post-lightning

I remember so distinctly how people found it so remarkable that Io, was a “deep” person, that I was able to converse about “big” things (as opposed to small talk). Why am I remembering this now? It’s because of Facebook; or what I see in my timeline all day.

Perhaps even more than updates on what people are doing, eating, watching… people are posting “wisdom” quotes; things that are, to me, worth consideration and conversation. 

However, the way they are shared is so matter-of-fact, as if the truths are self-evident; and maybe self-congratulatory.

Is this a case of “shallow people becoming deep” with age and experience?

No, not at all. I seriously doubt this.

What I think is that people never talk about these things with real people. They never would say to another person over drinks or coffee, 

“Integrity is not something you show others. It is how you talk and act behind their back.” My non-negotiable and should be yours too!

(just a quick peek at my timeline as of this writing)

People don’t have casual conversations like that. But what’s happening is that there is mass, casual, sermonizing on Facebook. Conversations about these things, in my experience, are messy. They invite sharing of particulars; they invite challenging of one’s own life. I find that conversations like this are incredibly vitalizing and wonderful, but I don’t believe that most people, have had a lifetime of engaging in these conversations.

Since they don’t know how to initiate these things with friends, or even more exciting, new acquaintances (what a great way to get to know people), their only recourse is to post these platitudes on Facebook, unreflected-upon; un-considered; undiscussed. 

I may or may not be a “deep” person; but I do enjoy having personal, penetrating, and real conversations with people. My thinking is that this is why I, and many people who I know that have such conversations with people, don’t post such “wisdom” quotes on our Facebook walls. 

I’m lazy. I can spend all day

Laid out on my bed, in front of screens.

But here’s this: I’ve never called in sick

At work, for over four years.

I put in the time, and I put in the work.

Maybe because I know I’m lazy, and I’m ashamed.

I don’t want to be lazy. And the way things add up in my life, I’m a pretty laborious man.

Today I’m sick; my throat is clogged by wrestling boas refereed by a chimp.

My voice is sandpaper over ice.

I file for sick leave today, resolve to leave work by three. 

It’s half-past two and the meeting hasn’t started.

I’m too lazy to reschedule the work.

My streak is unbreakable.

Para Kay Karl Roy

Nakita ko si Dong Abay

nakapila sa kasilyas.

Kinawayan ko, kinamayan ko siya. Sabi ko

Binili ko cassette n’yo nu’ng ‘95

Sabi niya, bininili mo na ba yu’ng bago?

Hindi pa.

Nice to meet you.

Hindi ko na sinabi, na  hindi ako bumibili ng musika, kahit kanino, kahit hindi Pilipino.

Baka magalit pa siya, hindi naman siya ang dinayo ko dito.

Hindi naman sa hindi ako nakikinig ng musika, gumawa kaya ako ng blog post para sa Rakenrol, pelikula ni Quark Henares.

Pero isa rin ako sa mga nakikinabang sa mga pirata.

Sige na, pwede na akong sisihin ni Dong, kung bakit mayaman lang siya sa kaibigan at hindi sa salapi,

at kung bakit naghahanap pa rin siya ng kabuhayan bagama’t punong puno pa ng musika ang kanyang kaluluwa at ang ating mga tenga.

Gusto ko lang siya batiin, kasi magaling siya, at ayaw kong palampasin ulit ang mga ganitong saglit,

Parang nung naging abogado ni Karl Roy yung asawa ko. Nagkita sila, pero hindi ako sumama dahil ako’y naging isang tsope. 

Sinagot ko na ang mga kumandidato sa pagkapangulo ng Pilipinas, kinamayan ko pa yung isa, nanalo pa nga bagamat may kontrobersiya.

Pero si Karl Roy, hindi ko kinaya. Karl ngayon, wala ka na!

Pwes, si Dong Abay, kakayanin ko. Hindi man ako santong kabayo, hindi na ako bumibili ng mga kanta mo, pero natatawa ako, punung puno kasi ako ng Pulang Kabayo.

Hindi mo ito kinanta ngayong gabi, pwera hee hee hee hee

E ano naman ngayon kung ako’y may depekto? Wala kang royalties, ‘yan ang epekto.

Walang buwan, walang bituin, basa ng ulan ang aspalto ng Katipunan, nasa baba ang ilaw na aking pinagmamasdan pauwi; pero

ano pa man ang sabihin ko,

Salamat Dong Abay, ang gabing ito ay perpekto.

In an old house, facing a pool table where I sit,

Amidst seldom-used treadmill, and unplayable board games with missing pieces

Are picture frames of a family.

Four large frames, each a decade of fading photographs.

I wanted to read a love story, but I couldn’t.

There were too many characters;

Too many children, and then grandchildren.

As the couple aged and grayed, the photographs became more colorful, busier, and harder to take in.

What my mind struggled to reduce to something easy, something I could simplify to a single sugary taste

Would not let itself.

It was a story of building something big, and it was my mind that found itself wronging my own desires.

I never loved to just love;

That is to merely feel strongly, about being fulfilled by someone and fulfilling in turn.

I acknowledge what is within my genes, that is to build a family just like this,

Then to age within moments in the presence of guests in a hall marveling at our likenesses—

Amidst younger and younger pieces of me, surrounding me in the photographs,

Filling the future with me

In brighter colored testimonies

Even as I wither and gray like thunderheads holding within

The lightning I am now.

Here I am again, so retarded for this keyboard. I will type until you pry this machine away from my cold, dead hands. Sure you say Macs are shit, but nobody makes keyboards that are just sex. Nobody. Sure you can buy some expensive, huge-ass keyboard for either some hacker or gamer hipster shit. But it won’t be as conveniently connected to the laptop you’re using as this. I think you can buy a usb keyboard that will work with your iPad. I think James uses one. God I am so envious now. Motherfucker I want one. I want one god dammit. Let’s shut up now, just type motherfucker type. My name is Michael and I am an addict. The fuck do you care. You shouldn’t give a shit. I’m just typing. Typing never harmed any motherfucker. So what if I type. Oh god, oh god. It’s coming. You know what’s coming. It’s coming. You know what it is. FUCK. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy fucking dog who won’t fucking stop barking, won’t stop yelping, won’t stop typing how this motherfucking fox keeps jumps over his typing ass. Won’t leave him alone. Dog just wants to type. Lazy ass dog with a fucking Mac. Fuck.

I went to the city where you were not

But not because there were more important things

Here where I see thousands of faces

Every day

Thousands of faces

None of them

Your face that I start drawing on my

Apartment walls.

Each wall an indeterminable color

Under the incandescent light,

I try giving each one a name:

Fredo facing the bed, that guy who’d give

Me cigarettes while I waited outside your school.

I think he liked watching my longing face.

I don’t know what he longed for himself,

But I shared with him my mints.

Anselmo facing the door, remember him?

Never mind, I didn’t know him very well.

But he lent me money that day you craved for a sundae,

I don’t think I ever paid him back.

I drew your face on his wall, with your chin on your hand

Like a dead senator on a banknote

That will buy us twenty sundaes.

The wall by the door won’t have a name

But I will draw your likeness on it

When you arrive tomorrow night

To blow my solitude away like so much smoke.

I’d fill this small room with so much talk

And you would fill it with so much song

And what we won’t need are clothes

And neither brush nor pen

Because your sweat on that wall is better than ink.

The business day ends and never have I exchanged so little

With so many people.

The dusk brings its relief from the humid air and I catch

My reflection in the shop window; a smile? 

Sisyphus never had it so good. But like shirtless Sisyphus

I feel like mirth is a poor fit, like a jacket’s sleeves 

Bunching tightly up my armpits.

I take my own picture using my mobile phone, and my face

Now wears something appropriately dull —

Eyelids open, but the eyes as closed as my lips;

Such things that now make up what is satisfying

So deep in December.

Protect my dreams, grind the great evil

Beneath your heels of iron.

WE CAN BE HEROIC,

TOGETHER…

How can we fail?

Our souls are joined by courage;

Invincible chains of brotherhood

Bonded by the blood of fallen heroes,

Forged by the fires of strife

Lit by the evil of our foes.  

LET US BREAK THEM: One by one,

Despite their number multiplying those of the stars themselves

THEY ARE NOTHINGS In the face of our love

For freedom and all it stands for.

Are you ready?

We can do it!

GHOST LIGHTNING DIVIDER!!!

In the heavens: a shining cloud of the spirits of slain heroes

Cracks a thunderbolt of truth upon the breast of evil

Where at once you strike a kick of justice

Erasing every sub-atomic particle 

Releasing the energy back into the universe.

Oh great defender, lead us past the shadows of planets

To our place among the distant stars.

The empty restaurant attracts nothing but flies,

Is what I tell myself after parking on a table

Nursing a glass of tea

For eternity.

In exchange for making the cafe seem busy

I use their ‘free’ wi-fi.

I take credit for that guy buying all that food.

I give this joint ‘free’ marketing.

Fair trade?

Maybe not;

Just a little dance

Between two wallflowers of the economy.

I take comfort in the time that keeps me away

From you, while I use words like ‘conversation’ liberally

To describe what happens between us.

I prefer leaving messages in text that

You don’t have to respond to immediately;

As if I want you to savor uncorking the bottle

To find note within.

But before I get carried away talking prettily about

Internet message boards and chat services,

I need to confess;

I’m just happier not hearing the lot of you. I’m better off

Not seeing you talk to me.

It’s not because I despise how you sound, or fail

To appreciate the candor of your visage,

But  it’s how I’d rather do without the urgency of responding,

Where every declarative statement is a line with many hooks

Prying my mouth open.

The words that issue from it aren’t really that much better

Than how they sound.