Canned Thoughts

BIte Therapy

Sa bawat kagat, ako ay gumagaling,

Sa bawat kurot at sundot ako ay nahuhulog,

Sa pag dampi ng ngipin sa balat kong balbon,

Nadarama ko ang pag-ibig na nais bumaon.

Bumaon at di malilimutan,

Sapagkat sa kakaibang parkiramdam mong tangan,

Pagdikit ng iyong panigl sa aking katauhan.

Hindi to tungkol sa pagiging masokista,

Kundi sa maliliit na bagay na ating ginagawa, na may kahulugan kahit kala ay wala.

Hinagis ang bato sa kalangitan, at walang ibang magagawa, kundi ang mahulog...sa bawat kagat, sundot...at kurot.

Sa kwarto kong labing-isang dangkal ang haba

Lima ang Bintana

Dilaw ang Dingding

Kulay puti naman ang ceiling

Bintilador, TV, at cabinet

Na sa loob ay puno ng damit and gamit

Playstation na Pang Aliw

Speakers para sa tenga kong baliw

Manipis sa mattress, aking higaan

Masasayang panaginip, aking inaabangan

Malambot kong unan, sa may ulonan

Sumasalo sa mga problema kong tangan

Sa aking Munting mundo

Sa aking munting kwarto

Ako ay walang kaba

Kung saan ako ay nag-iisa

Basahan

Nais kong hugasan ang

narumihang basahan,

Na puno ng sugat at dumi,

pait at pighati.

Gusto kong muling pumuti

ang tela na ngayon

ay puno ng bahid ng galit,

poot, at lungkot.

Gusto kong makalimot.

Gusto kong magpatawad.

Patawarin at kalimutan,

Sanhi ng maruming basahan.

Thank You

Sa aking Mga Lola, Mga Nanay nang magulang ko, Salamat.
Kayo na ang trato sa apo na parang galing sa sinapupunan nyo,
Isa kayo sa dahilan na narating ko ang narating ko, at ako ay naging ako.
Repleksyon ng puso ninyong maamo.

Madalas, tila akoy walang pakialam, at di nagpaparamdam,
Pero kayo ay nasa aking puso at isipan.

Salamat Lola...

Naghihintay lang.

Think about this one...everybody is waiting for something, all our lives we are waiting. I am.

A walk in the village on a Monday afternoon…after the rain.

The owl that I am requires me to work at nights and sleep in the daytime. I get weekends off so it is twice as hard to go to work on Monday evenings since your circadian rhythm resets itself on the weekends. It was a rainy Monday afternoon, and all I could think about was how I can go back to sleep, I have been up since 8 in the morning and my shift starts at 10 in the evening. So I grab an Isaac Asimov collection of short stories, put on my MUVO then made an attempt to fall asleep, which I succeeded in doing…for an hour.

Things were still blurry when I awoke, by instinct I grabbed my mobile phone to check on messages. I received a text message from a friend that when I was about to press the send button to reply I heard that distinct beep that lets you know that you are out of luck and out of credits. Good thing the rain had stop so I could go to the nearest store and get my autoload. It was around 4 in the afternoon and the ground was still wet, but the sun was still shining. Small insects were up and about and there were like pollen thingys in the air, like what you would see on a field on sunflowers. Our village had lots of vacant lots and plants, thus giving the effect of a fairy tale picture. I suddenly remembered a scene from an old Tom Cruise movie Legend, were he was running through the forest -- but I was no Tom Cruise. I was in a dream like state and it made me feel warm and happy, like when I was 5 years old on a Christmas morning.

So finally I got my autoload, replied to my friend’s message and made my way home. The sun went down and I knew that the dream state I was in is over, daytime was over and BAM!!! Back to reality, back to work…Monday evenings, yey!

 

Ode to my shorts.

Do you own an article of clothing that is more than…let’s say 7 years? I could be a pair of jeans, shorts, or a shirt that you just wear at home? You do this even though they are ripped, tattered and has seen better days. Why do we do this? Why ware stuff that is past their prime?

I was going through some old cloths in my cabinet so that I could make room, I gave some away while others I choose to keep. Then I noticed my good old first year high school PE shorts. Its a green, short shorts (the one that PBA players wore back in the late 70’s) ripped from the crotch to the back. It still has the name of our school stitched to it (MCS, that’s for Malate Catholic School). Aside from the history that goes with it, this particular shorts is one of the best “pam-bahay” shorts that I have. It’s comfy and its ventilation system is next to none. My Grandma thought that I was going to make it a foot rag or something but then I again it is still my shorts.

Now on its 14th year, my shorts has indeed seen better days, the garter is loose, the sides have holes, and the ripped crotch…lets just say that is more of a loin cloth than a pair of shorts. I have decided to do the unthinkable, the unimaginable…have it repaired, or should I say restored.

For those who think I’m crazy, in the words of the Bartman “Eat my shorts!”

A second of comfort

You accidentally walked into the ladies room.
But could not get out of the cubicle because
You hear women chatting outside,
And would think of you as a perv.

You’re in front of a sea of people
Screaming tour name, as they wait,
For you to sing the first line of your song…
That you totally forgot.

Walking on tightrope 10 stories up.
Spikes tipped with poison welcoming you at the bottom.
…your leg starts to cramp.

Stunned with the dilemma, we panic.
Every second is a long and excruciating minute.
You can’t hold your bladder and your 5 kilometers away
From the nearest bush — away from judging eyes.

Every muscle, every fiber of your being
Compels you, orders you, commands YOU
TO MOVE YOUR ASS!!!
Yet you maintain a statue stance.

It’s comfortable in that moment.
In that fracture of a second, we are safe.
Cause we know when we decide to move, there is a consequence.
Thus we choose to retreat to the nothingness of that moment.

But it could only last so long.

Slowly, like a locomotive train we act.
Chug! Our mind sparks. Chug Chug! Our muscles react!
Chug Chug Chug Chug! We execute!
We are being defined by our reflexes.

You graciously walked out of the cubicle.
Acting like a member of the 3rd sex,
The women smiled and even commended you.
You smile.

Singing like a drunkard at the peak of intoxication,
You utter nothing but gibberish nonsense.
The crowd cheers! Thinking it’s a new twist of an old song of yours.
You laugh.

Finally. Hanging from a tightrope 10 stories high,
You hold on for dear life, praying to all the saints in heaven.
Taking a deep breath, you muster your strength…
You scream!

At least your getting somewhere.