Rantings, in free verse

Bright October

2011-10-25T23:12:00.000-07:00

It starts with a coffee,

a movie date under the yellow stars

of a bright October evening, and then

another, and then another,

and then when the stars look back

they will see nothing of me,

for I am not here and of no significance

that bright October evening.

I am not here

that bright, yellow

October evening.

The Sea II

2011-05-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

Dakar, Senegal
February 8, 2011

The sea smells the same
everywhere; it smells of fishes' breath
and weeds, the stench, carved out
by bubbles crushed to the shore
by violent winds; they smell of death,
of passing, of unending rebirth;
and you wonder,
why do you die when the sea
lives forever, smelling as
it is everywhere?

The sea feels the same
everywhere; it carries a sticky dry
smell that permeates your skin,
just as the kisses of your lover
lingers at your lips, though
death and distance and miles
of sea separates you from her.

And you wonder, why does death
and sea and distance smell the
same everywhere?

by James Miraflor.
The Sea I is posted here.

ward 7

2010-11-17T07:28:00.000-08:00

ng PGH* 12:32 p.m. 11/17/2010

kaunti na lang, kaunti
na lang talaga, dahil
parang kaligtasan
ang iyong mga
de rehas na pinto.

masaya, masayang
masaya siguro ang
magiging puso sa
huling paghinga ng
utak sa tanghali.

halika na, halika nang
tumakas sa alindog ng
kasinungalingang
maaari tayong maging
hindi baliw.

ni James Miraflor

* Philippine General Hospital

Kung Gaano kita Ka-miss

2010-10-18T01:39:00.000-07:00

muling kong kinagat ang
ensaymadang luma, humihigop,
lumalagok ng kape sa aking itim na
baso, habang iniisip kung gaano ka kamahal
at kung gaano kita ngayon hinahanap.

isipin mo na lang,

mismong daliri na ang gumalaw, sa
ihip ng hangin ng pangungulila,
sa harap ng screen ng laptop,
sinara ang Word at binuksan ang Notepad.

yun na nga, ang itinipa ng puso:
o, kay tagal! kay tagal ng
umagang mamaya lang ay nandyan ka na.

para kay MVT

Pagpupugay para sa isang Rebolusyonaryong Makata

2010-09-13T04:40:00.000-07:00

Hindi kita kilala
ngunit ang mga tula mong
galing sa mataba mong utak,
iba ang talab sa kukote't alaala -
pinaalab ng umaalab mong misyong
ibangon ang bayan sa lusak.

Mabuhay ka Ka Alex!

An artwork depicting journalist and poet Alex Remollino, on display in his wake at UCCP Church in Cubao, Quezon City last September 7. The image and caption was lifted here.

Ang Daan Patungo sa Pagbabago ayon kay Noynoy Aquino

Alexander Martin Remollino

Ako, si Noynoy Aquino,
na lubusang nakatitiyak
na ang mandatong nakuha ko sa huling eleksiyon
ay patunay
na umaasa pa rin ang Pilipino sa pagbabago,
ay nagdedeklara ngayon
na ito ang daang tatahakin natin
tungo sa pagbabago:

Boom tarat tarat
Boom tarat tarat
Sasara ang bulaklak
Bubuka ang bulaklak
Dadaan ang reyna
Ang saya-saya
Boom-tiyaya
Boom-tiyaya
Boom-yeye
Tiyaya
Tiyaya
Tiyaya-boom
Yeye-boom
Yeye-boom
Spageting pataas, pataas nang pataas
Spageting pababa, pababa nang pababa
Spageting pataas, pababa at pataas
Spageting pababa, pataas at pababa
The quick brown fox jumped
Over the lazy dog
In the stream
Over the lazy dog
In the stream
The quick brown fox
Jumped
Monkey, monkey, Anabel
How many the monkey
Did you see?
Tararat
Tararat
Boom boom boom

Ito, mga minamahal kong kababayan
ang daang tatahakin natin
tungo sa pagbabago.

Maraming salamat po.

Zoning Out

2010-08-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes,
even things you ought to
love seem to be flooded
by the white noise
of disappointment and
uncertainty.

And this poem
cannot convey, and this
poem cannot convey, that
which cannot be revealed,
that pain that cannot,
cannot,
be revealed.

So you zone out,
drown out,
disappear,
from the
world run by the politics
of distance and distrust.

by James Miraflor

Something isn't right today.

2010-06-02T20:12:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Something isn't right today.

I know it. I feel it.
I apperceive it.

Listen to me James.
Listen to me very closely.

"Yo, cut it."

It happens, it happens,
when even on a lazy Thursday
rainy rainy morning, your heart
palpitates as though you can
jog faster than when you were
last Saturday at UP, your hands
are numb with the numbness that
wants to punch the walls, or the
laptop with your face
in it.

"Soy un perdedor."

It happens, it happens,
when you hate the coming of the
monsoon even as you curse the
summer night's heat, in a land
of total blackout, muggery,
and murdered 17-year-olds.

It happens. It happens,
when something isn't right.

"I'm a loser baby. So why don't
you kill me?"

For Pamela / For Bordy

2010-04-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

For Pamela*
by James Miraflor

These humans,

pitying us, thinking that I may have been feeling
right now a certain kind of inscrutable sadness,
which they pity me for not understanding.

The feeling is inscrutable alright, but in a
sense that is inscrutable to them.

For how could a human explain,
the feeling of:

   the lost of a mother -
      thrown in a heap of capitalist garbage;

   the lost of a comrade -
      left to rot at a pile of human dust;

   the lost of a friend -
      your only companion, killed by a yellow ooze
      that eats your innards, and leaves you to die
      in this heartless human world.

They don't understand the profundity
of me losing you, the sole sense of sanity
in an alien world.

They don't know my sadness.
They never will.

*written April 28, 2009

------

For Bordy*
by James Miraflor

And I watched
as your last days
escape your nostrils,
which for all your life
had been eager sniffing
the scent of my human skin,
a way of knowing our meager
lives, through a method that
transcends the limitations
of your broca area.

But time had set us apart -
me, a victim of the Heideggerian
dilemma punishing urban settlers,
you, by your sheer animal limits
in a world designed for human
settlement, pushing you to depend
on human's "humanity", or whatever
it is that compels them, and us,
to love your species.

But the love seemed lacking -
at the least, it failed to keep
you alive, killed as you are
by the poverty of human time
and living space.

I would have stopped that horrible
disease that creeps in your skin,
wounding you from within, taken you
to the vet, who would have at least
eased your deathly pain.

But we had been too occupied, too poor,
the demands of the sordid society of
spectacles, too much to bear for
our fatigued and calloused bodies.

   (Father was too busy and tired, and I
   understand, his exploitative bosses won't let his
   damaged feet rest, lest we find his paycheck
   slashed by half;)

   (Siblings, Mother were too busy, exploited
   as they are of capitalist ideological state
   apparatuses, inculcating in them the norms
   of an exploitative society;)

   (I was too busy, captured by the
   immensity of the revolutionary duty
   of discrediting the establishment;)

We were at fault; it is the societal compulsion
of neglect that led to your death.

That can never be forgotten.

*written March 29, 2010

---------------

Pamela is our pet dog. She died last year. Her son, Bordy, named from an action soap Joaquin Bordado taken from a popular comic book hero of the same name by Carlo Caparas, recently died.

I know the nights are empty, when:

2010-03-06T23:13:00.000-08:00

From http://menzies.us/blog.php

I know the nights are empty, when:

1) I don't have to go zigzag pass by
Matino street while reading a paper,
a journal, or a book, because of the
strange way the street lighting had been
designed, or the strangeness of me
having to read continuously while
walking to the JS office;

2) I don't have to small talk with John,
or Ate Gi, or read or reread books I can
never take home, or feel the sweltering
heat at Lean office's poor ventilation;

3) I don't have to go out of the Lean's
office once in a while to try to forget
I am bored of waiting, only to stare at the
omnipotent presence of a slain left hero,
to remind me that I'm under the shadow of
someone who wouldn't have seen me (probably)
as a protege, immortalized in an anti-
environment material seven foot tall;

4) I don't suddenly forget I'm bored upon
seeing my wife, who's bad mood (at times)
had to be brushed away
as we walk to Matalino;

5) We (I and my wife) don't have to squeeze
our way through that small drugstore,
which gives me a kind of claustrophobia,
and fear that my huge backpack will
only suddenly push goods over,
which I will pick and probably buy if damaged,
if only to spare the poor exploited worker
the wrath of capitalist lieutenants,
her/his manager, equally exploitative;

6) And after my few precious moments at home,
I don't have to go back to the far-flung abode
of my siblings, trapped as it was by the slums
and houses of people I hate, or rather by
the houses of hate personified,
of people irreversibly transformed
by the exploitative system we communists
are trying to end;

7) And when I reached our gate, I remember
my home, sleeping as she was in Cubao, and I
don't have to text her that I arrived
at my sleeping quarters, only to hear

my eager dog

bark at those who pass by,
if only to show off, if only to insist that he
is willing to protect me, terrified as he
was of harmless beings as cats,
one of which we suspect clawed his
eyes once. Oh, how I also miss my dog,
killed by the poverty of time
and space.

(And now this won't happen again,
and no irritating barks will fill my
eardrums as I reach the keys and
lock the gate.)

These, for they remind me
that nights are empty
without you.

I am homeless now.
My home is far far away from me,
shielded by the tallest mountains
in the world, held hostage
by the people of the east, snatched
from me by a widow of the left.

I'm so sad right now.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Remain*

2010-03-01T03:41:00.000-08:00

Robert Rauschenberg, Untitled Combine, 1963

When life duty's call
become hardest to bear,
our spirits may blink
against destiny's stare,
but we, but we
will remain.

And after poverty's tempests
wreck woes in our midst,
our hopes be trampled,
be gone in a blitz,
my love know, that we
will remain.

And the world will not the notice
that we had stood still,
while throbbing sting of lack
our mere courage conceals,
grip us through the vein,
the sinews, and the spine,
while winds of terrible dearth
sweep all that is fine,
and everything will be gone,
all of these will be gone,
but we, my love,
will remain.

My love, we,
we will remain.

for Melba Tutor, who will be in Kathmandu, Nepal tomorrow.
*written sometime last year.

Imortal

2010-02-25T00:52:00.000-08:00

ni James Bagtas Miraflor

Fluxus Manifesto, 1963, by George Maciunas

Gagawan kita ng tula,
isang tula na hindi namamatay
kagaya ng hangin ng umaga sa hapon,
umiikot kagaya ng turumpong nasa
pisngi ng mundo, o di kaya, ng
mundong naglalakbay sa pusod
ng isang turumpo, paikot-ikot lang,
hindi natatapos, hindi namamatay.

Gagawan kita ng tula,
isang tulang hindi nalulunod,
kagaya ng isang bula sa ilalim ng
malamig na dagat, isang bulang
di kayang putukin ng mga matatalim
na pangil ng pating, o matatalas
na mga bato ng mga bulkang di
matapos-tapos sa pagbuga ng
umaalab na bakal na nagmumula
sa pusod ng mundo.

Hindi natatapos, hindi namamatay.

Isinulat sa ika-24 na anibersaryo ng EDSA I. Para sa isang di-namamatay na pakikipaglaban para sa demokrasya.

Fear (2)

2009-09-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

'One and Three Chairs' (1965), Joseph Kosuth.

Then I knew it was fear.

Suddenly, I had an inexplicably
urgent need to clap my hands,
to pound a door, to run and
jump and scream.

This, so my body can justify
the light-speed beating of
my heart.

by James Miraflor
September 2007

Note: This is the original version of my poem Fear (http://bit.ly/sfvsr) which was written sometime September 2007. I thought I had lost it, so I rewrote the poem, only to realize after two years I haven't. You may observe that the poems look the same. The second poem is, more nuanced, as the object the "fear" will have already realized. :-)

Block 49

2009-07-05T06:10:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

M.C. Escher. Hell, copy after Hieronymus Bosch 1935 Lithograph.

I do not know, I do not know,

that mysterious force

of natural selection

that predisposes people to

be genetically evil.

But there is Evil,

and its as real as the smell

of rotting rice left

to stale in a moist, warm

afternoon.

And I hate Evil as much

as revolutionaries hate

the Establishment,

as surely as business hate

indolence.

And evil They are as

plagues are evil,

exempt from pity or compassion

of the cure.

And evil They are as

they had evolved, permanently,

irreversably, into beings

devoid of meaning separate

from Evil.

For what They are,

are no longer different from

a disease which has to be simply

snuffed to heal a body.

No change, no reform,

can bring Them back to us.

No change can ever bring Them back.

And there is no longer pity,

for pity is accorded only to sentience

of and by moral or pre-moral

creatures;

But They were no longer such,

Their sentience defeated by

the Evil forces of

immoral poverty.

And until I can escape Them,

Their smell of evil,

shall fill my nostrils

to brim.

And I shall sleep in hate.

Poem of the Oppressed

2009-04-14T04:04:00.000-07:00

Hindi Ako Sanay ng Wala Ka

2009-03-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

ni James Miraflor

Ptosis (A Normal Life)

2009-03-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

I and the Village by Marc Chagall, 1911

Nakakasilaw, nakakasilaw. Pakisarado ang pinto.

Brain feels numb. Dry throat. Naiihi ako.

White crystalline xanthine alkaloid.

Natatae ako. Natatae ako.

Tae. Ligo. Toothbrush.

Fuel price hike. Inflationary pressures

seeping on my plastic soul, photons exciting my

my sweat pores, and my

Malapit na kami sa Quezon Ave.

Put down the visor. Nasisilaw ako. Pinagpapawisan

na ko. Ayan na, ayan na:

Ang tambalang balasubas at balahura!

RP NG debt reach P4 trillion in end-August ‘08. Arroyo signs

P1.4 trillion 2009 budget. Executive Order 258. Administrative Code

of 1987 Section 26(B). House Bill 5423. C + I + G + X - M.

White crystalline xanthine alkaloid.

...
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White crystalline xanthine alkaloid.

Facebook. Who added me this time? Friendster.

Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra. Realignment in

Cuba. Resurgence of Russia and the Baltic States.

Wala namang bago.

A long walk. A long long walk.

"A handshake, with carbon monoxide."

Biosphere 2: recreate my life, recreate my life!

Masarap pala ang beer.

Ulan. Ulan. Ulan.

2009-02-25T03:22:00.000-08:00

ni James Miraflor

At umulan ng umulan

ng umulan, bawat butil ay

ulan, bawat patak ay

ulan, walang hindi

ulan.

Ulan. Ulan. Ulan.

Ulan ang dibuho ng dugong

iginuhit ng ulan sa pulso.

Ulan ang tiklada ng daliri

sa makinilyang nakakalso.

Ulan din ang tumutunaw sa

inulang puso ko.

Ulan. Ulan. Ulan.

Bawat butil ay ulan.

Bawat patak ay ulan.

Mortalidad

2009-01-29T14:48:00.000-08:00

Ano kaya ang pakiramdam,
ng ang buhay mo'y nagpupumilit kumawala
sa iyong buto't kalamnang maaaga ng pinatanda
ng sakit ng kalungkuta't kahinaan?

Ano kaya ang pakiramdam?

Mahirap intindihin
ang sakit ng isang ina't kasamang
nasa bingit ng kamatayan, ngunit
mukha pa ring buhay at lumalaban.

At gaya ng maraming bagay sa
mundong hindi naiintindihan,
ikaw bilang ikaw ay isinantabi,
sa kung saan ang iyong pakikibaka't
panaghoy ay hindi nakakagambala
sa kapayapaan ng mga buhay
at kanilang mga normal na buhay.

Gaya ng maraming bagay na
hindi naiintindihan, pinilit ka nilang ibalik sa mundong
naaarok ng komprehensiyon ng normalidad:

     ang pagpasok araw-araw sa trabaho;
     ang magalit sa mga taong kinaiinisan;
     ang mang-inis paminsan-minsan;
     ang magmahal sa mga anak;
     ang mangakong mabubuhay, kung para lamang sa mga lumalabang
     ika'y manatiling buhay.

Pero ika'y patay na,
ang iyong katawa'y pinasuko na ng hapding
mapait pa sa apdo.

Ika'y patay na,
ibinagsak na ng bato sa
laman.

ni James Matthew Miraflor
Enero 30, 2000

Alay kay kasamang Rhodz Espinola, namatay ng 5 A.M. ng umaga ng Enero 29, 2009 sa paglaban sa End-Stage Renal Disorder.

Embarrassment

2008-11-30T22:54:00.000-08:00

by James Miraflor

Melting Fish

I believe
now is the time to
write about embarrasment,
that gnawing, sickening
feeling that we,
from time to time,
come across, unstoppable,
inevitably irresistable,
like pounds of blood
rushing into
our faces.

And as I write this,
and I remember, my throat
suddenly twisted itself,
and I felt like speaking
in tounges, my saliva,
antiseptically delicious,
recountings moments of:

a failed flirt,
a misspoken statement,
an immature stance,
an inappropriate gaze,
an uncomfortable laugh.

But these moments, ah these
moments; you keep them,
as you keep your old
highschool notebooks,
a testament of melancholic
shame, disgust, and finally,
discovery.

Embarrasing, isn't it?

Malayo

2008-11-20T22:48:00.000-08:00

At singlayo na nga
ng mga bituin sa kalawakan
ang langit ng iyong
mga yakap, at di
rin sila matanaw dahil
nakaharang ang kisame
ng aking pagiisa.

Kailan kita ulit
makikita?

- James Miraflor
November 16, 2008

class Struggle 1.0

2008-11-01T05:49:00.000-07:00

* class Struggle 1.0

* by James Matthew B. Miraflor

* October 31, 2008

import java.util.*;

class Worker {

private Capitalist Employer;

private Worker Spouse;

private Vector Children;

private int ID;

private int productiveCapacity;

private int consumptionNeeds;

private int lifespan;

private int Savings;

private static int count;

// Constructors

public Worker (Capitalist Employer) {

Random random = new Random();

count++;

this.Employer = Employer;

this.ID = count;

this.lifespan = random.nextInt(100);

this.productiveCapacity = random.nextInt(30);

this.consumptionNeeds = this.productiveCapacity;

this.Savings = 0;

}

// Destructor

protected void finalize () {

if (Spouse!=null) Spouse.setSavings(this.Savings);

else if(Children!=null) {

for (int i=0; i <Children.size(); i++)

((Worker)Children.elementAt(i)).setSavings(

((Worker)Children.elementAt(i)).getSavings()+

(getSavings()/Children.size())

);

}

count--;

}

// Accessors

public int getName () { return this.ID; }

public int getSavings () { return this.Savings; }

public int getConsumptionNeeds() { return this.consumptionNeeds; }

public int getProductiveCapacity() { return this.productiveCapacity; }

public Capitalist getEmployer () { return this.Employer; }

// Mutators

public void setEmployer (Capitalist Employer) { this.Employer = Employer; }

public void setSavings (int savings) { this.Savings = savings; }

// Other functions

public void produceChild () { Children.addElement(new Worker(null)); };

public void marry (Worker spouse) { this.Spouse = spouse; }

public void age () {

if(this.lifespan <=1) finalize();

else {

this.lifespan--;

this.productiveCapacity++;

}

public void produceWealth () {

Employer.setWealth(Employer.getWealth()+this.productiveCapacity);

this.lifespan--;

}

public void getWage(int wage) { this.Savings = wage; }

public void consume() {

if(this.Savings>=this.consumptionNeeds) this.Savings -= this.consumptionNeeds;

else this.finalize(); // Worker dies of starvation

}

public void resign() { this.Employer = null; }

}

class Capitalist {

private Capitalist Spouse;

private Vector Children;

private int Wealth;

private int ID;

private static int count;

private int lifespan;

private int wagingCapacity;

private int consumptionNeeds;

// Constructors

public Capitalist (int wealth) {

Random random = new Random();

count++;

this.ID = count;

this.lifespan = random.nextInt(100);

this.wagingCapacity = random.nextInt(300);

this.consumptionNeeds = this.wagingCapacity/10;

if(wealth!=0) this.Wealth = wealth;

}

// Destructor

protected void finalize () {

if (Spouse!=null) Spouse.setWealth(this.Wealth);

else if(Children!=null) {

for (int i=0; i <Children.size(); i++)

((Capitalist)Children.elementAt(i)).setWealth(

((Capitalist)Children.elementAt(i)).getWealth()+

(getWealth()/Children.size()

)

);

}

count--;

}

// Accessors

public int getName () { return this.ID; }

public int getWealth () { return this.Wealth; }

public int getWagingCapacity () { return this.wagingCapacity; }

// Mutators

public void setWealth (int money) { this.Wealth = money; }

// Other Functions

public void createChild () { Children.addElement(new Capitalist(0)); };

public void marry (Capitalist spouse) { this.Spouse = spouse; }

public void age () {

if(this.lifespan <=1) finalize();

else {

this.lifespan--;

this.consumptionNeeds++;

}

public void consume () {

Wealth -= this.consumptionNeeds;

lifespan += Math.round(this.consumptionNeeds/100);

}

public void wageContract (int wage) { this.wagingCapacity -= wage; }

public void resetWagingCapacity () {

this.wagingCapacity = this.Wealth - this.consumptionNeeds*30;

}

class Struggle {

private static Vector CapitalistClass;

private static Vector WorkingClass;

public static void main (String args[]) {

Random random = new Random();

int capitalistPopulation = random.nextInt(10);

int workerPopulation = random.nextInt(100);

for (int i=0;i <capitalistPopulation;i++)

CapitalistClass.addElement(new Capitalist(random.nextInt(100)));

for (int i=0;i <workerPopulation;i++)

WorkingClass.addElement(new Worker(null));

/* Time */

int days_per_months = 30;

int months_per_year = 12;

int years = 100;

int generation = 0;

for (int year=0;year <years;year++) {

for (int month=0;month <months_per_year;month++) {

wage();

for (int day=0;day <days_per_months;day++) {

for (int i=0;i <CapitalistClass.size();i++)

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)).consume();

for (int i=0;i <WorkingClass.size();i++) {

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(i)).produceWealth();

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(i)).consume();

}

compete();

hire();

age();

generation++;

if (generation>20) {

breed();

generation = 0;

}

public static void compete () {

int weak1=0, weak2=1;

for (int j=0;j <CapitalistClass.size();j++) {

Capitalist current = (Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(j);

if (

current.getWealth() <

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(weak1)).getWealth()

) {

weak2 = weak1;

weak1 = j;

}

else if (

current.getWealth() <

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(weak2)).getWealth()

)

weak2 = j;

}

Capitalist weakCap1 = (Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(weak1);

Capitalist weakCap2 = (Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(weak2);

WorkingClass.addElement(proletarianize(weakCap1,weakCap2));

}

public static Worker proletarianize (Capitalist individual, Capitalist employer) {

Worker newWorker = new Worker(employer);

individual.finalize();

return newWorker;

}

public static void breed () {

Random random = new Random();

int newCapitalists = random.nextInt(3);

int newWorkers = random.nextInt(3);

for (int i=0;i <CapitalistClass.size();i++)

for (int j=0;j <newCapitalists;j++)

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)).createChild();

for (int i=0;i <WorkingClass.size();i++)

for (int j=0;j <newWorkers;j++)

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(i)).produceChild();

}

public static void wage () {

for (int i=0;i <WorkingClass.size();i++) {

Worker worker = (Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(i);

int wage = 30*worker.getConsumptionNeeds();

Capitalist employer = (Capitalist)worker.getEmployer();

employer.setWealth(employer.getWealth()-wage);

worker.getWage(wage);

}

public static void hire () {

int selected,high,j;

for (int i=0;i <CapitalistClass.size();i++) {

while (((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)).getWagingCapacity()>0) {

j=0;

high = ((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(0)).getProductiveCapacity();

for (;j <WorkingClass.size();j++) {

if(

WorkingClass.elementAt(j)!=null&&

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(j)).getEmployer()==null&&

high <((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(j)).getProductiveCapacity()

) {

selected = j;

high = ((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(j)).getProductiveCapacity();

}

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(j)).setEmployer(

(Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)

);

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)).wageContract(

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(j)).getConsumptionNeeds()

);

}

public static void age () {

for (int i=0;i <CapitalistClass.size();i++)

((Capitalist)CapitalistClass.elementAt(i)).age();

for (int i=0;i <WorkingClass.size();i++)

((Worker)WorkingClass.elementAt(i)).age();

}

!

2008-10-26T21:57:00.000-07:00

Rebolusyon!

Revolution!

Révolution!

Revolución!

επανάσταση!

ثورة!

Revoluce!

Revolutie!

Cách mạng!

Революция!

क्रांति!

Leaf

2008-10-20T01:08:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Beijing, October 15, 2008, 7:30 A.M.

I saw a leaf this morning,

dancing in the winds,
looking so free.

I asked myself,
is the leaf happy?

Then I saw the leaf
touch the ground.

The answer dawned on me,

as I saw the morning dew

on its solid skin

make its way
to the earth.

Unfinished Poems

2008-09-07T03:16:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

My unfinished poems lie together

with the clutter of my finished poems,

like old friends waiting from afar.

They do not demand to be finished;

they are only to watch in awe,

in puzzlement, or in disgust,

the work that I did with my

finished poems.

But they,

who had been witness to the pains

the amoral world wrought me,

had been more loyal to me

than dogs can ever be to

their masters.

Had they been alive,

they would have loved me.

Had they been dead,

I would have seen my name printed

in their carcasses waiting

to be read.

But they will not leave me,

as human friends do of their

human friends,

or human lovers do of their

human lovers.

My friends,

they will not leave me.

Sometimes, when I'm alone,

I browse through them,

only to remember how

the savagery of my frailty

commanded them, in the

shrillest of voices,

to assert the last of

my humanity.

And the humanity I lacked,

they spoke of, in the most

human a way their aborted

existence could manage.

So much so,

that I imagine them

capable of love.

So much so,

that I could feel the last

of their life in the beat of

my heart.

Superband

2008-09-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

ni James Miraflor

Sayang.
Hindi ko napanood ang
huli nilang tugtugan.

Kasi naman.

Ang kanta ng masa,
hindi para sa masa.

Ang 800 na ipambibili mo
ng tiket, pwede mo ng
pamasahe sa isang buwan.

Pero gusto ko pa ring manood.
Gusto kong manood.

Gusto kong manood. Gusto kong manood. Gusto
kong manood. Gusto kong manood.
Gusto kong manood. Gusto kong
manood. Gusto kong manood.

Bakit? Bakit ko gustong manood? Para
makalimutan ko mga problema ko. Para
makalimutan ko na bukas kailangan
ko ulit kailangan ko ulit
ng pamasahe. Para makalimot.
Para masaya ang buhay. Para
may Kape. Glue. Rosaryo.
Tabo. Baril. Dugo. Para darating
ang panahon wala ng nagugutom.
Para sa masa. Para sa masang nagugutom.
Nagugutom. Nagugutom na ko.
Gutom na gutom na ko.
Pengeng kanin. Pengeng tubig.
Pengeng candy. Pengeng laway.
Laway. Ngipin. Dugo.
Tuyo na, tuyo na.

Tuyo na.

Tuyo na!

%&*@#%@$#&@^*@**@!

San ako kukuha ng pamasahe?
San ako kukuha ng pagkain?
Di nyo ba alam na gusto kong manood?

Hihinto na sa pagaaral
ang kapatid ko pero gusto ko pa ring manood.
Di ko mapagamot ang tatay ko pero gusto
ko pa ring manood. Di ko matapos ang thesis
ko pero gustong gusto ko pa ring manood.
Bukas, may bago na namang problema sa
lipunan at ekonomiya na kakain ng oras ko
pero gusto ko pa ring manood.

Gusto ko manood ng:

"May isang umaga, na tayo'y magsasama
Haya at halina sa alapaap
O, anong sarap, haa..."

at:

"There's a place in the world where the sun don't shine!
I've been wanting to take you there!
There's a hole in your head and you feel just fine!
There's only so much that you can bear!"

Waah!

Teka, may naririnig ko. Bumubulong:

"No fruitcake for everyone,
for I was born upside down.
Shirley is here. And so is Julie.
But you are lightyears away,
which makes me tearjerky."

Ang sarap magsayaw ng El Bimbo.
"Magkahawak ang ating kamay..."
Kunwari, yakap yakap kita ngayon.
"at walang kamalay-malay"
Ba't mo ko iniwan? Mahal na mahal kita...
"na tinuruan mo, ang puso ko"
Hayup ka talaga, mamatay ka na!!!
"na umibig ng tunay".

Ang sarap sa alapaap.
Ang sarap sarap sa alapaap.
Ang sarap.

Sa wakas. Sa
wakas.

Kwatro

2008-09-03T02:01:00.000-07:00

ang plaka ng kotse ko sa
loob ng labindalawang
mahahabang taon.

Ako ang nag-assemble
ng tsikot na ito.
Gamit-gamit ang tira-tira
ng mga naunang bobong driver,
gumawa ako ng
nakabibilib na magarang
limousine.

Matagal na sakin
ang aking kotse.
Hindi ko na mabilang kung
ilang tao na ang dinala ng
sasakyang ito sa mga kwarto ng
kapangyariha't karangyaan.

Ang hirap na ring bilangin kung
ilan na ang sinagasaan
ng aking kotse, liban na
lamang kung iisa-isahin
ang mga gasgas at mantsa
sa maputi nitong
katawan.

Matagal na sa akin ang
kotseng ito. Sabi nila, isoli ko
na raw.

Ang aking kotse.
Kakarnehin at lalansagin.
Lalansagin ng mga buwitre ng Hades,
mga buwitreng walang utang na loob,
mga buwitreng di naiintindihan
ang tunay na ibig sabihin ng
kapangyarihan.

Hindi, akin ang
kotseng ito. Akin
ang kotseng
ito.

ni James Miraflor, para kay Ex-Speaker JDV
Pebrero 7, 2008. Inayos noong Setyembre 5, 2008.

Noise

2008-08-28T02:26:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Sweet sound.
Journey on.
Big bird.
Pause Break.
Nineteen-Easprjd09*09& u90i8
9686öċĨĞbmjkĄd۶ệfgdfgηΠ&*
697&^89798ίηΌIdfgdgdfﻼ34@54
5aa6ﻼﻦﻉ&*697&^ιΠίאַךּﻸﻨﭴ


($!3



ﻷﻪﻯιΠserheads.

Poetry dead.

Eight. Twenty-eight.

Oda kay Ka Bel

2008-08-20T17:48:00.000-07:00

ni James Miraflor

I
May 27, 2008

Sa 'yong libing,
samu't-saring mukha ang
sumisilip sa

iyong katawang
nakahiga sa iyong
huling himlayan.

II
May 28, 2008

Ngunit sa mga
kaluluwang naroon,
tumitingin sa

embalsamado
mong mukha't katawan,
kaunti lamang

ang mga tunay
na naniniwala sa
'yong kalayaan.

III
June 19, 2008

Anila, hanggang
sa iyong kamatayan,
ikaw ay isa

pa ring bilanggo,
'pagkat sa huli, Ka Bel,
ang iyong diwa,

gaano man daw
kalaya, nakapinid
pa rin sa lupa,

nakatali sa
katawang binawi na
rin ng panahon.

IV
June 27, 2008

'Di nila alam,
ang katawan mo'y
bagamat gapos

pa rin ng mundo,
ikaw ay tumamasa
na ng ganap na

paglaya, pagla-
yang sa kadalisayan,
ay humahamak

sa mga munting
tangka ng mga kadre
ng kasaysayan,

na ipanalo
sa mundo ang taliba
ng iyong uri.

V
July 6, 2008

Dahil sa iyong
pagkamatay, napatid
na rin sa wakas

ang huling lubid
na bumibigkis sayo
sa sanlibutang

pinatatakbo
lamang ng mga batas
ng pagbabago.

Ngunit kung saan
ka patutungo, wala
ng nagbabago.

wala ng hindi
pa ganap, walang hindi
pa malaya sa

mga materyal na
pwersang pinakikilos
ng kontradiksyon.

VII
August 20, 2008

Pero alam ko,
para sa iyo, langit ang
buhay sa mundo.

Sapagkat dito,
ang yong rebolusyon
ay walang hanggan,

ang dakila mong
pakikibaka ay wa-
lang katapusan,

at hindi nagwa-
wakas ang iyong maka-
uring digmaan.

VIII
August 16, 2008

Kaya sa iyong
libing, ikaw na mismo
ang tumatangis,

sa kamatayan
ng iyong kalayaang
walang kaparis.

-30-

The Enemy

2008-05-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Number 32. Jackson Pollock. 1950. Enamel on Canvas.

Hector gazed at his friend for what is to be a long long moment. He gasped, trying to expel the room's carcinogenic air from his enervated lungs.

"I realized something," Hector told him. "I have an enemy."

Victor put out his cigarette. He nodded in agreement.

"There is no room of doubt about it. He is my enemy, flesh and blood, not the abstraction we had been deluded to fight against. He is all that I could have achieved, had he not came. He is everything that I won't be, just because he had been there first. He owned things I wanted to have, taken things I was about to get. He is on top of me on the manner that would have commanded surrender to all his other enemies, but there is no surrender for me."

"There is no surrender for me", Hector whisphered.

Victor knew, as anyone would have, that at that moment, destiny already decided.

One of them is meant to destroy the other.

I miss you

2008-04-28T20:20:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor
November 21, 2007

Fire and Water. Nina Gabriel. October 2006.

I miss you.

The stars I look at during the nights
I haven't heard your words, they
miss you.

Everything about me misses you.
The snap of my fingers,
the book I'm reading,
the papers I have to finish,
they miss you.

My coffee misses you.
So does my pencil. My computer too.

The World Bank as it assails the Arroyo
regime is both a political act
against China and an
expression of how much
I miss you.

The privatization of the power
industry is not just a hidden state
subsidy to the country's oligarchic
elite, its also an obvious
manifestation of how much
I miss you.

I miss you, like I miss the
friendship of a star, distant
and unyielding.

for MVT

The Sea

2008-04-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor
Boracay 4.10.08, 17:30

The sea, its bluness and
whiteness and endless contrast,
imposes itself like an
indifferent sovereign on an
alien universe.

The gilded radiance of its
sunny dress, clothes the land
as if it was its own,
its own conceited smile,
reveling in the motion of
the light.

The pains of its wide jaw,
eating fishermen's boats,
as a child would eat
berries and nuts,
in a kind of selfish way,
never minding anybody's
business.

And all that existed with it,
the fluffy white moles on its teeth,
marks made by intruder vessels
on its blue lip - fast to heal,
and the bloody smear of
its calcified grin as the sun sets,
reveal its infinite arrogance,
stamped on moments
eternally recurring.

Hurt

2008-03-15T19:40:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Even if she's far, she's hurting me.

I don't know why, my fingers don't know why,
my watch can tell time, but it doesn't know why.
My books, sitting beside me in my bed, they can
tell me things like who did what and how and why
but they cannot tell why, at least why
even if she's far, she's hurting me.

She may not even know why, or she may not even understand,
that even when we're not together, even when everything
are supposed to be happy, like my watch when I wear it my
right hand instead of left, it's so happy it won't leave my
right hand anymore, even when its absurd,
even when it makes sense,
even if she's far,
she's hurting me.

I'm beginning to love her, so much, so deeply,
that even if she's far,
she's hurting me.

November 2, 2007

Ducat

2008-02-25T18:33:00.000-08:00

ni James Miraflor

I

Bukas,
habang hindi pa tapos tumilaok ang mga manok,
habang ang Lawton ay hindi pa puno ng mga jeep,
sasabog ang liwanag ng pag-asa't
paglaban.

Tumutulo ang iyong pawis sa bitbit
na granada't uzi, sa kape mong pinalamig
ng hamog ng gabi,
sa mukhang pinamanhid ng magdamag na
paghilamos.

At habang nagmumuni-muni ka sa kung
anong mangyayari bukas at kung kokondenahin
ka ba o pupurihin ng mga elemento ng
lipunang walang ginawa kundi
manood ng manood,
manood ng manood ng manood,
manood ng manood ng manood ng manood,
sa tv, sa pelikula, sa totoong buhay,
habang binabasa ang dyaryo at tumutungga
ng malamig na kape, o minsan habang
tulog, habang nahihimbing sa panaginip
na ang buhay ay masaya at ang
paghihirap ay may katapusan,
tatlong salita lang ang
namamayani sa iyong
kukote:

Lawton. Bus. Hostage.

II

Malupit. Kay lupit
ng sistema.

Kay lupit ng nakababaliw
na kalupitan ng baliw na
sistema.

Kay lupit ng nakamamatay
na kasamaan ng baliw na
lipunan.

Nakababaliw, nakamamatay
na kalupitan.

III

Kaya bukas,

ikaw ang babasag sa katahimikan ng
nagaalburotong sistema.

Ikaw ang magpapamulat sa bulag
at tulog na lipunan.

Ikaw ang panggagalingan ng pwersa
ng katinuang babago sa
baliw na bayan.

Bukas,
habang hindi pa sumasabog ang liwanag ng araw,
sasabog ang liwanag ng pag-asa't
paglaban.

Amnesia

2008-01-28T17:51:00.002-08:00

by James Miraflor

Amnesia. Victor Sydorenko. 1995.

The masses
remember nothing of past
revolutions. They remember
nothing of the revolutionary's
calloused hand, tired from
punching the sky, worn-out
from writing manifestoes
in patronage of their welfare,
and bloodied in defense of their
rights against the minions
of the state.

They easily forget how recently
their boss denied them fair
wages, how recently their
former "elected" president
was accused of multi-million peso
theft, how recently the ex-general
running for congress tortuted
and butchered their activist
children.

They remember nothing
of the chants for freedom and equity,
they are unable to call to mind
the socialist abstractions
you taught them -
the means of production,
the permanent struggle,
and the proletarian insurrection
which is to free them from
the shackles of their poverty
and helplessness.

Comrades! They would forget
you too! Their sons would drink
the blood of your sons,
their daughters would pick at
the flesh of your daughters,
all the while feasting at
your own tired bones,
biting, chewing,
each teeth-mark indistinguishable
from the rest, but
these masses -

They would never remember
whose lives their oblivion
consumed.

Reply

2008-01-28T17:51:00.001-08:00

by James Miraflor

When she don't reply
I feel as if sentences
are no longer going to
end for there are no
words or lies or fingernails
stuck in the black keyboard
of an ordinary computer
sitting in a table
inside a blue and orange
room that can explain why
I love her and why she's
not here.

Reply, please, reply.

Reasons

2008-01-28T17:49:00.001-08:00

by James Miraflor

If she will reject me,
then it is over.
No reason to go on.
No reason to go on.
No reason, no reason
to go on.

For then she will be,
the moment of moments,
of silence and screaming,
of grief and not seeing
any reason to go on,
any reason to go on,
any reason, any reason
to go on.

No reason, no name,
no cause for the same.
There are just
no reasons to see,
if you won't love me.

Intellectuals of the Establishment

2008-01-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

by James Miraflor

Premonition of Civil War. Salvador Dali. 1936. Oil on canvas.

Today as yesterday,
we wage war against the
Intellectuals of the
Establishment.

They are the "libertarian" academics,
who, in fierce legalese, "activist"
defense of our "freedoms",
threatened by the onslaught of
anti-democratic socialism,
seek to engage us in an
annihilative war, a war for
ideological hegemony.

They are the self-styled
descendants of the freethinkers,
who, after dismantling
the atavistic system of feudalism,
in their arrogant nihilism,
finally declared the "End of History",
convinced of the inevitable
immortality of the reinvented
Establishment.

They are the mobilizing agents
of the "options"-driven universe,
tweaking social variables with
technocratic, cast-iron efficiency.
They talk of neoliberal justice,
of low inflation, low interest-rate
regimes, on how Darwinian evolution
is only possible in their competitive
free market model.

They understand
and they speak, with epiphanic grandeur,
of humanity's tolerable obligatory suffering,
of inequality as irreversible law of nature,
an amoral byproduct of a blind
and random universe.

And thus, seeing with their cold
and calculating vision, they chart
the fate of an equally blind and amoral
society, confident that
their spectacle of imagery,
their reengineered religions,
their commoditized revolutions,
will perpetually stimulate their
soulless post-industrial
institutions.

We are at war against
the intellectuals of my age,
the last blood and flesh
of the moribund, unrelenting
Establishment.

Baguio

2008-01-13T20:24:00.000-08:00

ni James Miraflor
(12.29.07)

Kung papalaring magkaroon ng panahon,
babalik ako sa lugar na kung saan
walang pawis.

Doon, walang nililibak at pinagtatawanan
dahil sa tagaktak ng tubig na tumutulo sa buhok ng
mukha at kilikili,
walang nauubusan ng maalat-alat na
tubig pagkatapos ng ilang oras na pagkahapo.

Doon, ang mga manggagawa’y hindi anakpawis,
sapagkat ang kanilang mga pasakit ay
kinukubli at pinalalabo ng malamig na
hininga ng araw.

Babalik ako sa kung saan walang pawis,
walang pagdurusa, walang
pagkahiya.

Pupunasan ng nagyeyelong hamog ng umaga
ang butil-butil na tubig sa aking noo, yayakapin
ng dagim-ulap ang aking balisang puso.

At papawiin ng usok ang aking
buntong-hininga.

You took it all

2008-01-13T18:19:00.000-08:00

By James Miraflor
(09.07)

The sunset has lost its luster.
The food suddenly has no taste.
No colors anymore for my afternoon.
The beauty is gone.
You took it all.

When you came,
you took it all.

Now, sunsets are only as beautiful
as the next time you’ll be with me to enjoy it;
the food can only be as delicious
as the next time we’ll cook it together;
and the colors of the afternoon
are only your colors.

Fork

2007-11-13T23:51:00.000-08:00

by James Miraflor

I heard a story of a man, who
while walking in a
long,
long,
long
road towards the edge of the
forest where autumn never ends,
finally reached a fork.

The hermit guarding the fork,
as if reading his mind and
understanding his intentions,
said to the man:

"The road to your right leads to
the place you intended to be.
The travel will be long, but you'll
get there sooner than you
expected."

The road to his right
is long, alright, its brick-covered
pavement stretching towards
the golden arms of the sun
going home to its abode beyond
the hills.

He then fixed his gaze to the
road to his left, which looks exactly
like the road to his right,
only that it looked more familiar.
Too familiar, in fact, that it
seems to go to the place
where he had been.

"Then where does the other
road lead to?", asked the man.

The hermit sighed, and as if
his breath carries with it the
life of the forest since its birth,
the whole place was suddenly
enveloped by sad memories.
Then the hermit answered:

"I don't know."

The man pondered for a minute,
then suddenly,
where he came from,
why he was where he was,
why he is going to the place
he is supposed to be going,
those things,
are suddenly lost in his memory,
drowned by his fascination of
why there is a road that leads not
where he intended to,
and what purpose the existence of
such a road could possibly
serve.

He pondered for another
minute.

Then another.

"I'll take the road to my right,"
the man finally said.

Mistakes

2007-11-08T22:26:00.000-08:00

by James Miraflor

Mistakes, how they hate me,
how I hate them.

I don't learn from them, and they must have
hated me for always calling them back
to repeat themselves, like a stale song
played in a broken piano.

They cost me the things I love, and I cost them
their non-existence. Now, they have to exist,
only to feel the weight of my wish
that they never did.

And I cannot undo them enough. Some of them
may have gone, but the pain they etch
in the fabric of my past,
no sewing can mend.

So they always go back, to taunt me,
to mock me, and condemn me to
endless solitude.

And so I hate them,
then like a gift from a distant friend,
they give me back their hate.

Paglalaba

2007-10-07T18:00:00.000-07:00

ni James Miraflor

Bukas, lalabhan ko ang aking
pagkatao.

Sa umaga, ibababad ko sa tubig
ang manilaw-nilaw na tela ng aking
kahapon. Lalagyan ko ng kaunting
chlorox para matunaw ang mga mantsa
ng galit at pagsisi.

Sa tanghali, kukusutin ko
ang aking pagkatao sa isang baldeng
puno ng tubig at sabong panlaba.
Kukusutin ko hanggang sa ang
bawat hibla at alalaa ay
maputi na at mabango.
Kukusutin ko. Tapos
kukusutin ko pa.
Kukusutin.
Kukusutin.
Kukusutin.

Sa hapon, ibababad ko sa downy
ang aking nakaraan.
Palalambutin pagkatapos
manigas at gumaspang sa
matinding paglalaba. Ibababad
ko ito hanggang sa ang bawat
hibla ay maari ko nang tignan
ng walang hapdi ng paghuhugas
o pagtitika. Ibababad ko
ito hanggang sa ang bawat
alalaa ay maginhawa ko nang
maidadampi sa katawan
ng aking kukote.

Sa gabi, isasampay ko ang
aking basa ngunit malinis at
mabango ng pagkatao sa ilalim
ng pagpapatawad ng buwan.
Matutuyo sa mga halik ng
malamig na hangin ng
Oktubre ang tubig na luminis
sa aking kaluluwa.

Sana sa makalawa,
may bago na akong buhay
na maisusuot.

Instead

2007-10-05T04:18:00.001-07:00

by James Miraflor

Yesterday was supposed
to be a bad day.

Instead, the rain that
soaked my pants is
a gift from the sky,
the mud that
stained my shoes is
a kiss from the gods.
and the hour's wait
in the bus station is
the best coffee break
ever.

So things are not so bad
after all.

After you came,
things are not so bad
after all.

Love and Hate

2007-10-04T01:03:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor
(07.15.06)

I love you with my hate,
fire, consuming the soul of my
scorn, mocking the blood of
my rage, again and again
to hours' end.

And thus, in my loving you
I hate you, just as even the
most frigid breeze of winter
fans the flames of a forest fire,
intense and eternal.

I hate you with my love,
fire, breaking the autumn calm,
shading my life with the violence
of its meaning, again and again
to hours' end.

But, in my hating you
I love you, just as the cool
winds of June tempers the
searing solstice heat,
intense and eternal.

From fire to fire,
from words to wounds.
I love you with my hate.
I hate you with my love.

So much so,
that I cannot tell
which was which.

Hesitation

2007-09-30T22:14:00.001-07:00

"How much time do I have?"
I don't know, but not very much, it seems.
"Will there still be enough time to..."
Talk to her? Of course. But for what?
"Will I ever find someone like her again?"
...
"I love her, you know."
After all this time. Finally, you chose someone again.
"..."
But you think it would be futile, right?
"I know. She doesn't love me."
She does.
"Yes she does. As a friend. As a brother, at best."
And that saddens you?
"If only she knew that I love her differently."
Have you told her?
"Why would I? Would there even be time for her to think..."
And realize that she can love you too?
"Don't pretend you know things about me."
But I do. And you know it.
"It won't last long. Even if she will love me as I love her. It wouldn't last long."
...
"I'm afraid."
Who wouldn't be?
"I love her."
I know.

by James Miraflor

The Masses

2007-09-30T21:17:00.001-07:00

I

One burning August evening,
I found myself despising the
masses.

They, who I swore to serve,
even with the most petty-bourgeoise
of the revolutionary ways,
had earned my ire
that fateful day.

II

That evening,
I heard myself cursing them silently,
mocking them for their ignorance of ethics,
their selfishness and lack of respect,
their fondness of breeding children
who will be as selfish and rude
as their mothers and fathers.

Unlike the toiling proletariat,
who earned the world's sympathy
by proving the dignity of labour,
I suddenly cannot see
why these indolent masses
equally deserve social justice;
I suddenly cannot imagine
why the Movement
is also at the service

Of these masses,
who in vain arrogance,
chose to live in shabby decadence and sloth,
who are suddenly, in my eyes,
no different from the parasitic
capitalist class, as selfish and venal
as they are.

III

And how wouldn't they be,
when they indefinitely cling
to us progressives to protect
their interests? Are they really
any different from the Capitalists,
who, as indefinitely,
cling to the proletariat's labour
to protect their estate?
Had their poverty made them
less exploitative?

And why won't I think that way,
when these same masses,
whom my comrades sacrifice their
very lives for, would not
even hesitate to side with
their elite masters,
as long as the latter,
exercising their innate
exploitative abilities,
can dangle to them pack
of rabid dogs, little chops of
stale and rotten meat?

IV

The hell with the masses.

Let them wallow in their own poverty,
as their spirits have already
embraced poverty long before
we got here.

Comment: Gout can be painful, and I just realized that pain does alter, however briefly, even paradigms and world views. Sacrilegious thoughts, though, often gives those who dare to think them a more balanced view of things.

I don't intend to apologize for writing and posting this. After all, crude and toxic frustration is as much an element of every activist as passionate love and perseverance, so is the hypocrisy that compels them to deny that they feel it from time to time. The hypocrisy, however, does not make their love less passionate and persevering.

Fear

2007-09-30T21:16:00.001-07:00

by James Miraflor

This is fear I feel, I know.
This is fear.

So much, I know, that I'm afraid
to take a step,
knowing that I'm as close
as I have ever been,
with the thing that hurt
me the most.

So I scream in terror, in hope,
in anticipation.

Fool

2007-09-30T20:57:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

So I had been a fool,
to think that I am meant
to have my next days full
of love, to imagine that
I will have to regularly
buy flowers for someone,
that I will have to save
more now for dates and
weekend trysts.

I guess, I am not meant
for that after all.

I thought I deserve
to have someone with me as
I sip my café au lait while
watching seafarers return
to Manila bay during afternoons
in Roxas Boulevard. I thought I will
now have someone to talk to during
dreary protest actions in Welcome
Rotonda and Batasan.

I thought someone will now
fetch me from boring meetings
(or have me cancel them) to lovely
dinners at cheap diners or
fancy restos. I thought there
will now be someone to help
me contemplate the bleakness
of my life if lived
without her.

I thought it was you already,
and that as your sudden unexpected
appearance erase the pain
of the past love, your continuing
presence would redraw whatever
affection left in my
old, beaten-up heart.

But, I realized that it was
not you. You simply don't
want me.

And so, I had been a fool
after all.

Written sometime in the early second quarter of 2007.

What kind of a poet am I?

2007-09-11T04:19:00.000-07:00

What kind of a poet I am, people ask.

I tell them. Before, I am a poet of desperation. I can only speak of anger, of hatred, of pain, and of suffering. I am incapable of seeing the splendor even of the most splendid of what life can offer. I am blind to bliss – for I am, or had been, but a poet of grief.

Now I am a poet of love. Now I can write about beauty, bliss, and enlightenment. I can write of hours wasted so that one can get a second of glimpse of his dear. I can write about absurd thoughts, idyllic trivialities born in the shadow of a moment.

But I can also now write of love that is profound – love that begins and ends with the spirit, or love so complex and so deep and so intense that it is comprehensible only to the lover, or the one being loved.

You changed all that.

Yes, I’m still a poet of love, but unlike the others, I can only speak of love that had never been, or love lost but never returned, or love dying a natural death, or love exploding due to passion of hatred, and imploding due to the coldness that was left.

I can no longer speak of love that is a connection of two hearts, because I can only speak of love slowly fading after wandering too far from its source. I cannot speak of love that is borne by mutual choice, because I can only speak of love that is never chosen, and was never intended.

I can speak only of love that had been responded to by hatred, by mocking laughter, by caustic comments, by the stinging silence of rejection. I can no longer speak of love that was requited, for you never reciprocated mine.

Maybe I can about one’s attempt to lie to oneself that the love was reciprocal, that the hatred is indeed of love. Maybe that – but then again, that is a lie.

Until when will I write about love?

Until when must I write about pain?

Written sometime in 2006.

To the Evil Men of the World

2007-08-31T20:21:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Evil men.
There might be no hell,
but we'll spit on your graves
forever.

You may not taste
the wrath of the common men
now, nor would your
sons and tens of their
would-be sons, but your
kind would nonetheless
get what is due them, as
it is written in the destiny
of all evil kinds.

Even so, the revenge
will not be painful,
unlike the brutality you did
to us. The revenge of
the common man will be
straightforward and unpretentious;
there will be no triumphant
executions, no pugnacious
castigations.

Our revenge will be simple,
as the punishment of history had
always been simple:

No one will remember your
estate. The concept of crime against
property will be forgotten.
There will be no transgression
against privately-owned governments,
no price-tag for, or rationing of,
human right to dignity.

No one will remember your
system, as your injustice would
have ended with our desire for
reprisal. There will be no
need for state-imposed death,
no "rehabilitation" to any
ideology, no totalitarian
control for capitalist "liberty"
or socialist "equality".

No one will remember your
kind. The idea of an oppressing
class, in any of its name, will be
alien, even unimaginable. By then
men will live, in solidarity
and freedom, the logic of the
market and revolution replaced by
the language of peace.

And no. No one will remember
evil. For your species, the embodiment
of everything that is evil, would
have ceased to exist.

And that would be our vilest spit
on your graves.

Death

2007-08-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor

Today, I'm filled with
grim despondency; I recognized
that hope, if there is anything
left, is about to die
at this very day,

at this very moment, while
the Left and the Right, and
every- hypocritical -thing in between,
is feasting on the products of
our intellectual labour, which was
to forward the ideals of change,
but was instead used to advance
the stability of the system
we embarked to disrupt

and destroy. And the Left, in
its utter ineptness, capitulated
with the Right which they thought
they can fool,

and so the Left was fooled,
accommodated, used. So today, hope
is in peril; it might as well die
as the Left's genuine resolve
to struggle died
this day.

August 27, 2007

Hindi na muna

2007-08-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

ni James Miraflor

Hindi na muna siguro
ako iibig.

Kasi,
sa tuwing iibig ako,
nalalanta ang mga orchids sa hardin,
umiitim ang bughawing langit ng tanghali,
at napupunit ang mga pahina ng paborito
kong libro.

Darating na lang siguro,
ang bagyo na magpapalaya sa akin
sa rehas ng pagiisa.

Siguro mayroong bukas, na tutunog
muli ang pakakak ng pag-ibig, at
sasalubungin ko ang agos ng liwanag
ng pagpapatawad.

Pero sa ngayon, di na muna
ako iibig.

Tuloy

2007-07-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

(started 07.15.06)

Di tumitigil ang mundo.
Kakainis! Maiiwanan pa ata ako!
Hindi ko kasi alam kung paano pa mabuhay
ng wala ka dito sa aking buhay.
Di ko alam ang gagawin.

Pero di tumitigil sa pag-ikot ang mundo.
Sandali, hintayin nyo ko!
Eto, lalakad na ulit ako. Medyo nadapa
pero kaunting pagpag lang yan.

Pwede na siguro akong magmahal muli -
oo nga, may nakita pa naman ako
noong isang araw, siguro ngayon pwede
na akong lumigaya.

Tumakbo ako
sa pagaakalang matatakasan
kita, matatakasan ang mga sugat sa
tuhod at braso, pero,
sa aking paglisan, dala ko pa rin
ang peklat ng aking pagsinta.

Di bale,
me plaster naman.

James Miraflor

Soul

2007-07-26T21:00:00.001-07:00

I love you
with the love of the
soul - constant but
silent, intense but
composed.

There is but
little visceral longing, no
emotional capitulation; there
are no tear-jerking mornings
without you, because each morning
carves your picture in my
memory, as I love you with the
love of the soul.

There are no stomach-crunching,
heart-twisting moments when we're
together, but I love you as ever,
like a feather dancing in the
winds of July, alive but unperturbed,
as one would love with the
love of the soul.

The last love I had was
marked by brutal contradictions,
intemperate passions interminably
overwhelming my constitution,
violating my peace.

This love is different, for it
is a love that is at ease with
itself, never troubling me or
anyone. It is a love
of eventual decision, a love
clothed with the clarity of concept,
armed with the force of
abstraction.

And it is a love that is every bit
as powerful as any love born by
passion alone, only that it is a love
that resides in the spirit, a
love that waits for itself
to bloom.

I will wait, because I love you,
soul and all.

Waiting

2007-07-19T00:56:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor (07.19.07)

I can wait.

I can wait.

Sadness

2007-07-11T18:17:00.001-07:00

by James Miraflor (01.24.06)

There are quite many things
one can be sad about.

One can be sad about
an unfinished glass of beer left to
stale in a shabby nightclub table,
a half-dead kitten in the streets under
the sun's scorching heat,
love songs played by the radio
over and over again
in your ride back home.

One can also be sad about
the passing of the summer,
a rock star fading away back
to anonymity,
old cartoons you used to watch
no one else remembers anymore,
death of a highschool teacher,
tuna afritada with rice,
clock running backwards,
the regrets of the past.
And the saddest thing
of them all is
the idea of one's sadness
becoming permanent.

But now, I am sad of only
one thing.
That, until now, you refuse
to forgive me.

And because of that, I feel
deserted, impotent, vanquished.

Because you refused
to forgive me,
coldness now embraces each moment,
tomorrow begins to lose its confidence,
the memory of the past starts
hounding me again,
reminding me
how foolish I have been
to lose you.

Then I wondered,
will you come back?
What if you won't?
Will I be here, alone,
forever?

That would be the saddest
thing of all.

How

2007-07-11T18:15:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor (08.15.2006)

I

How do I say I love you?

Do I say it with my eyes closed,
so that I will not be able to see the disgust
in her face?

Do I say it with my ears covered,
so that I will not hear her retorts
and mocking sighs?

Do I not say it at all?

I don't know how to say 'I love you',
after this, I don't know really.

But I do know that I love her with each
breathe that sustains my pained soul.

I also do know that I love her with each
morning that passes without me
hearing her voice.

I remember that I love her with each
sip of coffee without her kiss on
the cup.

How can I not love her?

II

Better it is to forget you, I realized. Better
it is to not to know you anymore.

But better than that still is not to have known you,
I thought, and so I wished I never met you.

But maybe even better is not to have lost you,
so that you had always been here, with me.

I wish I could keep you, after this, and
then I could erase the silence of the past with the
with the music of my love.

Alas, I realize, that there are things that are not meant to be,
as there are things that had already been.

III

How do I say I love you?

What I should have done

2007-07-03T23:48:00.000-07:00

By James Miraflor (10.10.06)

What I should have done? I’ll tell you what I should have done. Instead of looking the other way when she noticed me looking at her during our breakfast together, I should have courageously fixated my eyes on her. Of course she would have asked me, “Why are you staring at me?” I would have answered then, I should have answered then, “Nothing. It just pleases me looking at you.”

And when we walked together that afternoon, I should’ve seized at the chance to talk with her about her. I should’ve tried to know her better. I should’ve asked questions about her likes, her fears, her dreams.

But no, during that brisk walk, I either kept silent or talked about petty nonsense. I lost the words to describe to her how different that afternoon had been from all the afternoons of my life. You see, I am dippy, not to mention a chicken, so I just wrote a poem about it afterwards.

And instead of leaving her off to attend to my affair, I should’ve waited for her to finish her meal. I should’ve shared those moments with her, as my affair seemed worthless and insignificant compared to the seconds I should’ve spent with her. God, I should’ve waited… If I did, at least, I would have something more to remember about her than I have right now.

And when I wrapped my arms around her, when I hugged her with what seemed to be a friendly hug, I should’ve grabbed her hand too, then dragged her along with me to see the noontime beach I found so magnificent that day.

When she rested her head on my shoulder and wrapped her hands on my arms, instead of freezing, I should have clipped her with my arms.

-----------------------

Had I been less stupid than I am, I should’ve explored the place with her instead of wandering alone. She would have enjoyed the sunset with me, pleased to see the sun touch the wavy waters that afternoon. She would have laughed with me about that peculiar man I saw that day.

And instead of spending my moments of failure alone, instead of withdrawing in silence and pain, I should’ve solicited her company. I should’ve requested her to be with me. She would have volunteered anyway, even as a friend, her consoling words and healing touch.

I should’ve tried to connect with her every time she showed concern or even hints of sweetness (if I should’ve interpreted it as such). I should’ve made it a point to make her feel that her presence is always welcome and appreciated.

Instead of texting her stuff about tasks, we could’ve swapped inspirational quotes and morning greetings. Instead of throwing at her flirting remarks, which can only pass as friendly banter at most, instead, I should’ve stared at her eyes with a stare of adoration – maybe she would appreciate, even just the sincerity of my eyes, trying to touch her heart.

Instead of playing mind games and sending mixed signals, I should’ve been more honest with what I feel for her. As people admire people who are truthful of their feelings of love, she would’ve admired me if only for that.

-----------------------

Instead of delivering my derisive retorts on her, I should’ve realized that, even if I am just joking, she would have been hurt if I did. I did it, and she was hurt indeed.

When I said sorry to her, and she withdrawn a bit from me, I shouldn’t have hit her back with my usual witty replies. I should’ve pressed on my apology, waited for her forgiveness as she told me, and maybe even gave her some yellow tulips as a sign of my repentant love.

-----------------------

And even when I failed to do all of these things, I shouldn’t have stopped saying sorry until she would have forgiven me. I know she would have. She is a good person; at the very least her kindness would’ve made that possible.

Instead of being caustic for fear of vulnerability, instead of being blinded by personal pride, maybe I should’ve been more forgiving of myself. I should’ve forgiven myself instead of denying my mistakes. Then maybe, just maybe, she would have forgiven me.

I should have attempted, even if it wasn’t possible, even if she wouldn’t have liked me anyway, even if I would’ve lost her as a friend, given the fact that I lost her anyway, to be her lover. That can never be something wrong.

Maybe I would’ve been happier than I am now if I did.

But there are things that had already been, things I cannot undo or reverse. I understand that she can no longer be in my life what I hoped she would be, for she can no longer see me with the eyes of amity, much less forgive me of what I’ve done to her.

I can only commit myself not to make the same mistakes again.

Comment: I realized its good to post some prose here once in a while. So here's one, which I wrote during an LRT ride home a year ago.

Memories II

2007-07-03T23:25:00.000-07:00

It's funny that I can't remember your face.
You, you that had been the object
of my love, of my hatred, fear,
faceless, in my mind.

I only have faint memory of how
you look, how you dance,
how you talk.

Even your voice sounds faint
when I try to recall it, I am
unsure of its tone
and its pitch.

I tried to remember your eyes, how
they look, how they catch my own
eyes looking at you, how my days are
made more blissful just by looking
at them.

I do remember, after all.

Now your voice came back to my mind.
Now I remember,
how you laugh, how you talk, how you sing,
how you make me smile just by uttering
a word, or making a sound,
how you complete me even by your silence,
which makes me miss your voice
even more.

And then your image comes back to me.
I begin to remember the contours
of your face which I dreamed to touch,
your tired-looking eyes, your full
lips, your forehead, half-covered by your
pitch-black hair, your inviting eyelids, your
stabbing smile and indifferent stare.

And then finally,

I began to remember I
love you.

- James Miraflor (02.__.06)

Love Stories

2007-07-01T05:51:00.000-07:00

by James Miraflor (07.01.07)

Comments: I began and almost finished this at least five or six months ago. but I stopped. Recently, after judging the poem to be adequate, I restarted the editing process. As of now, love stories don't bother me that much anymore.

---

I hate love stories.

And love songs too. Or lovers
in Manila Bay during Thursday
nights. During Mondays too, I
hate them.

When I see lovelorn couples in malls, I
mock them in my thoughts, I say to
myself - the callous! What right
do they have to enjoy the
afternoons, coffees, and tulips, when
thousands after thousands of
my people, wretched by the prospect
of upheavel and grief, roam
around the streets, naked
of dignity and hope?

When I see couples cuddling
each other in LRT* cabs, enjoying
being packed like sardines while
I am cursing the emulsified stench
of perspiring bodies and
perfumes, punishing my olfactory
nerves, I mock them
in my thoughts. I say to
myself - the lumpens! Shouldn't they be
working, preparing the masses for
a society about to rupture, instead
of exchanging useless mushy thoughts
and maudlin words?

When I see telenovela twosomes,
I bash them as demobilizing propaganda,
meant to lull people to sleep while
the elite reaps profit from
the proletarian sweat and blood.
Again, the ruthless! - the purchasing
power of their prodigal class, able to buy
time to love and be loved, able to buy
love in fancy restos and clubs, while
I cannot even buy
a moment to visit you, nor
a flower to bribe you to
forgive me.

I'm bitter, I know.

I ask myself - Why should the rest of
these assholes be able to give and accept
love, when I cannot even have yours?
Why are they loved by the ones
they hold dear, while I, who only
toiled to help build a world
where people can love and be loved
equally and without hesitation, had
been and will continually be
denied of your love? Why
can't you love me?

Thus, when I again see lovers
strolling under the crimson
afternoon sky, I must mock
them in my thoughts, if only to
justify my lost, if only to
avenge myself of the violence
of your rejection. The
callous! The ruthless!
The lumpens!

And so,
I just let the arrogance of my sacrifice
give justice to the suffering you
caused me.

---

* Light Rail Transit

Memories

2007-06-30T03:22:00.001-07:00

I remember.
I tried to resist, yet
it comes back to me like surging water
strongly and mightily returning,
like the ocean waves I saw that night.

I remember
those times when you rest your head
and then your arms in my shoulder,
when your bright eyes
shimmer like the stars
I saw those nights.

Until now I can remember
how your beautiful
eyelashes
danced and swayed its way
towards my heart,
towards my mind.

And then the days we ate together are here
with me, again.
I looked at you, with your each scoop,
each bite, every time you
wipe your lovely lips.
And as I sip my coffee
I still looked at you.
And my day is bright again.

And then I remembered those days
when we walked together.
You did not notice,
that every time you are not looking
I looked at you,
fearing that each look would be the last
and that something that is so sweet
might be so fleeting
as other sweet things had been
in my life.

And just as I had expected,
the sweetness had been abrupt,
shortened by intricate acts of destiny
which until now I cannot bring myself
to comprehend.

And so I just reminded myself of these things.

- James Miraflor (01.24.06)

Hamburger

2007-06-30T03:20:00.000-07:00

Ba't di ka mawala sa isip ko?
Nandito ako, nakaupo,
nakaupo sa upuan sa harap ng
komputyer na puti, napupuwing sa
alikabok ng aming bentilador.
Pero di ka pa rin mawala.
Hindi ko nga alam eh. Ewan ko
ba, para kasing meron tutubi sa utak
ko naglalaro ng boksing
tapos imbis na "Pacquio! Pacquio!"
yung sinisigaw nung mga ipis
(oo ipis yung audience), sinisigaw
nila pangalan mo. Sabi nila,
"_____! _____"!
Pero me biglang sumigaw na
lamok "Lodyes! Lodyes!". Nagulat
tuloy ako, kala ko sabong.
Pero meron namang lumapit sa
akin, sabi nya, ano ka ba gumising ka
nga. Pero sabi ko di ko kaya.
Kasi di ka pa rin mawala.

Di ko nga alam e. Actually marami akong
di alam. Di ko alam kung paano
humingi ng sori sayo
dahil di mo naman ako
pinapansin. Di ako marunong magluto
ng adobo. Di rin ako marunong
mag-bike (pero marunong akong lumangoy).
Pero alam ko naman na kung
susubukan kong lumapit sayo
para humingi ng sori, di mo
naman ako sasagutin.
Alam ko rin na lalo ka lang
mas magagalit sa akin.
Tapos lalo mo kong di papansinin.
Tapos haharap na naman
ako sa puting kompyuter,
magta-type ng tulang jologs,
mapupuwing na naman sa
alikabok ng bentilador na di
ko pa rin nalilinis.

Pero di ka pa rin mawawala.

- James Miraflor (01.30.06)

End

2007-06-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid of the end,
for I know not where to begin again.

The sun knows to rise in the east
after setting in the west.
The wind that the sea steals at night
is returned as a gift of love
to the coast each morning.
The water gathered by the heavens
knows when to return to the earth
as rain. Or sometimes snow.
Tempest. Storm.

But I
know not where to begin
after you ended me.

Rather,
like ashes of a burned love letter,
I had been scattered by the four winds
to the endless sky.

Like a purpose ended, fulfilled,
I am nothing anymore,
nothing without you.

- James Miraflor (03.09.06)

Incision

2007-06-27T19:07:00.000-07:00

This is the end.

I am aware, that I had suffered
long enough, and thus,
this time I shall fight.
I shall choose to resist;
when the waves of
desire begin to rise again,
I shall vanquish it;

And when my eyes will
again look for you,
I shall gouge it,
and squeeze it, until it bleeds,
until it can no longer
see anything but my blood,
red with my detestation
of you.

And when my ears will
again crave for your voice,
I shall cut it, and then I shall
push sticks and wood
and dirt unto it,
until my eardrums squeal
in throbbing pain,
in stinging silence.

And when my tongue begins
to speak of you again,
I shall slice it in
half, so it can never speak
of anything about you or
your beautiful eyes.

And when my mind
begins to generate images
of you, I shall bang my head
unto the wall until it
cracks, and then I shall get
a knife and cut you off
my brain. Then you'll no longer
be of the past, nor of the future.

I shall do so again and
again until you are no longer
with me.

- James Miraflor (03.17.06)

Bukas, wala ka na

2007-06-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

Mayroon pa ring kaunting natitira.
Hindi ko maalis ang aking pagsinta.
Pinilit ko giliw, na kalimutan ka.
Pero nandyan ka pa rin,
nandyan ka.

Sinubakang iwasan, ang lahat tungkol sa'yo.
Ngunit di ko magawang, utusan ang puso ko.
Dahil sa pagbukas hanggang sa
pagsara ng aking mata,
nandyan ka.

Sinubukan ring hayaan, ang puso'y magmahal
umaasang pag-ibig ko'y, siya ring mapapagal,
mapapagod, magsasawa sa kaiibig sa iyo.
Ngunit nalaman sa huli, nagkamali ako
at ngayon napopoot, punong puno ng galit
dahil kahit anong gawin hindi ka mawaglit
dahil sa bawat sandali, sa bawat saglit
nandyan ka.

Nais kitang kalimutan, sa gayo’y walang pag-aalinlanga’y
ako’y gigising, kinabukasan ng umaga,
Maghahanap ako, na tila ba may nawawala
at maiisip ko na lang, na oo nga pala,
wala ka na.

Sana bukas wala ka na.

- James Miraflor (02.19.06)

Comment: I really don't do non-free-verse poems, so this is just an experiment. It sounds so mushy, which is so not me. But I really do think it would be good as lyrics in a song or something.

Hate

2007-06-25T23:01:00.000-07:00

Comments: This took me a while to finish, about five months, I think.

----------------------------

I

We are connected by hate;
anger, seeping from the innards
of our souls, dissipating only
in the presence of civility,
only to return in the moments
of silence, of solitude,
when we are together,
the hate is back.

You look at me with
indifference. You intend to tell me,
I will not have an ounce
of aversion, no pint
of attention. You'll deprive
me the hospitality of
an enemy. I will have nothing but
artificial, ornate
cordiality.

But there is no cordiality when
we're alone, only the air
of discomfort thickening between
us, choking us into silence,
drowning us into cold,
uneasy calm.

II

Your eyes betray your
seething scorn, laced by your
usual sardonic smile. I remember
your eyes, then, full of innocent
charity, now bereft of any
amiability, now awashed with
distaste.

And no one can see our hate.
People, seeing us in casual
encounters, moments of meeting and
quick trysts, can only hear
the silence of our hearts.

III

And I cannot sleep, for my
eyes are perpetually irradiated by
your bitter memory, blinding
me everytime I try to end my
sordid wakefulness.

My hate of you, too personal,
too consuming that it is intimate,
too absolute that I fear that
my hate is nothing more but a
strange parody of love.

For everytime you smile your
sardonic smile, everytime your
hate connects to mine, everytime
contempt is as real as my flesh
touching yours, my affection becomes
as real as the silence
of your heart.

IV

I will hate you till
I love you
no more.

- James Miraflor (07.26.2007)

Destiny

2007-06-25T23:00:00.003-07:00

If I had been enough,
I would have tried to have
you.

Maybe,
there is a reason why
princesses are only meant
for princes, why a commoner
are meant only for
commoners (or sometimes, for
no one), why grasses grow
only in pastures and
not in bricks, why morning
dews are only for highland flowers
and leaves and trees and not
for carcasses of dessert
hyenas.

I, an agent of
the proleratarian revolt, should've
rejected this. The politics
of my class commands me to assert,
in a deafening cry, that you
can love me as much as
I can love you.

But no. Flowers indeed would
look awkward growing
on street bricks, and dead hyenas
can only be wet by the vulture's
spit.

- James Miraflor (09.28.2006)

Change

2007-06-25T23:00:00.001-07:00

They say people change,
that you are not who
you used to be yesterday,
that you will not be who
you are today.
Then I realized its not true.
For how come that I,
after loving you yesterday,
still love you today?
How come I know that
I will love you tomorrow
still?

Then I realized,
people do change afterall.

For I know that I love you
more today than I had loved you
the days before that,
and less than I will love
you the next day.

- James Miraflor (05.13.06)

Iwanan mo na ako

2007-06-25T22:59:00.001-07:00

Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.
Iwanan mo na ako.

- James Miraflor (03.21.06)

Receptacle

2007-06-25T22:58:00.000-07:00

0 1 2 6 15 31 56 92 141 205 286 386
0 1 4 9 16 25 36 49 64 81 100
1 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19
2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0
0 0 0
0 0
0

- James Miraflor (03.21.06)

Vow

2007-06-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

I watch you fade away
slowly, in my mind.
Memories of you, slipping
away as the earth sucks down
the sands of the hourglass.

Then I watch you fade away.
Again. I've seen this before - you
fading away from my mind,
only to return with as
much strength as when I first
loved you.

How many times did I love you?
How many times did I un-love you?

I can't remember now.

Then I watch you,
gone. Again. Though this time,
I expected you to return -
the scars in my heart,
caused by your occasional reappearances,
reminding me of your unspoken vow
to come back,
and hurt me again.

- James Miraflor (03.07.06)

Three hours

2007-06-25T22:55:00.000-07:00

Three long hours,
I waited. I waited for my consciousness
to pass out from the
fatigue of the day's work.
I tried to put myself to sleep,
reading a book to bore my mind
and tire my eyes, thinking
that that'll do the job.

Three long hours,
I struggled. I struggled to fixate
my mind to things I thought
would be less painful or bothersome
to think about. And then I struggled to
blank my mind of
things, thinking
that that'll do the job.

And in that three long hours,
I failed. I failed in my effort
to forget you,
to forget that I still love you,
to forget that until now
you hate me.

Three long hours
of waiting.
Three long hours
of regret.

At last, I am asleep.

- James Miraflor (02.21.06)

Cold

2007-06-25T22:29:00.001-07:00

The night had been cold.
I wondered, if you are here,
could it have been warm?

- James Miraflor (01.27.06)

Elegy for a pig

2007-06-25T22:28:00.001-07:00

That afternoon,
I watched as my comrade, forced by fear,
expelled his excrements
in the streets.

He did it, as his would-be
executioner dragged him, towards the
pedicab that would bring him
to that dark and grimy slaughterhouse.

I, for so long now,
had been called by my comrade’s name,
his name evoking shame, self-disgust,
and hatred, his name representing
people’s eternal abhorrence
of corpulence.

Then I saw my comrade that fateful afternoon.
Though his sinews are tightening, his
abdomen painfully contracting, his
limbs almost collapsing from
the weight of his own fear – my comrade,
his eyes, projecting silent courage, his
tranquility, demonstrating acceptance,
in calm defiance, with firm resolve,
he faced his executioner in the
most resolute manner,
understanding that his death is simply
the fulfillment of his purpose.

He did not struggle.
Yes, his body seemed that it wants
to flinch and lurch in terror.
But he had enough dignity,
to show that he did not intend to reveal it,
to show that he wants my last memory
of him to be a portrait of
humble self-respect.

That afternoon, I said to myself,

I would no longer wear my comrade's name
with shame.

- James Miraflor (01.27.06)

My Poems

2007-06-25T22:26:00.000-07:00

I hate my poems.

They do not sound as beautiful
or mysterious or passionate
as great poets' poems.

Instead, they look ridiculous,
sound amateur, appear
sloppy.

They don't rhyme, nor do they have
rhythm. They do not use words
that can sway feelings.

They show no creative
streak, no flash of genius, no
shade of inspiration.

My poems, are nothing
but my shattered thoughts, veiled by
poor attempts to impose
literary intent.

And as I struggle to
compose each verse, each line
for my deficient poems, I realized
how futile it is to draw out
beauty from me when
there is none.

And thus, my pathetic efforts to
write poems and amuse my
readers, remain fruitless.

Instead, clouded by ambivalence
and contradiction,
my poems annoy everyone
who reads them.

And they cannot but hate my poems,
as it is natural for one to hate
which one cannot love.

I hate my poems. I
hate my poems. I hate
my poems.

- James Miraflor (01.27.06)