Tuesday, July 26, 2011


There is no stopping
the current of words washing up
on the curves of our tongues.
They roll ceaselessly, abundant
in waves of syllables
only divided, separated
by the many hands
of our crooked coastlines: langgam
crawls on Manilan walls when
it flies over the waters of Panglao
or zips across Agusan skies.
I guess this could not only be
a matter of geography, syntax,
or the origins of story and art
at the ends of history and heart.

Like all legends,
the firstborn tale burrows deep
in the folds of the past,
inconspicuous, the same way how
we can never tell
what differentiates blue and blew
unless one is gestured at:
“Look at the sky!”
“Feel the wind!”

Sometimes words belie
their true intentions:
stay leads to move,
calm equates to danger,
and threat stands as a proxy
for reveal, just as eyes
could conceal itself as blind.

Until we find our panabot,
our many renditions of katwiran
even if our mouths continue to spring
the strangest breed of identities,
we must learn the basics: love
never means love
at all times.

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