Crucible Delight

It was dark when I first took off my translucent veil in front of you. The sand was warm, the din of the gongs and canned music drowning the drumbeats of my heart. I felt your warm fingers swarm the contours of my face, before its heat led down to the inner recesses of my being. Your fingers were soft and full of understanding. They caressed the hard-pressed callousness of its tight skin, made thick by years of silence and absence of emotion.

Just the other night, it was again dark when you blocked my way right down the stairs. I sensed the turmoil, crawling out from all of you; I thought of you, how it is to have you lying beside me, in the dark, both listening to our silence, feeling our pain from the air, from nothing, embracing them with our warmth, as we rekindle our memories and weave them together, those times when we were far from where we are at this point . . . Instead, I pressed my body into yours. I wanted to feel all of you . . . as if they would escape the fabrics of your clothes, break free from the entangled existence we are forced to live by. Your eyes were cast down. You were staring within and beyond my chest, yearning to fondle it, feel everything in it, yet doubting of its consequence. And in that moment, I felt you; you were inside me . . . the hard, pressing need to be one with me. There was current in the air that night; your shoulders and the soft skin, the childlike shape of your face, made me want to soothe you, flow by with your calmness, drink your joy, bathe in your innocence . . .

Eversince that moment, I pine for you to live by me, consume me, empty out this vacuum of deep, dark need. Fill me with your light, your banter, your bare immensity . . . Free me from my own evil.

Home Far Away

Where the moon rise
In that boulevard
the fireflies sing
of a thousand cries
Up here in the north
where city life din
of loud music
and muffled voices
Tug at emotions
The wind murmurs
My needs as fresh
dews in the morning
Smell of coffee
percolating, simmering
The beans grinding
its sweet, savory
Clouds of smoke
drifting, molding a face
of my yearning
For the road beside
The bedroom
Window is ailing
me to bare truths
I long to bathe in.

Eros's Deception

Is it gone
Upon the light
Where my mind
gave it a slice
A truth, a figment
I create my mind's
realities, turn them true
Outside this realm
we call existence
We are a game
our feelings fleeting
How can we
justify emotions
when they come
when they're gone
the neurons, hormones
logic, chemical imbalance
Is it here
How does he feel
Is he hiding
Does he know
All along
It might be
he knows the world
Better than I do
I should have
existed, loved
Outside my mind
Translate feelings
Feel their truth
Live with its tugging
In the midst
of people's lives lost
in labyrinths of hate
pain and anguish
It will survive
comes out, in
another package
It could be gone
But it was there
and it could
still be there
lurking, seething
what lust
what love
what chaos
Is not
Could not
Be not
A battle
between the sexes.

Deluge of Chaos

Asexuality


Chainsaws and axes
gritting the pavements
Of naked thoughts
Scraped off welts
with blood dripping
Drenched bandages
Tourniquets of void
Chaos and promise
Of death gripping
Fear of freedom
Hypocrisy at the height
A moral dilemma
Social disparity
gaping in genuine
lust and passion
Lightyears worth
of questions
Universes of blood
stigma, pus
Of sensations only
Honored by its own
In far-flung
pathways of galaxies
Of millenia about to be
A metamorphosis
of a kindred
No, there's no man
No, woman, nothing between
Gender is a piece of each
Our mind's
assiduous dream.

Looking Back to My Tequila Adventure with Barry

I'm now looking down to a deep pit, where I just found myself lately. Been wanting for that spirit in a bottle to drown me in my most needful moments. It finally showed its head to me last Saturday.
I couldn't say I didn't enjoy every emotion that ran through my neurons down to the tiniest veins of my bloodstreams. I had one hell of a drinking session, one that had me drunk all my fears of people. Yep, I finally put an end to that thought that I can please all people, by being the goody-two-shoes that others would want me to be. I just am not that at all. I've always been so attached to my reality, one that I almost always curtail brought by the demands of the workplace, etiquette, norms, and social responsibility, the other side of myself. I had to free it to regain what I lost, a restoraton of a reservoir of fervor and zeal.
So it was when I was about to lose my normal self did I find the real me, the angst-ridden, unfulfilled adult with an adolescent heart. Barry Hibionada's tequila led me to that depth of myself which I had never been, and that brought me to familiarity with the guy. While sipping that crystal-clear liquor, memories and scenes way back whirled around me in a tapestry of emotions played up by alcohol. I yearned for someone who would be with me until I bare all, and I realized it's good to be free in someone's company, especially when one feels belonging, and being a part of, even when things are as muddled as my thoughts were.
Right on the sand particles that I played with my toes, and the beat from the blasting speakers, I dreamt of myself and my inner desires, and it was way beyond the bottle's spirit or the music's erotic beat; it was greater than myself, greater than anything else that happened that night, it's love, the genuine thing from somebody who's real, full, and strong, whoever, wherever, but now. That feeling of wanting and being wanted, that in every thing I do, it leads me to a greater feat, of creating greatness in another's heart. That bottle led me back on solid ground; it made me fight for my truth, the bare-all reality of my battles alone. Barry had his way when he asked for a drinking spree, but I aced him in everything else.

Editing Overload

One day at a time when sleeplessness deprives me of a clear and functional brain, I escape from the lines of scribbles found in an unknown author's manuscript. I travel to dreamlike places and shake hands with iridescent people, mostly inscribing an illusory reminiscence of the past, and make peace with brooding and unpretentious fears of the future. The following words were laid down, acclaiming real tidbits of imagination as they find their way to reality.

Seaside Revolt (Inspired by the memories in Baybay Alliance waters)


In that starlit night
Where thoughts fall
as rapidly as sand
washed to shore
by mighty waves
Torrent of desires
Held captive by needs
Leaves me abandoned
In a memory
of drifters, clingers,
idolaters
Thrust in a vacuum
where undercurrents
exist in a time warp
Lost in the vicissitudes
of stones, sand, weeds
I caress my mind, my feet,
My luminous soul
Braving the dark
Facing the wind
Salty air on lips
Untarnished remains
of yesteryears
stumble in reverie
alone, unashamed, free.

Tessa Jazmines: A Recall of the Persona

I met her during the junior years of my Diliman days. One look at her, I knew that we would hit it off together. Who can doubt her sincere and smart-aleck attitude, one who could snap at a stubborn guard "Kaya kayo binabaril eh!" once when we weren't allowed to attend Mass in Greenhills for lack of IDs, but still she could manage to warrant respect from her colleagues and students.

Ms. Tessa had been the greatest influence during those crucial years of my college life. For a person who loves variety, it only took one class session from her for me to decide having my on-the-job training in her public relations firm. And I was never wrong in my gut feeling. During those drab days of lull when client calls are hard to come by, and we wait for our crafts to be published for days, she always has ways to perk up every member of the team. She would ask for large orders of canton and whatnot, just to keep us from leaving the office. She's not the intellectual snob who would throw you a barrage of theories instead of lend you a book.

In fact, it never came to my mind that she was then the associate professor of the UP College of Mass Communication Journalism department. She never acted like one; though I still remember how generous she was of her experiences and ideas that I thought she was too trusting, especially for a business enterprise where ideas are the most prized asset. Can you just imagine how one day I got my copy of the Diliman newsletter and found out that she's already the vice president for academic affairs. Then I realized, despite all her media and corporate contacts and engagements, first and foremost she is an academic; and that's what makes her firm grounded on value formation the academic environment provides.

I got to read her works just this afternoon while taking a break from a back-breaking job of correcting misplaced commas and semicolons in my latest manuscript. Upon reading even just the first few of her articles gave me a clearer understanding of what public relations is all about. But what amazes me most is the variety of her topics; from one sector to another, she appears to be keen in research and gathering accurate information from the right sources.

A friend of mine said our dean, Luis V. Teodoro, doesn't consider PR as journalism. I was a bit overtaken by disappointment in my lifelong dream of having my own PR firm because of that; but when I read Ms. Tessa's works, I got to see a lot of chances for PR to redeem its name of being inclined to business or corporate interests rather than performing its function of bridging the gap of one social sector to another through communication channels. PR is not stright news journalism or not even the investigative PCIJ-type of reportage, but it is even more difficult. It functions as a buffer zone among usually warring entities, like media and a private company asking for government support for its projects.

Indeed, it's still a long way to go before public relations would be totally understod by laymen. But until then for as long as we have people like Ms. Tessa Jazmines, then we wouldn't have to doubt if we can make use of PR to achieve our patriotic goals for the country.