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Whose train of thought?
Old subway lines
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
Favorite terminals
Aliza, the hodgepodge
Brian, the happy obituarist
Carljoe, bayaw sa klase at kanto
Daryll, the free migrant
Den, the travelling feline
Egay's friendster kundiman
Egay's lj kundiman
Em, the punch-drunk daisy
Gabby, girl with ribbons undone
Gloria, going places in her jeans
Ian, sandwichspy eating the sun
Jeline, with her random shrapnel
Joel, the rambling soul
Kit, with an eternal itch
Kuya Zivan, high on acid42
Larry's highest hiding place
Maita, going beyond the sunrise
Margie, in a dirty shirt
Mika, the dog woman
Mikael, may abo sa dila
Mitzie, between moons and eggs
Nikko, with his pebbles and sex
Ning, in her little tugboat
Peachy, with patolas and doughnuts
Rabbi, posing on the proskenion
Tintin, detoxing on the couch
Twinkle, traveling light
Vlad, the dirty pop machine
Wanda, warcar at pansitan
Waps, on the old road
Yol, nababaog na nga ba?
Zia, wandering without subtitles
Monday, April 02, 2007
11:42 PM
dahil sawa na akong magdrama at gusto ko nang matulog...
Without Devotion
Marie Howe
Cut loose, without devotion, a man becomes a comic.
His antics are passed
around the family table and mimicked so well, years
later the family still laughs.
Without devotion, any life becomes a stranger's story
told and told again to help another sleep
or live. And it is possible
in the murmuring din of that collective loyalty
for the body to forget what it once loved.
A mouth on the mouth becomes a story mouth.
It's what they think they knew---what the body knew
alone, better than it ever knew anything.
Without devotion, his every gesture---
how he slouched in the family pantry, his fingers
curled into a fist, the small thing he said
while waiting for water to boil---
becomes potentially hilarious. Lucky for him
the body, sometimes, refuses translation,
that often it will speak, secretly,
in its own voice, and insist, haplessly,
on its acquired tastes. Without devotion, it might
stand among them and listen, laughing,
but look, how the body clenches,
as the much discussed smoke intermittently clears.
It has remembered the man standing, wearing
his winter coat.
Watch how it tears from the table, yapping, ferocious
in its stupid inarticulate joy.
Labels: poetry