gave her entire
cosmetic surgery budget
as a donation
to the victims of
the strongest typhoon
in history.



Dedicated to the victims of Typhoon Haiyan a.k.a. Yolanda, 8 Nov 2013, Philippines

It was "Take Your Kid to Work" Day,
and the morning sun reflected
on the little boy's
kiddie-sized aviators
as he rode shotgun
in his father's jeepney.
He was very excited,
and he dressed for it -
a blue ball cap
to match his new blue shirt,
with paper bills sharply
folded around his fingers
like wolverine claws.
He was already in third grade,
yet he had never seen
his father at work,
ferrying passengers around the metro
like the nice man that he is.
All he did was
take the passengers's fare
while his father gave the change,
because the boy didn't know
the different fares
for the different stops.
But he was quite good at math,
this little boy,
and as the sun rose higher in the sky,
he noticed his father
starting to shortchange his passengers.
First 25 cents,
then 50,
then one peso,
then two.
When he looked up
into his father's eyes,
and saw his father
refusing to look back,
the little boy
did not know
what to make of it.


*conceived Sat, 13 Apr 2013

Zero-crime rate
is more than
just a statistic.

It is an actual place

where one can leave
any type of vehicle
unlocked
(even with the keys
in the ignition)
and not worry about it
being stolen.



*Conceived: Batanes, 4 Feb 2012

The intense heat of the lights
add to the already-hot and humid air.
Then suddenly, two familiar faces
duck into my doorway,
step into my humble abode,
and make a slight quip
about how long my ceiling is.
I try to remember where I've seen them before,
and when they suddenly pull out
a wad of thousand-peso bills,
it dawns on me.

These guys are hosts
from that noontime television show,
and with their cameras pointing at me,
I suddenly realize that I am on the air.
The words they speak
do not register in my simple mind,
which has now frozen at the sight of money.
They hand me a total of
fifteen thousand pesos
while two more people barge in,
one with a year's supply of shampoo
(from their sponsors)
and another with a roasted pig
that could feed five families
(also from their sponsors).

Then with a friendly tap on my shoulder,
they leave my house,
ducking the same way they came in,
and I couldn't hear the host
laughing "Ho, ho, ho!" as he went,
because I myself
was laughing inside.

Because we are the visitors,
the home crowd shows us hostility.
Because I am different,
the home team shows me hostility.

I have three defenders
guarding me at all times.

"Monkey," they call me,
for my pale brown skin is not
olive-brown like an Italian,
my dark eyes are not
bright blue like an Aryan,
and the bridge of my nose is not
aquiline like a Roman.

They could at least be more precise
and call me "Half-Monkey",
for my father is a Spaniard,
who married a short brown native woman
from the Philippine islands.

But to them,
my blood counts for nothing.
Half a monkey is still a monkey.

I am the only brown man
on a field of twenty-two players.

My teammates can see past
the color of my skin.
I am treated like a brother─
an equal (maybe even greater)─
because I score goals,
because I win matches,
and because they all know
I am the best player
among my white-skinned peers.

That is why my defenders look at me
with anger in their eyes
and hate in their hearts.
They will never allow
a monkey to beat them
in this beautiful game
they created.

I now have the ball,
and the defenders tighten their guard,
like zookeepers out to corral
an escaped chimpanzee,
and they hurl their tightly-woven
nets of prejudice
as they try to hold the monkey down.

But I am too fast for them.
I leave all the defenders behind,
nothing left for them to do but stare
at the number on the back of my jersey:
Number 1.

Racing toward the goal,
I cock my leg back,
and strike the ball
like the hammer of a gun,
and send the bullet flying.

I watch the goalkeeper's
bright blue eyes,
following the ball in disbelief
as it passes through his hands
and over his straw-colored head.

And the goal's net cannot hold my shot,
just as the zookeeper's net cannot hold the monkey.
My bullet travels so fast
that it breaks the net completely through,
splicing the fibers that hold
the twine of reality together.

The entire home crowd
is stunned into silence,
and the joyous uproar of our visiting team
praising my magnificent monkey kick
becomes the salt of insult
that sprinkles over the wounds of their egos.

In the cheery blue eyes of my teammates,
I am El Rompe Redes─
The Net Breaker.
My name will live in legend,
and the club will pass down my story
from generation to generation.

But in the teary blue eyes of my opponents,
I will live in infamy.
They will never see me
as the player who scored the winning goal
amidst the hostile conditions
of an away crowd.
My name will be spoken with loathing,
for I will live forever in their memory
as the monkey who destroyed their net.


*For Bersong EuroPinoy 3

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

An example of irony:

When it rained
on their parade,

the Marxists
sought sanctuary
inside McDonald's.


*SONA 27 July 2009

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

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