60th carlos palanca memorial awards

Now, the winners of the 60th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature (Palanca Awards) are out in the open. There are a lot of new names in the list [info taken from The Phillipine Star] and as a matter of fact, as stated in the same source, “more than half (54 percent) or 27 are former winners who have already won a Palanca before, while 46 percent or 23 are new winners. This year’s youngest winner was aged 12 while the oldest was 66.”

This is something to celebrate. New leaves are beginning to sprout, like Elena (who won 1st place no less!) and Jesus, people I have luckily imparted and shared knowledge with in workshops. I am proud of you, guys! Inuman na!

Here is the complete list of winners.

Dulang Pampelikula
1st – Kristoffer G. Brugada (Patikul)
2nd – Jerry B. Gracio (Magdamag)
3rd – No Winner

Dulang Ganap ang Haba
1st – No Winner
2nd – Liza C. Magtoto (Rated PG)
3rd – Christian R. Vallez (Kapeng Barako Club: Samahan ng mga Bitter)

Dulang May Isang Yugto
1st – Nicolas B. Pichay (Isang Araw sa Karnabal)
2nd – Floy C. Quintos (Suor Clara)
3rd – Allan B. Lopez (Higit Pa Dito)

Kabataan Sanaysay
1st – Christopher S. Rosales (Gulayan Klasrum)
2nd – Marianito L. Dio Jr. (Ang Aking Pangalan, Ang Aking Kababata at ang Mithing Tilamsik
para kay Third)
3rd – No Winner

Tula
1st – Carlos M. Piocos III (Guerra Cantos)
2nd -- Romulo P. Baquiran Jr. (Parokya)
3rd – Mark Anthony S. Angeles (Engkantado)

Tulang Pambata
1st – No Winner
2nd – No Winner
3rd – Will P. Ortiz (May Puso Ang Saging)

Maikling Kwento
1st – No Winner
2nd – Rommel B. Rodriguez (Toxic)
3rd – Thomas David F. Chavez (Sa Kabilang Lupalop ng Mahiwagang Kaharian)

Maikling Kwentong Pambata
1st – Christopher S. Rosales (Si Berting, ang Batang Uling)
2nd – Renerio R. Concepcion (Ang Kagilagilalas na Paglalakbay nina Mumo at Am-I)
3rd – Bernadette V. Neri (Parada ng mga Alingawngaw)

Sanaysay
1st – Maria Clarissa N. Estuar (Ang Reyna ng mga Tumbong)
2nd – Ferdinand P. Jarin (D’Pol Pisigan Band)
3rd – Mark Gil M. Caparros (Sina Bunso at ang mga Batang Preso)

Full-length Play
1st – Jay Crisostomo IV (God of the Machine)
2nd – Jorshinelle Taleon-Sonza (The Encounter)
3rd – Lito Casaje (Shooting the Boys)

One-act Play
1st – No Winner
2nd – No Winner
3rd – Peter Solis Nery (The Wide Ionian Sea)

Short Story
1st – Ma. Elena L. Paulma (Three Kisses)
2nd – Ma. Rachelle Tesoro (Waiting for Rain)
3rd – Catherine Rose Galang Torres (Café Masala)

Short Story for Children
1st – Irene Carolina A. Sarmiento (Tabon Girl)
2nd – Hiyasmin Ledi C. Mattison (Little Bear Goes Home: A Love Story)
3rd – Grace D. Chong (I am an Apple)

Poetry
1st – Merlie M. Alunan (Tales of the Spiderwoman)
2nd -- Rafael Antonio C. San Diego (My Name in Reverse)
3rd – Joel H. Vega (Latitudes and Other Poems)

Poetry for Children
1st – Duffie Alejandrino H. Osental (After the Storm and Other Poems)
2nd – Patricia Marie Grace S. Gomez (Poems from the Pantry and Prehistoric Times)
3rd – Ma. Celine Anastasia P. Socrates (Playgrounds)

Essay
1st – Miro Frances D. Capili (Vinyl)
2nd – Florianne Marie L. Jimenez (Postcards from Somewhere)
3rd – Corinna Esperanza A. Nuqui (Library)

Kabataan Essay
1st – Miro Frances D. Capili (The Nature of Nurture)
2nd -- Anton Raphael S. Cabalza (A Shot at Perfection)
3rd – Catherine D. Tan (Green at Heart)

Short Story – Cebuano
1st – Richel G. Dorotan (Si Tarzan)
2nd -- Jonecito R. Saguban (Tinuboang Sapatos)
3rd – Noel P. Tuazon (Patas)

Short Story – Iluko
1st – Sherma E. Benosa (Dagiti Pasugnod ni Angelo)
2nd – Ariel S. Tabag (Voice Tape)
3rd – Joel B. Manuel (Apo Bannual! Apo Bannual!)

Short Story – Hiligaynon
1st – Andy P. Perez (Bayuso)
2nd – Ferdinand L. Balino (Dumdumon Ko Ang Imo Guya)
3rd – Jesus C. Insilada, Ed. D. (Walingwaling)
________________________________________________________

founders found

Founders Found: We Need To Cheer Up (day 1)

Someone: “I think you have to stay here in the office
for a while, Jordan.”
Jordan: “Bahala ka diyan! I’m going home!”

Yes, I had to. When the plane landed on the Dumaguete airport, I went straight to the Weekly Sillimanian office and met one of the few staffers I recognized (most of them are barely in their teens; I don’t know them!), Budjai, whose sole responsibility for the next five days was to adopt me in their humble abode.

What followed? For someone with a sweet tooth, of course, it was Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries with my batch mates (yeah, small group). And because I didn’t want to waste time, I took the rest of the hours roaming around the campus, the Hibalag booth area, before cheering up at Macias for the annual Silliman University Cheering Competition. Ah, that was some starter.

[ August 25, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Not Your Big Spender (day 2)

I have already anticipated that I won’t be spending as much as five grand in this “six-days, five-nights” sojourn in Dumaguete but this is just staggering: on the second day of my stay, I have only spent P72.00, save for the occasional P7.50 tricycle ride to arrive at different key spots of activities in the city. Unbelievable. That amount could only bring me half of my destination when trying to reach Makati from where I live!

This is one of the many things I love about the city: the wise one could live for a day with a hundred pesos in his hands. It is true.

[ August 26, 2010 ]

Founders Found: All Ye Silly Men Reunite! (day 3)

This is the day when most of the familiar faces have arrived in the city, trying the catch up with what’s left of Silliman’s Founders Week celebration. Though I have expected other faces to show up, the number of people that comes in Qyosko (a restaurant and café with the best arroz balao, crispy adobo servings, coffee concoctions and cakes in the city!) for a quick lunch just shows how many of us are desperate to reconnect, talk and scream at each other at the top of our lungs.

That’s no joke. If by any chance you’d see us group together, better prepare with thick mufflers on the ears. I assume this is always the case: The longer we haven’t seen each other, the stronger the decibels of our voices.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: My Parada Sillimaniana (day 3)

Yes, I know, we are like a balding spot on the head with the number of our contingent in this annual parade of student organizations of Silliman University. The pictures speak for themselves. But who cares! I think this is the way the Weekly Sillimanian will forever follow. I have seen the same thing before, what with the last three years of my college life working as a writer-to-editor of this 107-year old weekly student publication.

But it is not in the numbers actually, it is in the fervor of getting into the crowd of colors of the parade, of reliving what it is like the first time I have leisurely walked around the campus by the sea, of enjoying the countless smiles, cheers and, of course, instances of having myself taken by eager shooting cameras, DSLR or not, with fellow photo-whores. And with the latter, the blaring afternoon sunlight is my one and only friend.

Remember, in photography, natural light is best? Good.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: This Time, The Bistro Is Ours (day 3)

Like what I have said in the previous album, in a nutshell, it is the end of silence once we are grouped together. Light may travel faster than sound but the sounds of our chatter during dinner at Gabby’s Bistro, one the most charming restaurants down Rovira Road in Bantayan, is one damn speeding mercurial bullet. It is that fast. Sabi nga ni Sara Geronimo sa isang TV commercial, “Ang bilis!”

(Maybe we just have to regain our energies back after the long Parada Sillimaniana walk.)

With our loud and cheerful presence, it’s like the place is our home. Well, who wouldn’t feel at home when you are in the lively communion of a long-awaited gathering? To simply put it, this is what I have been looking for a long time, and I am so happy I’ve found it on this day.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Free Wi-Fi Karma At Escanyo (day 3)

“Be careful with what you throw up above,
it might fall back on your head.”

As is the case of many people in the remaining hours of the day (or night… or dawn of the following day…), it truly happens. Karma has a strange way of putting things in order, and for me, there’s no escaping the fact. But actually, it is something for the good: to maintain balance, one must succumb to a little bit of: a) sudden realization and reasoning, b) momentary aching, and lastly, c) overhyped closure.

In the end, we just have to raise our glasses of beer and salute to the cold sea breeze of Escanyo while bottles of Red Horse Grande continue to crowd the table. It may not be the most picturesque of scenes for some tying of loose ends but it is decent than not happening at all. What has happened has happened; let the dust be carried away into the far distance.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Apo Island and the Underwater Dora (day 4)

“Uy, daghan kaayong Dora diri dapit o!”
“Unsay Dora?! Dory siguro!”

Unfortunately, some people fail to remember the right names of certain characters, icons or even celebrities. Take for example, Mr. Dither “Diet” Ocampo. You know Dither? Yes, the older brother of Wither and Thither. That’s the one.

Anyway, the expedition to Apo is one memorable sea escapade, a literal washer after our 9PM to 5AM binging at Escanyo. (We had to leave the city at 5:30AM of which no one actually accomplished). The journey is all worth it, from Dumaguete to Malatapay to the island, what with the wealth of otherworldly corals and sea life we have seen.

If just one of us had an underwater camera, the whole trip would be tremendously memorable. Who knows, I might be wrong, the bilingual Dora must really be swimming among us.

[ August 28, 2010 ]

Founders Found: If The Night Is Dark, What Are We? (day 4)

There comes a point when even the highest point of eagerness is trumped by exhaustion. The body just can’t handle. This is how some have felt after our day tour in Apo Island, especially that we didn’t treat sleep much as a friend in the previous days.

And speaking of Apo, I got my long-awaited color. I looked so pale (in my personal context) I had to embrace the sun and sand. But a few thought it was an ungracious gift. Showing up in one of the final nights of our vacation almost as dark as, well, the night, we fixed our minds on the bright side and thought of our mates’ faces at work when they see our golden burn.

[ August 28, 2010 ]

Founders Found: One Plate Isn’t Enough (day 5)

Extra rice is never unfashionable when one is in Dumaguete. It is understandable; you just have to. Almost anything that is edible in the city, whatever suits your taste, is pure heaven. What more, it doesn’t hurt the wallet! It seems to me that food, aside from the vibrant arts and culture that are well-appreciated by the community, is the common denominator that links the Negros islands.

Due to time constraints, or maybe our unconscious incursions to feast in very accessible spots, we missed out on a lot of things: the cheese bread at the college cafeteria, the sizzling bulalo of Royale Suites Inn, the apple shake of Chantily, and everything in the Sunday breakfast buffet of Le Chalet! There are a lot of new places too!

Oh well, this only gives us the reasonable excuse to come back next time… Now I am really craving for Neva’s Pork Parmigiana and Qyosko’s Cashew Caramel Crunch!

[ August 29, 2010 ]

Founders Found: We Are Normal, Never Fear (day 5)

Sometimes, there’s plenty of time in our hands, especially in Dumaguete when one can juggle three tasks in a minute. While people are just stirring and moving slowly in response to the nearing end of the Founders week celebration, some are clustering in the office of a student publication, in communion with anyone’s suggestions of posing this way, projecting that way.

Yes, this is normal. Do not be afraid. I guess this is simply how we define and emulate “natural” in times of yearning each other’s presence after a long while, especially that we are in familiar territory. Though the pictures do not look like it, we don’t bite. Promise.

[ August 29, 2010 ]

Founders Found: The Last Night Among Other Things (day 5)

It was hard to embrace the thought, but then again, it was harder to grapple it, wrestling the fact that on the following day, we would all go back to the seemingly endless cycle of “working for a living.” Even a few rounds in Minimik, karaoke songs in Country Gents, and a few more rounds at Escanyo (our usual crime scenes) couldn’t dilute the gloom of cloud over our heads.

The last night in Dumaguete only bears witness that no matter how far one has reached to, whatever places they might be, one has to return and reconnect to a place that is forever stranded within our hearts.

[ August 30, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Founders Lost (day 6)

Even good times have to end. We know this is coming. Six days and five nights of merrymaking have to lie low for the meantime because we have to return to several weeks of hunching in our seats for nine hours in a day.

But as what I have said, these separations are necessary. One must detach from the city in order to relive what makes the place so fascinating, so recognizable yet fresh in every boulevard sunrise. When the time to return comes, one will learn that every second of waiting is worth it. Dumaguete goes nowhere. All we have to do is come back at the right moment and say the words again: “We deserve this.”

Until the next trip! See you soon.

[ August 30, 2010 ]

shameless plug

He believes in its power. As a marketing tool, nothing is more readily available than that kind of plugging.

Anyway, just like what I had requested three months ago, I will tell you right now to grab this week’s Philippines Free Press issue, August 21. My short fiction, “Poetry in the Time of Influenza” is published in it alongside the gorgeous verses of Ned Parfan and Ino Habana.

The illustration of my story is perfect; it frames the image of my ill condition when I am writing it last year. This is my first published fiction so please pardon the overblown enthusiasm in this post. The critiques and suggestions of my fabulous co-fellows and panelists of the 10th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop are definitely helpful. And to you, Celeste June Rivera, thanks. You are my VIR—my Very Important Reader. You know that.

one year

Today’s just the second day after my first year of being at work. I have never anticipated that one corporate year feels that long. Seriously, it is very long, like some Inception-esque dream within a dream time stretch.

The job, for the most part of it, requires me to sit on a chair for nine hours straight in a day, staring at a computer monitor, being advised to water down what I have written for the benefit of people with lesser comprehension. These do not sound easy.

I graduated with an underappreciated degree, though flanked with favorable decorations, but to keep the mill running when there’s only a cheap and rotten carrot in front of me is not inspiring.

Suggestion: just stop. Well, there are other concerns.

For one year, I have been thinking a lot: the morning traffic, the evening traffic, the unpredictable weather (good thing I still hold on to each day my already-battered umbrella), the next pay, the balance dues, and the receding and thinning hair. And I sleep, then wake up, only to find myself bombarded with the same thoughts. And yes, the hair!

Whereas in the past all I have been thinking are my purportedly-scheming professors, my grades, my next-day’s dress shirt, and my allowance for my all-day starving Ben, I am now a full-fledged inhabitant of the country who needs to see where his tax money goes.

Yes, I have mentioned before that I complain a lot. But this time, I think my complaints are better, with much purpose.

Today’s just the second day after my first year of being at work. And I hope I can clear up my mind. I need a new umbrella.

the rain last night

Grasses flattened on their roots, great lengths of streets flooded, varying articles of clothing spread everywhere, concrete road signs toppled, walls crumbled, trunks and branches of once sturdy trees fell on the ground.

Apocalyptic, it was a scene of total disarray, the moment I went out of the house early to avoid the morning rush to work. And all of that in a place I thought was secure. Well, nothing was secure in the wake of Basyang (international name: Conson). Yes, it’s signal number two in Metro Manila.

In my bed last night, turning over and over again sleepless, I thought, if I could hear the troubling clanging of my neighbors’ roofs right now, what about the shanties and those homeless people? It made me more restless. The howling of the wind and lashing of the rain on my windows were not helping either.

Now here I am in the office, trying to recollect the whirlwind of postulations that gave me three hours of rest last night, trying to rub off the temptation of sleep in my eyes. It’s back to reality, they say.

poets

They are seldom racing cyclists
and are largely innocent

of the working of the petrol engine.
They are, however, comfortable in taxis.

They are abroad in the small hours
and will seek out the caustic blue liqueur

that you purchased in Majorca
for comedy reasons, and will rise late.

There are whole streets
where their work is not known.

Spectacles,
a father in the army

and the distance to the next farm
made them solitary.

Their pets
were given elaborate funerals.

No one understands them.
They are inordinately proud of this

for they have shunned
the brotherhood

of the post room
and the hair salon.

They write a word
and then another word.

It is usually wrong.
Their crossings out are legion.

They sit in trains
and pass through cotton towns at nightfall,

conscious of the shape of cranes
on the violet sky

and how the poured creamer
pleats and billows in their coffee,

and how both of these things
whisper, softly, ‘Death.’

- Mark Haddon

there's not much to hate

Except for those who have witnessed the incident one early afternoon, I have never shared this to anyone:

I remember being told by a teacher, no less than inside the classroom, in front of my classmates, that I would not succeed in anything I would do. It’s too early to tell but what I can clearly share is that this teacher now is a drifting unemployed mote.

Yes, I have my own share on the plate of the bitter pie but, as far as I can remember, not in such scale. I cannot stoop that low when it comes to broadcasting a person’s fate, a dark fate that is—just for the heck of it.

Especially that the statement came from a teacher made it all the more striking. My own mother is a teacher and I couldn’t picture her saying that to a student, especially someone who’s a few years away from plucking a course in mind for college.

This account was posted in Facebook and what a number of responses I got. It turned out I was not the only one assaulted with scholarly omens.

I’ve had a similar experience... with my high school principal, no less.

I’ve had teachers (mostly in high school) who would belittle me.

Di naman ako inapi like you, but I do remember when my other classmates were ‘upgraded’ to “one potato, two potatoes” and I was stuck in “bird’s fly bears don’t” workbook dahil di ako magaling magbasa or something.

Alarming, really, to learn that in different regions of this country, in places where knowledge, self-assurance and competence are fortified, some working men labeled as teachers ironically pull these very things away from a student.

In my case specifically, this teacher of mine would always find the littlest mistake in all the things that I do, in a not-so-constructive way. “Why did you draw this with a black ballpen?” he asked with a frown. In my mind, I could’ve illustrated it with watercolor, you know.

He could point that out, especially that most of us in class passed the assignment in pencil, but I could also point out that there were no provided specifications or rules. The instruction simply said copy this instrument. Good thing I didn’t have a camera right then and there to take a picture of it.

No matter what explanation I had in my defense, it was my fault, assuming he hated the fibers of my existence. Fine, my mistake, let’s move on.

The succeeding encounters did puncture my buoyant floaters. Luckily, I was able to forget the dramatic saga altogether and graduated. I followed, though not that easily, the path I wanted to trek on, and found my steps towards a few triumphs. As for those who responded in the Facebook post, I pondered on their names and, wow, there are far from quacking ducks. In fact, they’re the few people I highly regard.

That’s why I’ve always loved this statement from my college teacher/mentor: “You gotta love haters. Because they push you to do even better than you thought you could.”

This time, I don’t think my high school would like to talk more about success already.

worries

We are lighter than we think until we learn how to pick up some stones and pocket them.

more powerful than ever

This comes a little late in the punctuality department but here it is anyway: yesterday was the second anniversary of BCF—born in Dumaguete City, now wreaking havoc across the nation. I will not give any further details behind the acronym, knowing the silly repercussions that may break the still waters of sanity by doing so, that is why I will end this note here with this overly misunderstood maxim: “Evil has a beautiful face.”

Sorry guys, it has been a long time since I go cryptic. Pardon the post.

the design

Before the drinking began, he took a loaf of unleavened bread and broke it into pieces. “Take this as a sign of my body,” he said, wrenching in pain. He had given up so much but the supper had just commenced. Enduring the fresh deep cuts that came with every piece he was giving to his followers, his humanness was eating him. But he knew the almighty would bless him, what with the sacrifice he had in mind. “This is for you,” he added, fervor glinting in his eyes.

left

He knew it was the right time. He had planned this for a hundred sunsets. “Take this cup as a sign of my blood,” he said, handing to each of his men a few ounces of holy water that streams in his veins. “Do this in memory of me,” he pleads. And they drank from the cup. On the floor they dropped and in a blink they woke up to find themselves crucified on sycamore wood. They called out the name of their creator but heard no answer.

faith

The storm frightens the fishermen, the spray of sea salt desperate to reunite with the tears brimming in their eyes. "Be calm," a man says now awake, raising a hand. He steps out of the rocking boat and walks on water, just serene under the balls of his heels. He waves from a distance and allows himself to be swallowed by a giant fish. He leaves the people wailing, knowing that a sail without the fortitude of their despair has a boat that goes nowhere. A smile cracks on his face.

insolence

In olden times, devout men worship their idols from morning until midnight, singing, reaching for their silken hems to feel how salvation runs smoothly in their fingers. And then at their faces they spit, cold and biting, searing the skin of the believers. This must be the reason why some are black, drifting into many shores like vessels of the night. They are burned at the stakes.

how old are you?

An article by Sam Tanenhaus of The New York Times asks the question, “how old can a ‘young writer’ be?” The premise is interesting enough to set aside my morning tasks.

Going straight to the point of the article, the author implies, if not argues, that many writers produce and achieve great successes in their writing, which usually stays longer than any other works, when they are young (in the scope of fiction writing). That is why labeling them as “budding” or “promising” is not right; in fact they are at their peak.

Let’s take a trip back to history (taken in its entirety from the article) and see what this is all about:

‘Flaubert was 29 when he began writing “Madame Bovary” (and was 34 when it was completed).Thomas Mann was 24 when he completed his first masterpiece, “Buddenbrooks.” Tolstoy, after a period of dissolution followed by military service, began writing “War and Peace” at age 34. Joyce, who wrote “Ulysses” in his 30s, already had two major works behind him. The late-blooming Proust, his youth idled in Paris salons, was only 37 when he began writing “Remembrance of Things Past.” Even Kafka, the 20th century’s most haunting exemplar of anguished paralysis, was 29 when he wrote “The Metamorphosis” and 31 when he began “The Trial.”

Unsurprisingly, in youth-obsessed America, writers have often done their best work early. Melville was 32 when “Moby-Dick” was published (after the successes of “Typee” and “Omoo”). The writers of the lost generation found their voices when they were very young: Fitz gerald (28, “The Great Gatsby”), Hemingway (27, “The Sun Also Rises”). Faulkner lagged slightly behind. He had just turned 32 when “The Sound and the Fury” was published. Then again, it was his fourth novel.’

The celebrated post-World War II generation was just as precocious. Norman Mailer was only 25 when “The Naked and the Dead,” his classic, and enormous, war novel came out. And James Jones’s even longer work, “From Here to Eternity,” was published when he was 29. The indefatigable warhorses who grew up in the 1950s were also good very young: Joyce Carol Oates (31, “Them,” her fifth novel); Philip Roth (26, “Goodbye Columbus”); John Updike (28, “Rabbit, Run”); Thomas Pynchon (26, “V.”).’

A novel at the age of twenty-four (of which the writing starts at 22!)? Hands down. Even the writers of our own blood achieved overwhelming praises in their early 30s, worthy of argument or not, here and abroad. There’s Miguel Syjuco with his debut novel “Ilustrado,” grand winner of the Man Asian Literary Prize 2008. There’s Ian Rosales Casocot, a huge heap of literary merits under his belt. And many more.

The article just got me introspecting: What am I doing now? Sad to say, I am in a rut. I already have something grand in mind, yes, for fiction (none so far for my first love, poetry) but the disease of inevitably thinking of it is a long shot keeps me derailing from the “action,” forever stuck in the “plan.”

“Move on!” Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas told me once in one of my many meta-musings. She is right. While the thoughts are still fresh in the head, young and malleable, move on and write on. This is the simplest route.

Then let’s discuss about our ages next.

unfinished ode to a cat

The cat
is no ball
of cotton,
it is a blithe
object of stealth,
a bullet
that hits
nine lives.

silliman university activities of s.y. 2010-2011

For Silliman alumni out there planning for their latest trips back to the city of gentle people, Dumaguete, here is the 2010-2011 calendar of activities of Silliman University to guide and strategically mark the calendars with pins and x’s of getaways. Breathe in, breathe out, I wish I could do the same.

the fall

He ambled alone in a trail and found his men asleep under the almond trees. “Wake up! Why can’t you even spend an hour with me?” the man asked, his robes as pale as his face. But before he received the words he wanted to hear, he felt the burden of his disciples’ own pronouncements and let them be. His feet brought him to a hilltop where he wept and confessed to his Father. He was struck by lightning.

how sleep can be defined

I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice suspended in litmus clouds, or clouds
that could be cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.

II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by circles they create, those that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: dust, street and spires tire the eyes,
Glass buildings split and slice the body in thin layers.

III
Does one really need mirrors to face layers
upon layers of one’s self, wherein one hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
before sleep arrives? No, what are needed are clouds:
Real but invisible to touch, like thoughts in the head.

IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with plausible elucidations on living, it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: dreams give the wrong reason to escape,
they trick people not to look with their own eyes.

V
Query: Why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Query: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when in fact truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.

VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day visits, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over skylines, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep, there is no escape.

VII
Nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
With eyes closed in peace, not just to see between the layers
Of random thoughts where clouds set sail and head.

dignify

Names are not found

Names are not found
underneath the stones
but within them,
trapped in cages
used to their ignorance.
If my hands hold the skill,
I will dip my fingers
through the surface
of the stone and pluck
the name carefully
from its core, pocket it
and throw the stone
to a nearby river,
see it skip three times
away from my name.

punctuate

There is nothing left to think about

since everything has been printed
broadcasted forwarded relayed
heard side by side chats gossips
phone messages conversations
over bottles of beer cups of coffee
in uptight steel and wooden cafés
there is nothing left to think about
since there is no time to pause and
think since the right time doesn’t exist
no wonder no one knows the news