One of my favorite albums ever, Bamboo's sophomore offering! It speaks for itself. Plus, the art work that accompanies the music ain't bad!

Maiden song

Blood fell on the tip of her lips as she promised one day to get out of this place. Hitchhike a skyrocket ride, to a place where she can finally hide, all the dirty rain that doesn't slide off her skin.

All the craziness that come when the moon rides the night.
A pack of wolves baying sound sweet in the garden moonlight.
It's a frightening music when you can't sleep at night,
Monkey paws knocking at your door,
asking for a name that you can't recall.

So be careful what you wish for,
cause it might just come true.
It happened to me, it can happen to you.
Wings drawn to the tips of the sun,
blindfolded mother will one day burn,
all her sacrificed children,
sleeping in a crystal urn.

where's the man in the moon?

I don't understand why I don't keep a written journal. Since I don't get online all of the time. It would be very useful for me to keep some kind of a notebook wherein I can just write down thoughts as they unfold: the good, the bad and the ugly.

I don't know if I'm just lazy, or too afraid to discover how terrible I really am at this. I think it's a little bit of both. I never really feel that I am able to express myself adequately. Something always gets lost between the process of thinking & feeling, and writing down thoughts on paper.

It's like trying to hold a handful of water in the tightness of your palms. Once it reaches your mouth, whatever wetness that remains is never really enough to quench your thirst. Because so much of that precious liquid has slipped off through the slits of your fingers, simply from the act of your hands trying to arrive towards its destination.

This is as close as I'll ever come to describing what it feels like to constantly lose: words, feelings, thoughts, moments that make up a portion of your being. It's an act of love that never ends up in the possession of the receiver. It is always unclaimed.

I've always felt that I had a refuge in poetry. But lately, I can't make anything happen with words. It's frustrating at the end of the day to have this aching feeling of having missed an opportunity to have taken off, and landed on the moon.

It's just a thought that plagues you, maybe, for half a second. It's that elusive thought that suggests you have the ability to stop time, or maybe slow it down or increase its pace; even for just a millisecond. Nobody will notice. It doesn't matter. It's not a free invite for all. It's just a small window that opens up and takes you to that place where your dreams unfold in secret. Not to be remember when you wake up of course! But for that moment, or two, when you remember that feeling…. it makes you wonder!

poem on Nov. 24. 2005

days in between
where you don't know
where to put yourself.

past sleeping
but not yet,
quite awake

we are sifting
through this feeling.
of luck,
changing hands.

The anonymity of touch
through the canals
of the internet.

drowning faces
floating through the river.

The decapitated limbs
that float through your body.

still trying to find a home
despite the lack of rememberance
of ever being,

muscle recall.

we try to hang on to these old faces,
names scrawled on graffiti walls,
sunlight softly hitting the top
of an old building,
as it's about to go down,

later to be commemorated
on a missing persons' list.

phonetic love charged
through your telephone bills,
you try to scratch away,
with your small fingers.

untitled

lost
photographs

lost faces
that I'll

never meet
again.

sowhere somebody's
saying goodbye

doubt breaks

a
mirror separates
us from truth

as
mind discloses
a faint doubt

about
leaving some
things painfully unattended.

bamboo

I’m tired but happy. I woke up three hours after I went to bed last night, and spent all morning in bed, half awake but dreaming. Last night’s gig was great. Bamboo was on fire. I couldn’t believe how they kept up the intensity of their music all through out the show. The momentum just kept on building up, until it culminated in the end, when they played Alpha Beta Omega, as an added bonus during the encore. The highlight for me was when they played Hallelujah; that song brought the house down. Everybody had their fist up in the air, and was singing along to the song. It was kinda strange for me, because all the while I had to stay seated, (lol) because it was a cinema gig. We had reserved seats and everyone behaved. The crowd pretty much consisted of casual observers. I was seated in front of the balcony, next to a family which included a mom, a dad and a little boy, who was eating a can of Pringles, and there was a grandmother that was sitting next to me who was so stoked all through out the show. I mean she just went nuts when they played F.U. She kept on pumping her fists up into the air. It was so hilarious! I don’t know if she even knows the intended meaning of that song. It’s so great to see that Bamboo attracts different types of people into their crowd. I mean, that’s what music should be about; it should include everyone. It shouldn’t be like a box that you fill out in a registration form, that break people down into demographics. Anyway that was a blast. I’m feeling kinda sick now. I better lie down, I think I’m coming down with a fever.

i get by with a little help from mah friends


hmmmm...my last entry was written when i had the case of the mean reds...but i feel so much better now. i just got home from a bamboo gig...that was a beautiful experience, those guys are taking their music on another level.... maybe i'll write about it tomorrow. i still feel pretty stoked... and hoarsed from a lot of screaming :)

musing of a vogon who’s not in the holiday spirit

The holidays is just around the corner. I can feel it in the air, the December breeze is beginning to gust through my window. It feels nice, to get a break from the heat and the sun. It doesn’t feel much like the holidays this year, in fact, it hasn’t felt like it for a number of years now. I don’t know if my lack of enthusiasm for anything that contains fun and laughter, is one of the symptoms of growing up, and becoming a full fledge schizoid slash quietly disappearing member of society( couldn’t care less). I find that as I’m getting older that one of the things that start to go for me is my idea of happiness, the kind I felt during childhood. It’s that special tingle inside your stomach that tells you something good is about to happen. This feeling accompanied me mostly in the earlier part of my childhood. Then one day, it just died, it died…and I never felt it again. But back then, I would feel it very strongly, especially during this time of year, when the force was strongly with me, the reason? because I always knew I would get tons, and tons of presents.

Yah, I was happy about receiving presents. This is a highlight of any child’s life: the acquisition of new things that would accompany them during the interesting, sometimes scary, journey of childhood. Don’t we all know people who are old enough to be our parents, but still take their old scraggly, teddy bears to bed? By old, scraggly teddy bears, I do mean old scraggly teddy bears. This is not a euphemism for, a well: an old scraggly teady bear. luff luff.
Plus, the blanket of hope that accompanies the holiday season I used to feel very thickly during this time of year, especially when it's cold outside, and you see a milion twinkling stars dancing outside of your window, but as you get older, that hope turns into disillusionment.

You always hear in the news that the suicide rate during the holidays escalate to beyond norm level. Now, this makes perfect sense to me. The holidays is traditionally the time of year when people’s loneliness and desperation is put under a microscope, and magnified a million times to the tune of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer….As if to mock us, with his very shiny nose.

It is sad but true, but not everyone has got some close people in their lives that they could come home to, or share this special festive time with. Heckadoodle! many, many people, don’t even have a place to call home, especially here in the Philippines, where below poverty line is the standard fashion of living.

For the longest time I’ve been trying to figure out why this old, semi- demolished building that sits just at the corner of my place was taking forever to get renovated. Every time I’d look up, I’d see workers, standing on top of ledges, smoking or just talking. I mean, the front side of the building was completely stripped of walls, you could see everything that was happening inside. It would not be very hard to take a wrong step and fall to your death. I would always imagine that they were on their lunch break, just sitting around, talking about their kids and family. Then it hit me one day, and I realized with a shock, that this building was not getting a facelift. Those workers that I’d see up there were not construction builders doing some scaffolding work. They were in fact inhabitants of this old, abandoned, condemned building.

Derelicts all gathered in one place, seeking shelter. No wonder there was a clothes line attached to one side, filled with multi-colored shirts that flap about when the wind blows: like a bright crooked rainbow, hanging upside down. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but I guess it’s easier to keep your eyes close, than to see the painful truth.

I don’t know. I think most of us get on with our lives because we are on cruise control. Whether you are aware of it or not, is another matter. I know I am. These days I find that it’s easier for me to cope when my days are filled with numerous laborious tasks that will keep me occupied. That is why I haven’t had much time to update my blog. At one hand I’m very grateful for this distraction. There are certain moments when I get the urge to write, but choose not to, because I know that the stuff that would end up on paper would be too painful for me to deal with.

On the other hand, I know that this is such a lost, because I'm losing a lot of writing material, because I'm choosing to shut off, everything that I'm feeling. But I kinda need to do this at this time.

There's this certain sadness that always remain inside, despite your desperate attempts to be happy, or shrug your blues off with a smile, or a round of fake laughter. I can always detect when I’m doing this. It hurts, but I still think it’s funny, because I’m so good at it that I even get compliments for it, from people who know me well.

Sometimes it’s easier to keep things inside, that have it come out in the open, and have to do a head to head battle with your invisible demons. It’s like having to kill a million flies with a single fly squat. not fun at all. impossible. maybe, i don't know, but I'm in a weird mood

BAD DAY

I feel dismayed by the events of the day, I'm depressed. I hate this feeling, like everything is wrong, and will always be wrong forever. I'm gonna read some poetry, that's gonna make me feel better. Times like these, I need a strong dose of Whitman....

It's been ages since I've sent anything out. I feel so out of touch with the literacy scene, because i've been preoccupied with the stuff I've got going in my life, plus I haven't had the urge to write. To put it more clearly, I have writer's block. boo.

It feels good, it feels good to write....here on my blog. A chunk of infinite white space that belongs entirely to me, to be filled with my thoughts, craziness, hidden SOS messages (that i routinely write to myself), and of course my unspoken prayers.

Our words are all riddled with unspoken prayers, how ever random it may seem, sometimes we just say things out of the blue that reveal the true meaning of our hearts, like a letter written in acrostics adressed to God.

Anyway, let us move on. i'm not through ranting. This is another invisible feature of the blog, that I find irresistibly appealing. The ranting feature: just push a button and talk and talk until the cows come home. Nobody complains, nobody gives you those ugly looks that spell: dejavu badtrip...here we go again.

I hate bad days that linger. I pity people like myself who worry about every little thing that they've done wrong. This is why I avoid people sometimes, I'm bothered by the proximity of contact. I try to imagine what it would be like to live in an island all by myself. I don't think I will survive, I'd get too lonely and start befriending the coconuts who have fallen off the coconut trees. Problem is coconuts don't talk back....I"ve never met a single friendly coconut who has communicated with me. Try as I might, to get them to talk, and crack their secret, hidden, coconut language... I've even tried to tingle their shiny, green wooden head. it's no use, I'm alone in my deserted island.

EMO KID

I’m so tired. It’s so hot here in the Philippines. It’s not fair, we’ve hit the –ber month, the weather should start cooling off by now. I think the heat is causing me to have terrible mood swings. I’ve been so swamped with my other writings that I have not had time to write on my blog. I can’t wait till Friday, when I get to go to bamboo’s cinema gig. I’ve never attended a concert inside a cinema before, that should be cool... I’m excited.
Come to think of it, I’ve been so busy of late that I haven‘t had time to immerse myself into music. Weird that there was a time in my life that I survived by listening to
counting crow’s August & everything After. This is why this album will always be special to me for that reason. Besides, it's a great album. I love Adam Duritz’ poeticism. I think Adam Duritz was one of the people who taught me how to write. Way back in the beginning when I decided I wanted to become a poet. *laugh laugh*

Nobody really decides to become a poet, but there's always a defining moment when it happens. I don't know how to explain this. It happens inside. You claim certain truths, even if no one chooses to believe you, you stand by your word.You bet your blood, you bet your skin and bones, because the soul doesn't lie. The soul dictates your truth.

in this silence
i try to create
the sensation of being
found.

from nothing/
digresses

a plan
free from explosions

an open window
that does not
reveal the sky

Insomniac's trip

It is officially morning, the sun has risen. I still have not gotten a wink of sleep. I’m tired and dazed. I am in that state where I am about to float into oblivion. I like it. It’s sick. But I can’t help it. I embrace what i cannot change. & make excuses for my failures with a smile. I think my stomach is getting hungry, but I’m too lazy to eat. So I think I’ll just wait it out until I wake up, if i get any sleep at all.

I love sleeping. I have every reason. It’s the only part of the day my brain’s not on overdrive. I think I also talk in my sleep. I know I talk to myself all the time. It’s one of my strange habits that bequests me with those funny looks.

So I went to the mall last night. We were there until one by one the stores started closing. Funny so much of life revolves around the notion of time. At precisely 8:30 p.m. some of the fast food places started offering discounts. At approximately 8:45 p.m. most of the lights were dimmed. At 8:55 p.m. all of the metal gates were pulled down, and we were still in one of the stores.

I felt sad for the puppies who were still trapped in their cages. 9:00 p.m. marks the time when everyone gets to go home. But the puppies and other small animals that were in the pet store will remain in their cages.

i hate that i don't have enough time to write on my blog, anymore. It feels like I have abandoned something. It is terrible when you leave something behind, or you get left behind. I originally intended for my blog to be a place where I can take refuge, when I can't stand everything that is happening to me in the outside world.


But I don't even have enough time to get in here, and reflect on some of the things that are happening to me. Oh yeah, I bought a new pair of shoes today! yehey! That sound so girly, I hate myself. I know that absolutely nobody gives a darn about my shoes, but I just felt the need to share. Anyway, I gotta go now and write some more stuff.. byebye blog world.

these
words
are not mine

they
are echoes
that you've dropped.

like
the sun
caught in between

branches
of evening.
It lacks continuity

poem

not

a poem

but a cry

for

help disguised

as a poem

I
enter without
shape: opening doors

with
a suggestion
of a smile

translucent:
Yes words
my favorite disguise

art
for Art's
sake: toilet bowl

© em franco

another hurricane is brewing
inside the lips of the ocean

hope there's not too much destruction this time
I heard a bus has exploded on the way out
I guess it's impossible to out run death

If it's your time,
it's your time.

and what about all those people
who are trying to make it to safety,
will they have enough time
to make it out alive?

If this ocean will stay hushed
just a little bit longer,

Maybe,
we could get those kids outta
harms way.

but we will see who wins this round
Mother or mother nature's son.

I fear the words that are gonna
come out of your lips.

Before you say anything
I ask for your forgiveness,
oh please momma....


© em franco

meditation:
waiting for-
phone to ring

sunset
plunges inside;
sea on fire

pipeline:
us crashing
into the waves

conflagration
Beginning of
hunger: of pyromaniac

leafing
through yellowpages
you’re not here

fish thoughts

scattered musing from a tiny fish underwater


I'm falling in love with this font, trebuchet you are called. I noticed that everyone was using you so I tried to stay away. But now maybe we can start hanging out together. I like the way you carry my words, you make my thoughts appear cooler. I haven't really written anything in a long time, I've been too busy drowning in the sooty pond of real life that it feels like I have abandoned my blog.

I don't really have anything special I want to say, but it feels good to write. I like the rhythm of my fingers punching into the keyboards. I like the silence that comes whe you're alone with your thoughts, every noise that you hear in the background just sorta disappears. This is my alone time. The irony of it is that this place where I'm depositing these thoughts, deposting my impressions of life, essentially depositing myself is not at all private. I am not alone here, although not many people read my blog, if any at all, I think I get a few ghost hits.

I am thinking of that poem by Emily Dickenson, who I always mistake for Charles Dickens, because their last names sound alike. I've never really been a fan of Emily, ( it feels strange to address someone you hardly know by their first name, it feels like your tresspassing upon their personal space.) To me her poems have always felt contrived, restricted; they conjure up the image in my head of poems that are tucked neatly inside a corset and cannot breath. Reading her poetry feels arduous, like climbing a mountain; but sometimes, often times..the sweetest things in life are those things that you've had to fight, claw, punch, struggle, almost die for.

There is this one poem of hers that goes: "This is my letter to the world that never wrote back... " This is the one poem of hers that I'm tempted to finish, (kinda like writing through howl, which I probably would never attempt to do, but never say never). I'm sure we all have our very own versions of our letters to the world that never wrote back. I would love to see what yours would look like :)

But who would you address it to? It would probably just end up in a dead letter station. I don't know which one depresses me more; feeling the necessity to write a letter to the world that never wrote back, or sending a letter with no clear destination that it ends up stranded in a dead letter station.... at this point it's a toss up that I think I'm gonna choose not to decide on this one. I think it would be best if I leave my letter unfinished. yes, that's it.

FRAGMENTARY SLEEP..and last night at a party.

( something I wrote last week but forgot to post hihihihi. an entry from the diary of my scattered brain)

I‘m very, very, tired. I have flying saucer eyes. I don’t sleep like normal people sleep. I have bouts of fragmentary sleep, which is sleep that last only a few hours followed by, a succession of hours of long contemplation about the meaning of life in stark darkness. Maybe that would explain why my body is tired.

Last night I went to a party at my Uncle’s place. We arrived very early so we had plenty of time to kill before the festivities started. Who better to kill the time than Ricky Martin, right? Whose hip-shaking extravaganza is enough to make your grandmother fumble for the remote…………..to turn the volume up. I swear I had to suppressed about a million giggles…… It gave me a small stomachache.

But have no fear because after about 30 minutes of Ricky Martin live is Europa vcd…It was turned off to make way for a more, ehem… special treat…… drum rolls pls. à Paul Anka’s greatest lifetime hits!!! Now, if you’ve never heard of Paul Anka, this is the one for you. Because, it covers all of his wonderful hits starting from the year 1950’s onwards. Seriously, you have to give the guy credit, he created some of pop music’s most treasure possession, such as puppy love, Diana, young at heart and of course… my way, which he originally wrote but gave to Frank Sinatra.

But we’ll get to that later.

So after what seemed like an eternity, but I’m sure it couldn’t have been more than an hour, we were summoned to the dining hall. To meet, alas!!! My long lost relatives from a distant land. Wow! They were so nice…. nice…nice….nice…..I think that was the first time I've ever met them. Maybe I've met them before when I was really young and still in diapers, I don't really remember.


So off to the dining room we go ---

The food was to die for, oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!
The fruit salad was divine. The barbecue mouth watering. The pancit palabok was so good, I wanted to cry (hehehe).The releno bangus, (I’m sorry sumptuous fish, I didn’t get to taste you, but I was so full, maybe next time we will meet again), I was told was the star of the evening. Then there was the lumpiang shang-hai, that made me forget my name. The brown friend rice that tasted so perfect in my mouth, yum-yum. Then there was the kare-kare, that sadly, for me will forever remain a mystery, cause at this point I’ve reach my threshold for victuals consumption. So my happy story about the culinary delights I came upon that evening must end here.



KARAOKE TIME….. (did I just say that aloud?) oh yes I did, make no mistakes about it...we're gonna smoke them out of their holes.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve dreaded this moment. I’ve relived it in my nightmare, many times. Beads of sweat running down your forehead, as you try to surreptitiously get away, but alas! somebody catches you in action, and pins you down of the sofa, while handing you the dreaded set of microphone, as the first few notes of I will surve bursts into the air signaling the start of a humiliation that will result in a lifetime trauma.

Lucky it didn’t happen that night. But it almost did. How I got away it?
I can only attribute to a miracle.

So after hours and hours of karaoke…including one of my uncles performing a standing ovation rendition of my way…he scored a 98!!!! I dunno if anybody has ever scored a hundred! We very discreetly snuck out of the door, full blast of karaoke singing still happenin’ in the background….. Us kids (lol) decided to opt for the more quiet comfort of the patio, with one of my cousins playing the guitar, alt/rock hits were the order of the evening. There was a lot of talk about music that evening..lots of radiohead..smashing pumpkins..blur... pinkfloyd….radioactive sago…and of course bamboo… and with that we passed the evening up to the werewolf hours of the night…. lots of music…lots of laughter…lots of good food…
Not a bad way to spend the night eh??????

A n x I e t y

c o n v i n c e d i a m w e a r i n g a f i s h b o w l. i l e t m y s e l f s w i m i n t h e s t r e e t t h i s s u r f a c e o f w a t e r m a k e s m e g a s p f o r t emp o r a r y bubbles of air i gurgle as i flail my arms in swift motions. no body sees this st rug g le to e s a p e s o m e t h i n k i a m d a n c i n g t o t h e r h y t h m of the j u n gl e drums oozing out of the of the local barber shop. others assume i am rushing home to f e e d the fi s h e s. i am happy assuming this pose, assiduity of e v e r y d a y l i f e, assiduity of everyday moti ons in a f e w m i n u t e s none of this would m a t t e r, cause i will be at home with a h e a d a c h e forge t t i n g any of this. ever h a p p e n e d

my rant about rene magritte

I've just recently discovered the paintings of rene magritte and decided that he's my favorite painter, evah, evah. A post previously held by Vincent van Gogh, not that I know that much about painting, but at least I know what I like. I wish I could post some of his stuff here, but I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do that....

Anyway, there's this one painting of his called, song of love, it's unbelievable, I can't tell you what it does to me. I am in awe of people who can express with evident proof ,through their craft, what I can only murmur as the secret desire of my heart. That's why art is so important to me, it allows me to feel. It gives me wings, so I can fly out of this place, I’ve adoringly nicknamed invisible cage.

To me this is freedom, the ability to pave yourself out of a brig without physically leaving that place. Amazing what our minds can do if our hearts will only follow.

Once I tried to convince myself that I was in my secret cave communing with my secret panda….but it didn’t really work. To find out what went wrong with that botched apparation go to my previous posts.

Now back to what I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, again.

Well it’s just that sometimes I get to tired with the toilsdisappointementsheavinessfugliness of everyday life, that I forget the simple act being... you know, just being. & sometimes I look at an incredible piece of work of art, (in this case rene magritte) & I remember.... You know that feeling when you're a child and your whole life is ahead of you, and wherever your eyes go, you discover a new sense of wonder & your palms are like the ocean, vast and enormous, engulf with the fecundity of the possibility.

That last line sounds positively obscene, possibility and fecundity should never be used in the same sentence together. It just sounds too fugly. phew..

Anyway, there’s this another artist whose photographs I love but he’s work is kinda controversial, so maybe I should leave him out of this.


mushr out

welcome to my beautiful garden

I‘m very, very, tired. I have flying saucer eyes. I don’t sleep like normal people sleep. I have bouts of fragmentary sleep, which is sleep that last only a few hours followed by, a succession of hours of long contemplation about the meaning of life in stark darkness. Maybe this would explain why my body is tired.

Sometimes when I’m sad my thoughts get too ugly. This is the time writing comes in handy. I just punch in my thoughts into my keyboards and watch them transform into something other than the emptiness that sits in the pit of my stomach, like a cocoon turning into a butterfly, amazing how sadness flies from us when it has run its course.

To some people this turn is so easy, they can do it in their sleep. But to others like me, who’s always scrounging for some deeper meaning out of life, sadness tends to dwell deeper. It has been with me for so long, that I’m thinking I should start charging for rent. I don’t know why this feeling remains. Maybe it’s because I haven’t found what I’m looking for. I have not come to a place where things stop swaying, a place where the chicken took up residence when he crossed the other side, a place where mother nature rules the universe, a place where Leonard Cohen songs are put to rest, and the sound of the sweetest laughter is played year round.

I don’t know if such a place exists, but what I know is it’s not really here, not now, not anytime soon, ( & what i know is i’m not really taking about a place it’s just a euphemism for this unknown entity). But maybe someday when things are different, when I’m not so cynical. " like a cat tied to a stick that’s driven into frozen winter’s sh*t , (the ability to laugh at weaknesses)".

I will find it.

Maybe I should enjoy this moment where I’m still me, the ugly me who refuses to go down without a fight, although you wouldn’t really be able to tell by just looking. I’m utilizing the passive–aggressive mode of resistance.

I’m silently protesting against my rage. My rage stemming from my inability to execute change. I’m empowering myself by accepting defeat with a smile, a giggle, and a tiny shriek that kinda sounds like a cough, but I’ll try to pass as a laugh. Anyway, when I get my one way ticket to Atlantis, I’ll write you a postcard.

mushr out

Ok computer is the soundtrack to my life

It’s amazing how some songs etch a deeper meaning inside your skin as you get older. Their meaning become more evidently clear, less ironic, more truthful. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh, maybe I’ll just do both. Do you see this face I’m making in this mirror, a few years from now this will be you.

Thom Yorke is a genius, that’s all I got to say. Of course, the whole band is superfragalisticexpialidocious. But Thom, is the voice, and he’s the songwriter. His words are my most treasured possession. There is this one version of motion picture soundtrack, a bootleg version I think, the first ever, just him and a guitar. I swear that man's voice can bring furnitures to tears. The first time I ever heard this song, I totally lost it, even now it still gets to me when I listen to it and I’m having a bad day. Now I don’t know what happened to that song in the album. I don’t know whose brilliant idea was it to include the evil harps, and maybe Thom was really tired that day, cause when you listen to that song, he sounds slightly robotic…maybe that was intended.

Maybe Thom Yorke has always wanted to have a song that is beautifully sung in a robotic fashion. He’s a genius after all. He sang the lyrics to spinning plates backwards on Amnesiac,( that’s the equivalent of reciting the alphabet backwards). But of course they reverse his vocals on the final cut in the album; so he’d sound like he’s singing in English, and not Icelandic, like that dude in Sigur Ros, who plays his guitar with a bow violin style, only he doesn’t hold it up to his shoulder. It would be neat if he holds it up to his shoulder, I would be really impressed! But I guess a guitar is too heavy to hold up on your shoulder. This has gone on too long.

I love radiohead, I love radiohead, I love radio head.


mushr out

news..death..musings..and something with a sun

It was horrible watching the news the other day. The content was pretty much littered with death and outrage about the situation happening in New Orleans. We were tuned in to fox, and I swear for a second even Geraldo looked convincing. I don't know, maybe I was projecting my feelings of sympathy towards those people in the background, and Geraldo with his funny mustache just happened to be standing there in front. So I guess there was some transferance going on.

It is weird how we are glued to our teevee sets whenever something big happens, some catastrophe or human tragedy. It is as if you are watching a spectacle taking place right in front of you & you have front row seats, and you're almost afraid to step away for even a second cause you might miss some juicy detail.

I remember having the same feeling during the 9/11 planesuicidebombings. I was tuned in to CNN, when the second plane crashed into the second building and minutes after the pentagon was on fire. It was so strange how the newscasters stayed so calm. It was surreal, when the two buildings disintegrated into the ground, because at the back of your mind you were thinking that there were still people trapped in those buildings, but nobody was saying anything about it. It's so strange to me this feeling of shock and disbelief...cause what usually follows afterwards is numbness.

Which was what happened to me when I saw this movie...(the title escapes me at the moment..... i think it was a Brazilian movie, though I could be wrong…a semi-documentary. They used real life children to play the gang members. In one of the scenes, there was this young boy, no more than seven, who was instructed to shoot another boy, who was maybe around 4 years old. The problem was he had to choose whether to shoot the 4 year old boy’s hand or foot...) Anyway after the end of the movie, I couldn't react ... I didn't know how. It was a system failure, complete total sensory overload. I mean I couldn't put anything into perspective. I couldn't even tie my shoelaces.

I think it was because of the way they portrayed death and violence in the movie, so commonplace, so unnaturally blase, so real,( which is actually the way it really happens in that part of the world) that made me want to retreat back to the womb.

I found that movie to be so threatening to my personal sense of security, that I really didn't even want to think about it. I mean, for sure I know if I was ever casted in that film I'd be one of the first ones shot. I'd probably even volunteer to go first, just to get it over with. .......why for the life of me can't I remember the title.... it is something with a sun.....

I keep on thinking children of the sun...but that's not it, that's the last cut in bamboo's newest album. Anyway, if anyone knows the title of that movie, let me know okay? So I can stop obsessing about it.

sumasakit ang aking kaluluwa #3

blog song

i blog yooo, yooo blog me we're a happy family with my missing left big toe, larry curly and moe, who kinda looks like you all 3 combined... I blog yoo yoo blog me, we're a happy family with my missing big left toe and your face which kinda looks like

an overiped tomato....

this song is kinda like a kiss from me to you

won't you say you blog me too...

sumasakit ang aking kaluluwa #2

i'm in a cave communing with my secret animal the, panda.
what's a panda doing in a cave you wonder?.... i am wondering too. apir. i am closing my eyes and slowly letting the world slip back into the unknown, like a bunch of glaciers that have fallen back into the freezing ocean. i am in front of my computer screen, sitting in the lotus position, meditating to the sound of fingers punching letters into the keyboards. this is relaxing me....well, not really but i am trying, to hypnotize my brain into thinking that everything is spiffy. the panda is angry...i repeat...the panda is angry... the panda is brandishing its claws towards my face in a threatening motion.... the panda is jumping up and down and making a loud noise that sounds like a growl..... the panda... is now a bear...i repeat the panda has turned into a bear..panda...bear...bea..r...pa..n..d..a..
i mistook the bear for a panda..... i am now out of my secret cave....running out...of my secret cave.. my face is full of scratches....and my big left toe is kinda missing....

sumasakit ang aking kaluluwa.

i hate myself today for being imperfect. i hate my body for being weak. i hate my mind for not thinking things thru. i hate the bad decisions that i have made & i am sorry i cannot take them back.
i hate the mistakes the hurt us so much.i have taken back a small portion of my freedom by uttering these thoughts.
i hate the version of myself yesterday, today & tommorrow :(

who loves the sun...not everyone

why? i answer in haynaku formation

morning
always plagues
me with sorrow





"who loves the sun"- a brilliant song from one of my fave bands velvet underground....

Music is a 'place' where I acquire some of my most treasured wisdom. Where does music take place, really? It starts with the musicians and end with you, (the listener). I guess it's a u and me place, this realm we like to call music. It's strange how when you are listening to a song, it feels like that one song you are listening to, is being played especially for you, & you just swirl in it, like magic! I think there's no other thing in the world that has got that much power to move me.

Although, poetry is my passion in life! hehehe I have to laugh every time I say that. & Poetry is always gonna be that place where I go to find myself. I think music will always be my refuge, because when I can't write, I turn to music. It's the only thing in the world that has the ability to elevate my mood, other than the stuff I find in my medicine cabinet.

My current obsession: this pinoy band called bamboo. I loved their first album & I'm crazy about their second. It's always good to be surrounded with music that you can take along with you in your journey… Part of growth, part of moving forward, is leaving something behind. You can't get to your destination if you don't go on a journey, and step away from the place where you started.

That's part of the reason why I love bamboo's music... you don't have to leave it behind. It's always sad when you have to leave something behind. Friends, family, your childhood...etc. I have a special room in my closet dedicated to nostalgia, & It burns my heart every time I have to open it. It's cruel really, the memories we keep in our heart.

Just the same, I think we need it. We need to have a taste of everything to truly appreciate what life is, & to truly know ourselves, and to discover what we're capable of.... That's kind of a scary thought. But it's scarier to have lived a lifetime and not to have truly discovered what life was all about, simply because you were too afraid to take that step.... that one itsy-bitsy, baby step...that could've started everything.

And that's one of the things music teaches me, to listen and be open to thoughts, ideas, change..the future. But not to necessarily follow. Because I think we all have to follow our own destiny, but that doesn't mean that we can't have help along the way.

It's right there, if you need it... just waiting for you........ I'd start with As the music Plays....and move on over to Light, Peace, Love.

.

"one small step for man, a giant leap for mankind" quote from one very famous astronaut

I explain some things…
about blogging, letter writing, elvis, whitelight, & of course Voganism.


I love writing letters. It’s the only time I feel like I don’t have to be vogon. I don’t know why, maybe because it’s not intended for public viewing. That you give yourself permission to

present yourself as closely to the original as your thoughts will allow.

Not to say, that I don’t have a vogon side to me in real life; but I would like to think that this alien entity is just a part of me. A component of many parts that make up a whole. Not to suggests that I’m a Volkswagon, whose conception takes place in an assembly

line. But more like a humanoid that’s comprised of skin and bones, a spirit & a soul. And what you see, exhibited here is only what transpires on the surface. With nothing much to go on but pure space, the chances of contact is very unlikely.

But like the constellation of planets that make up the universe.

The probabality of one colliding into another is limitless.

After all it’s been said that the Universe is infinite and ever expanding. But the continuum of our thoughts in cyberspace, is it infinite also? After all, as long as my archives is online, the conceivability of a new blogger making contact with my thoughts is ever a possiblity. Which brings me to letter writing. The mere act of letter writing insinuate that there’s another ‘thingy’ on the receiving end. And as long as the recipient is not too busy, or is not mad at you. Or taken into account that you’re not writing to God or Santa Clause, or to Whom it may concern, or the ever infamous hip-shaking Elvis; the likelihood of you ‘making contact’ is more than a possibility. I’d say that it’s only a matter of time, before you get a one on one correspondence. Of couse, one must not under estimate the contingencies.

Maybe the said ‘thingy’ went on a vacation to the Noth Pole, and does not have access to the internet. Or maybe, he or she has caught an extraordinary rare strain of virus, and is now in the hospital. Experiencing a phenomenon which others call ‘White Light’. I have never seen this before. Therefore I am unable to attest to its brilliance or degree of luminosty. But I heard it’s really, really, bright.

So even in letter writing I suppose the possibility of rejection is aways…well a posibility. But nevertheless, that doesn’t take away from the joy that I experience once I am punching away those keys on my keyboard. It makes me feel the that anything is possible. After all, life is all about possibilities.

mga tanong na walang sagot

inspired ng post ni dee tungkol sa kanyang kaarawan na mala melodrama ang eksena.




mga tanong na walang kasagutan


Paano makahihiling kung walang cake na may mga kandilang,
may mga usok na nagtatangay ng ating mga kahilingan sa langit?

Paano ako magigising kung walang liwanang
na hahatak sa aking papalayo sa dilim?

Paano ka mabubuhay sa alaala kung ikaw ay may amnesia?

Paano kita masisilayan kung ang mga mata ko'y bulag na
sa katitingin sa buwan?

Paano ako masusundo ng spaceship kung ubos ang kaniyan gasolina?

Paano ko marirnig ang halakhak ng ligayang napawi na sa akin?

Paano ko makakain ang Big Mac kung kinain na siya ni small mac?

Paano ko tatapusin itong mga tanong kung marami pa sa aking
ibinubulong?

si little birdie....... pakainin....pakainin..pakainin ng corn si little birdie.... para siya ay mabilaukan....
(wala.....wala......wala...ng bumubulong bruhahahahahahahahahahahaha !!!!!!!!!!)







sarangola

Parang isang sarangola ang kahilingan,
na sinasayaw ng ihip ng hangin.
Ninanais makarating sa buwan,
Ngunit napapadpad kung kahit saan.
Nung minulat ko ang aking mga mata,
hawak, hawak, ko pa rin pala.
Ang patid na tali ng sarangola
na minsa'y aking dinala.
Nasaan na kaya nakarating,
ang sarangolang pinakamamahal sa akin.
Nasa langit o nasa lupa ba,
niya binagsak ang aking pagasa?

Blast from the past curtesy ng kapitbahay kong ayaw pasaway

My volume upping, karaoke singing, cigarette-smoke spewing neighbor, was at it again today. First, it started with an over the top karaoke duet. I’m still trying to dislodge this one from my memory. This puzzles me, I don’t understand why some people think it’s okay to do a full blasted, ear splitting, (albeit very heartfelt) rendition of Ocean deep…I’m so afraid to show my feelings. I mean really, if you’re afraid to show your feelings, why don’t you just shut up about it? Do they really think that they’re doing the neighborhood a service by this outward display of bold courage? I mean, if you can tame a wild lion who’s been sitting hungrily in a cage for days, trying to think up of ways to turn silly human into food, I will be very impressed. Now, I’m not trying to be mean, honest I’m not, but you didn’t hear what my ears heard. So please don’t judge. Next, it was followed by a slew of 80’s number one hits; brought to you by a special multiplex compilation tape. Starting with: ice castle, take on me, starlight express, & that one whose title I can’t remember. But it’s that theme song from Mac and me, that E.T. rip off movie that I used love when I was a kid. To combat this sonic assault I played some radiohead. Luckily this calmed my nerves. But still, I found I was unable to get back to what I was doing. ( I was reading A room of one’s own by Virginia Wolf). I dunno, there’s something about 80’s music that really makes me feel very depressed. It reminds me of that carefree time of the big-haired, mismatched clothing, debbie gibson’s I get lost in your eyes, transmitting on every radio frequency. & who can forget Corey Heart and fra lippo lippi? If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you’re lucky. For me, these were the things that characterized the 80’s. ‘twas pretty much an easygoing era: campy, harmless, outrageous, clueless, fun-ny, cheeky. blue eyeshadow, (nevermind).
There was no hyper violence stories on the news, not much evident poverty you stumble upon in the streets. NO Internet, NO
CDs. NO celfones. NO cable channels. NOt much to do pretty much. In constrast, there were a lot of cheesy movies that we watched on films; lots of waffles and Icee we ate at Ever; lots of miniature puppets singing christmas carols on the rooftops of the now defunct COD department store, that we laughed at. & always, lots and lots and lots of fun. Although, I was just a little kid when all of this wholesome madness transpired. Maybe, it is precisely because I was so young at the time, that to me everything around me seemed like fun and games. Because when you are a child, your entire world is blanketed in innocence. And everything that you lay your eyes on is just wrapped up in magic. And the things that you don’t like, the things that you find threatening; well, you just sorta leave them alone. Making a mental note to yourself that later on when you are big and strong, you will take the time to make these discoveries in the future. Well guess what, I wish I hadn’t!!! Well not really….I guess there’s no such thing as a childhood forever, that’s Peter Pan’s territory. Besides, if even given the choice, I highly doubt that I’d want stay a kid forever, (although, I reserve the option to change my mind). Sure, there’s a lot of joy that you experience in being a child. But there’s plenty of perks that comes with growing up too…. What those are, I shall not elaborate on that. That’s something that every little kid has to find out for themselves. And when you do, I can guarantee you that you’ll be glad that you passed up that chance to hold the Pied Piper’s hands.

I SOUND SCARY ON BLOG

" But it’s okay, cause I’m good enough, smart enough, and doggoneit people like me!"

I have just re-read the stuff I have written here, what can I say? I am sincerely horrified.I even had to skip some of the passages on some of my entries, ‘cause it was just too much for my sensibilities.My last entry entitled, lost signal, was particularly mind numbing. & Some of the poems I have deleted. & I think will continue to do so, because most of them are still a work in progress. I am constantly working on my drafts. Besides, I don’t like leaving my poems on display for too long. Not here anyway, where I feel like they’ll just be abandoned. At least they deserve a proper burial place. I have a special place in my hard disk where poems eternally sleep, until I decide to pull a Frankeinstein and ressurect the dead back to the living. For my blog I’ve decide I am going to write transcient poems.
speaking of poems here's another haynaku


xox

mother’s
smile undisturbed
in the seashore

like
a snowflake
trying to become

whole
a symmetry
of many parts

but
silence interrupts
attempts of correlating

stars
S.O.S. signal
with mother/child

perhaps
twilight is
a melancholy light

when
darkness falls
light comes up

never
meeting, jointly
eye to eye

always,
one has
to say goodbye

© em franco

LOST SIGNAL

Nakakabuwisit kahit saan ako pumunta wala akong mahagilap na signal. Paiba-iba pang hand positions ang akin tinry, ( I tried) It’s very hard to write in taglish (tagalog + english combined) cause we have so many words that don’t really translate well in writing format, (I make things up as I go along, I like to get creative with my usage of words.)
Also my tagalog vocabulary is pretty atrocious, non-existent in writing, I can speak it well enough, fluent as fluent goes, with what i got i totally rock it,albeit the scope of my vocabulary is small enough to fit in your palm. I just recycle the same words over and over again, and always, I have to sneak in a few English words in there for added spice. It's not really a problem when it comes to verbal communication, it's just the writing that gets to me.

It’s not just me, I think I’m pretty much describing a small percentage of people here who fit this profile, the new generation of new people who's inherited a nation which is in a state of atrophy.

At first I thought, tagalog as a dialect doesn’t particularly lend itself well to eloquence/cadence/poesy. It doesn’t sound mellifluous when spoken, there are too many vowels in each word, we have way too many words that are littered with a’s & o’s but more a’s. Plus, it’s not expressive enough to communicate your ideas when you attempt to elaborate on them, not emotive enough when enunciated, it lacks nuances, the words lack inflection of meaning when put into different usages, there’s not enough adjectives in our vocabulary, and what about synonyms? Forget it!! it takes me ten minutes to scrounge up a synonym from my measly store. So naturally, I thought this was the reason, why, for the life of me, I cannot write a decent poem in tagalog. Right? eeekkkk…. Wrong. & Of all things, it took me a local fantaseria extravaganza, to realize this presumptuous mistake. I’m not gonna name that show, basta!!! But there’s a little dude in it that looks like a talking stump of a tree, me thinks, the producer of the show was trying to channel in yoda. But really, he looks like one of those wooden elves that you leave in your driveway during Christmas season to let people know you’re aligned with the holiday spirit. But they are pretty freaky…freaky..freaky.
Back to my main topic, honestly I don’t watch that show, just a few episodes, (less than twenty). I didn’t even see the beginning,
but something about the dialogue intrigued me. I have never heard tagalog spoken that way before. They would use phrases like "sa agricultura ng aking puso". Before I would think, you could only use that world in reference to cows and farming.
& also there was something about the syntax of the sentences in the dialogue that I found irresistibly charming. It sounded eloquent, it sounded cultured and graceful and original, probably the way Filipinos spoke tagalog in the olden days. My only recollection that stands anywhere near, but not really, not at all, (it's not even in the same vein) to this bygone world would be those black and white movies, that I used to watch once upon a time, starring: Dolphy, Chichay, and Gloria Romeo, not in the same movie, but my memory wants to make a special director’s cut.

So how weird it was to hear tagalog spoken in that fashion, & for the first time I think I perceived it in a new light, it was then that it occurred to me that tagalog does sound beautiful. At the same instance it dawn on me, that my ineffectiveness at using my own dialect in writing goes deeper than first suspected, I just don’t really bother writing tagalog poems all that much, cause trying makes me want to cry, i get stumped so easily. The last one that I wrote was that rain haynaku that appears here, come to think of it, that was mostly in english, Ambon just makes a cameo appearance. I find when I’m writing in tagalog, it’s a hit or miss, when I think of a word that I think is cute, I just run away with it, just get to the finish line, content be damned, let's keep our fingers crossed!!! The result… hhhmmmm…nevermind.

I write about bugs

For as long as I can remember I’ve held a secret anger towards bugs. It’s never easy when fear stares you in the eyes, in this case, beady little eyes that you can barely see, but know it’s there. It’s not the eyes that bother me, it’s what they represent.
It’s such a humbling experience when a fairly sensible, brave, noble, peace-loving, earnest vogon, has to flee when confronted by the menacing presence of what I’d like to call fugly little-flying ipises.

The symptoms of fear: first you freeze from head to toe, rapid breathing ensues, then the desire to shriek on top of your lungs, coupled with the inability to communicate sound under human frequency/ vogon screams fall on deaf ears. Then your heart drops in the pit of your stomach, culminating with the queasy feeling that your body’s about to turn into fuuuujello. At this point I am completely enshrouded in fear.

I die.

digital thought of the day

I am what I write?
If this is true then I’m in trouble, I’d like to think there’s more to me than just being vogon. I mean seriously I am not even really, indigenously vogon, but I think, therefore I am. Strange how this voice came to me, or how I was possessed by this inability to talk without injecting some kind of a tragic sense of humor into my speech, tragic because number one, it’s not really funny, number two, I’m not really trying to be funny, it just sorta happens. This is how I communicate, when I’m left to myself, unsupervised. I also like to eat paper from time to time, when I think nobody is watching. I dunno, maybe this is a passing phase, every writer goes through it? I imagine at some point in his life, Truman Capote wrote the early drafts of his novel in a pink bunny suit, just to get a feel of what a pink, furry, hunted bunny must feel like. I am sure, although I am really not, that Earnest Hemingway must’ve practiced being the big fish in his bathtub before sitting on his desk, ears still red from too much flapping, subsequently, writing what was to become The Old man and the sea. Where does this leave me? is this my training ground for my future battle? am I now, writing what is to become the legendary early drafts of my award winning, turned teevee movie on the hallmark channel, afterschoool special all proceeds go to charity of the vain but insane, cautionary tale of a masterpiece called diary of a madwoman, turned vogon, on the way to recovery, but first let’ s blast into space, & eat some ducks. a trilogy in one.
………kewl.

I arise from the dead


I
arise from
The dead. Syllable

Of
The Word.
I: Cannot, (utter)

Prolix
In silence.
I am satisfied.

To
Fork more
Silence: my body

Just
Happen:stance
like a seed

Plucked
from: Womb
of a man

who
fell asleep
during the act

of
Creation. (so)
here I am

So
hear. (I)
am. here. hear.

Here.
I am
(not) going, anywhere.



© em franco

Another rain poem

it
is starting
drop by drop

rain
rainbow rain
ushers away: sunshine

i
am happy
becoming: rain also

clearing
the streets
of its sorrow.

baby
rain: ambon
smiles as Migrain

goes
away. Migrain
equals Big Rain

a
nickname given
to Big Rain

by
ambon. because
he always give

Clouds
A headache.
he-he-he

© em franco

culture of blogging

As I get more & more acquainted with this new blogging land of mine, I sorta realize that
people here take blogging very seriously. There have been so many informative, intelligible, creative blogs that I’ve visited; raging in topics from poetics, (which I truly love), to politics, to movie trivia facts, to philosophy, to semantics, that now I am starting to feel ashamed of my measly contribution. I realize that blogging should never be about pleasing other bloggers, that one should blog for oneself. As I’ve only been here for a few days, it is understandable that my blog is the fugliest. Plus, my original intent was only to comment on branwell’s blog, except that I had to sign up first, before I could post anything on his blog. But then I thought since I’m here, why not avail of all that free space they’ve got and see what I can make of it. How it works in my mind is all that white space that I see in front of me i translate into a digital canvas, and I’m just sorta sketching words into it. I know this is a confused line, cause I should’ve said one giant, sketch pad, since I can’t paint, I mean physically I can, but the stuff I come up with has nothing to do with art, and everything to do with my inability to grow up. The images my hands create always end up looking like the doodle masterpiece of a three year old. But I can sketch. Okay, that’s a lie, too. I mean, I kinda can, in a way. I can make Rorschach patterns, exhale, I find solace in this form of release. But that thought came to me too late, for a second there, I convinced myself I could really paint. Ah! Our dreams when they depart always leave us empty.

So now, I’m thinking, maybe I should take my blogging seriously, too. I think I’m considering
putting more effort into this, and maybe even, upgrading to a more savvy looking,
digitally friendly style. (Did you understand what I’ve just said, coz I certainly didn’t.)
But first I must consult with gollum and smeagol, before any big decisions can be made.


More of my serious thoughts:
Blogging helps me untangle my thoughts, and practice the craft of writing. I don’t mean poems.
I mean the art of prosespeaking, *smile*, which I’ ve never been good at, one reason I’ve always kept away from writing prose was I could never climatize to the length, and cohesive, continual thoughts the nature of prose demanded. I am a mushroom of a few words, what ever I have to say, I prefer to say in a few words, intelligible if possible, if not that’s okay too, that is why poetry has always been & will always be my Star Trek enterprise ship. (hear that Spocky? we’re in it for the long run…could you tell me where I can get me a pair of ‘hem pointy ears?…cause they sure look lovely).

So, I’ve been thinking more and more about the culture of blogging and if there’s really such a thing as. And how much blogging really plays a part in a blogger’s life, how important is blogging to you, and what satisfaction/ gratification or anything else do you get from maintaining a blog? If somebody could answer this question, that would be great. I’m the type of a person who likes to get into the bottom of things, to understand them beyond the surface, and arrive at some sorta sensory/psychic understanding of things. I don’t know if this makes any sense to anybody else, but I know it makes a lot of sense to me, cause I feel it. I feel it when I’ve achieved this purpose. It comes to me as a result……. that feeling of peace that circulate through your head to the tip of your toes,

and you ask no more.

coz i had nothing to do

Rats and censorship

I wave the rats away, * yeh yoo…. move it move it…. DO IT DO IT DO IT' ben stiller style in hutch and

starsky.

i am the master equivocator

Every now and then I have to stop what I'm doing to wave the rats away from my kitchen. Shameless little buggers, I usually just tap on the desk, and the formidable sound that this makes is enough to scare them away. It's weird that I am getting used to their prescence, in fact, I think I am starting to think of them as pets… no stop that. that's horrible, who would want a pet rat? Strange to think, but rats have families too, a dad rat & a mom rat…and little kiddy rats….just like us, except we are people. But who's to say that in a different planetary dimension that we are not the rats, and the actual rats are the people, think Monterey Jack & Gadget from the Chip and Dale rescue rangers. I wonder if animals love? When we see a couple of chimpanzees grooming each other, I wonder if this is a sign of affection? Or it this part of their mechanism/ function of daily survival? "I scratch your back you scratch mine". Where have I heard this before, I think in a gangster movie. I've never had a pet, so the animal kingdom is a total mystery to me. We almost had a dog once when I was little, but my dad sent him away, for whatever reason, he belonged to one of our relatives, I never saw him again, his name was Peachy, white furry, docile, little puppy. I didn't even get to touch him, I was afraid of dogs at the time, I still am…a little.
Anyway, I wanted to talk about censhorship in arts, personal censhorship that is…That's when you take a hankerchief from your drawer and roll it into a polka- dots suman, and then you stuff it in your mouth. GRrrrUUHHMMYY… Do you ever feel the need to stop your thoughts whenever it borders into a territory that's too sensitive. I have a lot of poems that someday I'd love to share with the world, on that faithful day my Vogon spaceship comes back to pick me up, and I leave this planet forever. I figure that that would be my time to shine, so I'm wiping the dust off my giant megaphone now, & saving it for later. GO OUT WITH A BANG BABY…that's my motto in life. But seriously it kinda sucks to think that you might have to store away some of your most beloved poems simply because their presence might hurt some people that you love. I don' know what sucks more, that or that POEMS CAN actually HURT the people that you love. I find writing therapeutic, as indicative of the way I write, I need a lot of help. Spaceships and rats and polka-dotted sumans…oh my!! Wasn't it Billy Holiday who said that " If I didn't laugh I'd cry". I don't know what question was asked during that interview that drove her to come up with that response, but I think, if you have any idea who Billy Holiday is, you wouldn't need to ask. Context is not important here, I don't think.Those poignant words defy interpretation. I mean, anybody who's ever felt pain, would know, she wasn't kidding, so go ahead you can have this line. I've been munching on it all day long. Anyway back to what I was saying… Hurt is a strong word. I don't write I hate you poems or semi death threats, not even the occasional squeezed in vitriolic remark, disguised as a metaphor.I just simply write what's in my heart. There are certain things that happen to us childhood that are so painful to discuss you can't say it out loud. Like the first time somebody stole your lunch when you weren't looking during recess in kindergarten; or the time you found yourself mysterious locked up inside your very own locker, trying to pick your way out of the darkness; or the first time your dog went away to take a long walk and never came back. Except I'm not really talking about these things, not really.
Speaking of things, I think, things are only a keepsake for a certain amount of love that occupies our hearts that we project to the outside world, I guess that's why when some of our things break or become loss, you feel that a little part of you also gets taken away & you are devastated. I guess this would explain why some people can't part with their things no matter how old, or rusty.This would also explain why some people, without naming names, become trash collector, because of their sentimental value. Now I don't mean to imply people are like things. Because we are not, WE ARE HUMANS & WE CAN RECIPROCATE LOVE, animals too, and I've heard some very special breeds of pokemons, but understand this is very rare. And also, you don't really project love towards the people you care about, 'cause you actually feel it; it's an invisible truth that makes itself known in you heart. I mean, but if you have to project.....................then you're really in trouble.
Where am I going with this play-by-play account of a brain surgery, good thing nobody reads my blog, or else they'll be more confused than I am, except maybe fo Del, which I prefer to call branwell. It's his idea that I start blogging in the first place.Look what you've started!!!! I hope this doesn't give him a headache, but if it does, well then, you deserve it. *evol grin* This is how my brain works, it just can't stick to the plan & my writing reflects… I hate..i hate…I hate… I guess what I'm trying to say is, we share our history-lives with others, and like it or not when you write about certain things that are happening to you, sometimes it can't be helped, you also indirectly write about the people that populate your landscape, and I'm not even talking about the poems that specifically address people, cause I have those too.
It took me forever to spew that out, but still I didn't really get to the essence of what I wanted to say. typical. what can I say, I am the master equivocator . I even fool myself.

this post is a continuation of my previous, previous, post entitled possibilities. In keeping with my obsession with rain emerges another poem.




why i write about the rain


this is my shot at light.

this motion

i've recopied

so many times

with my fingers

as if the gesture of wetness

is enough

to rectify

the original.

this is really not about rain

or its transparency

that i wrap around me

like a second skin,

this is my attempt

to find love,

in the strangest of places.

it is not rain

i am seeking

it's the meaning behind

every drop,

which carries its significance.

the possibility of making a rainbow

bending a light, (bending a body)

being at the right place,

at the right time. leaving my future

( at the hands of mercy)

that makes me fumble for each drop,

as if the continuance of the sound,

of raindrops,

echoing in the streets,

opens up another door,

to another one seeking.

Under the recipe of hope,

or inside the belly of the

Nothern star (madness)

somewhere,

in these lines

lies a trail of raindrops,

that i have sought & fought

hard to follow.

maybe in here,

in this accumulation of wetness,

you will find what you're looking

for. while i journey on

to write another poem

about the rain. Never giving up on a promise.

Never giving up on the secret hope,

that one day i wouldn't need another,

single drop of rain,

Stop.

I leave everything to chance


© em franco

tagalog hay(na)ku

This is my first ever tagalog hay(na)ku, probably only the third tagalog poem I’ve ever written. entitled munting paruparo


munting
paruparo, halika
samahan mo ako

pumunta
tayong dalawa
sa dalampasigang masaya.

doon
kaibigan, makikitang
muli. iyong mukhang-

tinatak
sa alaala’t,
sinarado sa pilikmata.

kaya,
halika paruparo,
samahan mo ako.

dalhin,
mo pati,
ang iyong anino,

aking
mga mata
ay ipinipikit na,

ngayon
magsasayaw tayo,
sa puting tubig.

© em franco

poetry hay(na)ku style

this is a cool new format of poetry: revitalizing, energizing, refreshing, sweetness.... invented by Eileen Tabios. She's here somewhere, I mean her blog is. To find out more about this kewl new
poetic style that's sweeping the nation. :) please use the search feature to get to her blog.





It happens

Beginning
to wonder
about the possibilities

of
making something
out of nothing.

Strewn
beneath this
curtsey: exists, naught

One
But, two,
Possibily. Three. Hay(na)kus

In
A row.
But who’s counting?

What
I am
trying to say

Is
I hear
A murmur. murmuring

Behind
the syllables
A heart.beat(s)

Of
Words trying
to sell me

A
Package of
Girl scout cookies

As
If I
Could say no

To
this confectionery
extortion: my soul

Opening
In exchange
for some buckaroos

Loss
That I’ll
Surely, regret later.

When
the sweetness
has dried off

My
Tongue/ delights
for more. sweetness

But
Nothing is
Left. But this

Poem.
regurgitated/ original
a bulimic poem.

© em franco

possibilities

Waiting for the perfect thought to slit thru the open, like a sun emerging from a
triangle of sky; my mind is swelling with insignificance. I'm breathing in tiny atoms of life, taking mental pictures, the bedpost, the curtains, the lamps, at this moment are etching themselves into my memory. Their stillness, the only thing worthy of attention, beckons me to follow. Like a curtain unruffled by the wind this doesn't take away from the possibility of flying. I 'm listening to music, trying to silence, silence.

It's wet in the city, ( i don't remember how many times i've used this line in a poem, to me this evokes an image, a mood that i can't quite explain. But to say, i can never complete this thought, would be an understatement, that's why it keeps on popping up every now and then in my poems. i am writing another poem about rain, maybe i'll post it here when it's finished.
..... it will never be finished