its been quite awhile

been working on my long overdue website..its already online..though its not done yet

working on work...hmmm..not work, but hey i get paid for coming up with ideas, so it aint that bad

started working on my autobiography...for Jian..aint bad...gonna be long work though..but doable...

still working on finding a reason to go on...

its not enough just to have redemption...but to be...

i have to admit that its not enough for me just to have a redemption of sorts for all past sins and failures.

its been quite like a month, and i have argued with my new friends here cause i dont want to believe that iligan is god-forsaken city, that god took a nap, that god forgot to put some "quality" women when he was doing his rounds. i dont want to believe that. i cannot believe that because it would only mean that i would not be going to have my redemption.

call me a fool, but its just that after all the horrors that i have witnessed, with all the bllod and tears whose stains i still can feel in my hands, i have never forgotten to be hopeful. hopeful, that is, of some certain things, like a city for example. i have always been fascinated with cities, and i have never failed to go on searching among the highways and pathways of the city in my attempt of trying to understand her, of trying to be near the pulse of a city's beat.

though i have to admit that i do subscribe to the notion that if you want to know a city, try talking it over with her daughter..errr...women.

as i am writing this..i could see that there is one common element going around..ahhh....

anyway, i have began to love this city of waterfalls, though i have to mention that for a city who is known for overflowing waterfalls, i have had and will have my share of nights staying out a lil bit late just to make sure that the water bins are full.

and yet i have never forgotten the city who nurtured me. even now, zamboanga, with all the perfumes of my memory of her pulls me, a tugging in my soul, and her fingers are like barbs, reminding me...

...i remember the words of my long dead father...leave, but always to return..leave, and while away endure..remember. and i am trying to do that.

update on my proposed exit from this plane of existence is about in 5 years. i have some things to fix...

and yet, even with the wish to see everything end, with my own hand, i do wish that i would at least find redemption before i damn myself. and it is not enough that i find any kind of redemption, but it has to be a redemption that at times, i must admit, a person like me does not merit. i asked for a redemption without using the tricks of the trade, the talents that i had to learn.

i want to be redeemed first...without doing anything, without yelling "someone save me!"

i guess even damned striving starving poets can have pleasant dreams or two...

extension..or acceleration

many know that one of the perks that im gonna get from being far from home (ok, 500 kms is not that far!) is that im gonna get an extension in my life.

yeah, im talking about an extension against the deadline i set for my self.

but on nights like the usual, in a place where i have no roots, i keep on working on my two projects..and the projects will ultimately lead me earlier than expected to that deadline.

so..is iligan an extension or an acceleration of things?

friends wish for an extension..and somehow, so do i...

in the meantime, i am taking things easier...

coming home...

finally..i am coming home.

the weather is not that good as i do this, and yet in a couple of hours i would be going back to where i came from.

pages of memories were filled up here...and i would be thanful for them.

iligan is a girl/woman/mother/priestess kind of city.

i am sure gonna miss this place...and my room..and her...

---- cheesy i guess, but the only works i wrote while im here...

Songs for Jacqueline

Song i

The days, the days have flown and blown
Like dry leaves on the last day of autumn,
And soon there will be a winter in my heart;
A winter whose first flecks of snow would fall
The moment my steps lead me to where I belong

I will soon be there where you are not

There is magic in being
a stranger in a garden such as yours—
I roamed these strange paths, losing myself
In its splendor of fresh fruits and bright colors.
Little by little I trained my tongue
To trace words as you do with your own.

I waited, and watched, and immersed myself
Among these waters where you belong
While my soul longed to find its heart,
Only to find my own heart, my own soul
Filled with longings
Filled with images of you
As if knowing you would lead me
To discover much more than just the face
Of this city whose arms have welcomed me.

5:09 pm pala-o, iligan
24 November 2004

Song ii

With my blackened heart
I have never seen an angel,
Yet even if I should never
I need no visions of halos and wings
To believe in One
who created all sorts of things;
the wide spread blanket of the sky, the stars,
a flower in bloom and dew on the grass
for you are there, among all of his things

I remember your voice
Of how your tongue weaved
The currents of air and space
So I may listen while I witness
How your eyes were
Twin silent and still pools
Deep as the night when only a few stars
Dare to reveal their light to mortal eyes
From so far away and yet warm
Like the fires of your smile
Who crept from the horizon of your lips.

I remember, and I dare not forget
Of how you belong among the colors and shapes,
Of how your presence kindled those around you,
And I watched you, for that was all that I could do,
While my memory turned page after page
Filled with your lines, your color, your shape.

Poet I call myself but the world calls me a fool,
One among the few who are dying everyday.
But absence is the price for those who live,
I know, and I am willing to pay
for these blinks of my eyes each filled
with the knowing that I do not know you,
amidst the sadness that it is.

I have never seen angels and perhaps
I will never discover you for who you really are,
Know what lies beneath
Your voice, your smile, your eyes
And yet I would give a smile
For what I now have, pieces of you,
Even on the moment
Before I forever lose my breath
and close my eyes.

5:35 pm pala-o, iligan
24 November 2004

Song iii

Home, the memory of home tugs at my heart, whispering to my ears the words in a voice I shall never forget, nor regret. It pulls me, like planets and stars do with each other, holding me in place, in space, floating to chart uncharted maps, in orbit.

I do not belong in iligan.

And yet, in this garden that is sometimes a jungle to my senses, whose shadows and shapes and colors I am still to recognize while clothed in morning light or starlight, I find something in the blossoms carried by the winds. The air here is filled with fragments I cannot name yet ones I would like to discover.

I am nothing more than a boy/man/lover/poet/vagabond.

And this city is a girl/woman/mother/priestess.

And I find myself on my knees, lips chanting an invocation of silence, as if the flutter of my lips would bring my thoughts to some secret place whose blossoms would flutter themselves to where I am now.

10:17 am pala-o, iligan
25 November 2004

and i met jacqueline...

i met someone a few days back. i was with friends, enjoying the waters of one of timoga's resort, jusy trying to blend in, letting my eye wander from figure to figure, linger and fling to the colors and shapes,a ll moving, all alive around me.

and then something happened...i saw her... and somehow i found the courage to take steps towards where she was..and talked...


<= there used to be a pic of her here, and it took a good friend to remind me of my folly, thanks uga!=>

and for someone who is very good at words..why is it that i cannot find, or im afraid to put down words that might not suffice for what i really wanna say? a poet who has lost his words... i know its bad, losing words, but in this case, all i could do is smile...

and attempt to write what i could never write in here...

will i see her again? or the question is..will she see me again?

still alive..and enjoying it

im still in iligan..and i guess i have been enjoying that somehow, i got to take myself off from the pc.

normal routine of the days:

wake up at about 11 a.m.

eat lunch.

drink coffee, write, play pc games, soundtrip,feed myself...until about 3 a.m.

sleep.

not bad huh?

i know this will end...but i earned the right to enjoy this, so i guess im taking it slow...

about the eyecandies that i find? well, i sure do make free time for that. i love this place!

out here...

admittedly, i do miss zamboanga city.

its only my second day here in iligan, and yes, i do miss good ole hometown. and yet, im also glad to be here.

damn internet is cheap. 10 bucks. and super fast.

food is good.

clean air.

lots of roads.

lots of women.

what?

and yes, though i miss zamboanga, the sight of one of God's finest creation makes the distance worthwhile.

i do not know if i am blind, but brothers, i wish you were here to check out the:

Merchandise! Merchandise! Merchandise! Merchandise!Merchandise!

Eyecandy! Eyecandy! Eyecandy! Eyecandy! Eyecandy! Eyecandy!

im trying to fight the urge, you know, me trying to be goodie goodie and all those stuff..and i hope i would...fail...

see you...gotta go somewhere muna... =)

for whom the bell tolls?!

grim thoughts....

a few nights ago, someone took time with me and warned me to watch my back. that someone was out there to hurt me. that somebody, i guess, wants me dead. said person, who i assume is a she, told me she was gonna keep me informed. No, she did not tell me who she was, only that she was a friend.

of course, it could be the enemy itself warning me. why warn me?! well, just to fuck me up in the brain, sort of a random move that would leave me in a quandry. i would do that if i wanted to hurt someone, deception veing an important tool of every war.

of course, it could also be some weird people who somehow got to zero in on me amidst the great universe of cyberspace, got a lock on who i really am behind the name and decided to have some wicked fun. i dont do stuff like these, but others might. and perhaps have.

but the person, she, knew a name i once used, a name that caused a lil bit of storm about a year ago. she must know me.

but the point is this, someone made a warning, or a threat perhaps. whoever did it, whethet true or false, does not really matter. the more important question is: is there a reason why someone should hurt me, harm me, even perhaps, kill me?

Yes. there is.

i could at least think of two people who would want me dead.

one of them whom my remaining friends fondly joke as my "best friend".

the other is someone who was really my best friend before we learned to betray each other real good. of course, she doesn't have to kill me cause im doing a better job of that than any one could ever think of. or perhaps someone close to her, someone who wants the memory of me to remain a few feet below the ground.

or perhaps, its someone i have no idea about.

i have always said that everything ends, sooner o later. i couldnot die, not yet, not with a book out there to compensate for my existence in the fringes of life. and most friends know how i would die when i get that book out.

but, if i ever meet a gruesome death in the next 3 months or so, then you could say i knew it all along.

one more thing, i don't like back stabbers. i dont wanna watch my back. if you wanna kill me, face me, and lets dance.

and never too young or old to start and...

well, here's the latest scoop.-------------

its over.

yup, it is over, and it ended in a fashion that i could only say, hmm, damon steine style. and in this case, it was an ugly ending, bloody without without the stains of blood, loud with the silence that is born afterwards.

there is though one thing that i should have made clear, that i dont play games. i go for the jugular, so to speak. i dont take no bullshit and i dont give any. and i do say what is on my mind.

i do love women, too much. and yes, i respect them a lot. ask my 13 sisters. but even though, i still dothe things that have to be done, and these are things that somehow hurt.

its a dirty job when you have to clean up things, but it needs to be done.

and yeah, i gave her the space to tell her bf first. and she did. now its my turn to face my friend. i should have done it earlier, yesterday that is, but i got stuck with only enough fare to go home. but i will say my piece. only my piece.

and thats that.

gotta a gurl sister? gurl cousin? gurl platonic friend? single or single moms, i love women.

go go go, hitch me!

never too young or old..to make mistakes...

I guess I should say one is never too old, nor too young to go and love someone.

I have always told myself that after taking a lot of women for granted, I have used up my coupons. You see I see this world as a world where the great One handed out coupons, different coupons for different things. You use them up. You can earn new ones. You could also lose all of them and end up with nothing.

And considering the life that I have lived, and ultimately will die off, you could say I use a lot of my coupons. A lot of them. If there is a next life, I might as well have used half of them.

Ask my friends, and they will nod, even perhaps raise a few bottles of beer for me. Though the women and other people on the other side might as well hurl pitchforks and rain fire and brimstones on me.

Anyway, back to where I started.

Wahhhh, meeting someone and then going through that hormonal and emotional rush. Felt so cheesy as I remember them now. They looked like scenes from movies I have seen before (yes, I do watch chick flicks, and I’m comfortable with my so called feminine side, thank you) I wanna tell you the details but you might not believe that I, damon steine, has such a mushy corny lovey dovey side. Hmmm, though thinking about that side, my friends have always pointed out that I am that, and a lot more. Like being a natural flirt. Like using my poetry as baits to trap women.

To cut it short, it was simply..wahhh..words elude me..and to think I pride myself with how I could fashion words and lines to suit my whims!

Now, there’s only one itsy teeny weeny problem.

She is the girlfriend of a close friend. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I am not a poacher. I am not a poacher. I am not a poacher.

thinking of what to write about here...

i am still thinking about what to write here. hence, the title.

today is friday, and yesterday i just saw a friends pc die. i even got the experience to see it die day after day. there were no tears shed, but my friend sure is sad. she named her pc after her bf, and her bf named his new pc after her. now her pc is dead. what does this foretel about their relationship? about her bf's pc?

actually, nothing, nothing at all.

i got to burn my 3rd compilation of mp3 cds. got the third album from a perfect circle, emotive (check out www.aperfectcircle.com for details), and their version of john lennon's imagine is, whats the word? hmmm..inspired.
also got dream theater's live performance of new york and budokan.

a few days ago, i was supposed to write down two things here. one was about talking with this woman who made me feel warm inside. too bad is that she is the ex gf of a friend. hah! and when i slept that night, i then dreamt of my ex gf. the dream was good, too good, she was on top of me, sitting astride with only a towel wrapped around her and she kissed me and i could swear that her lips tasted better, she kissed with such passion that in my dream all i could do was grab her breast which led me to wake up.

when i woke up, i tasted her tongue on my mouth. it was sweet. and i had a crazy raging hard on. talk about dreams and stuffs.

ok..i will think of other things to talk about. i will paste them ..if i could...

couple of old works...oldie..but goodie

Sonnet XI (by d. steine)

Where did your smiles go woman,
Who is the sadness, who is the thief,
Who saw your happiness as diamonds in the night
And stole them for himself?

The landscape of your face that is empty
Of the flowers and fruits of your smiles
Is a mad season I am loath, but willing, to endure.
The air is parched without your blossoms.

I would cross the fields of night with open eyes
Until I have your thief in chains,
And by the light of day I shall banish him.

And my shadow would walk far away from yours
If in the silence you tell me the name
Of the one who stole your smiles: mine.

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

Sonnet XII (by d. steine)

Do not go with the migration of birds,
Do not be a season soon to end
For the sky would be empty and infinite
And my eyes would be lost in an ocean of darkness.

Do not be a voice thrown into the wind
And scattered among distant shores
For I would walk and dive to find the pieces,
Impossible as it may be to find them all

I do not ask for you to be so close to me,
Nor do I demand that my hands could discover you
As a child would after leaving the womb-

Only that you be the stars to my eyes,
Distant and silent but there, with your smiles,
There, so that I could believe I am here.

inhaling the dust of yesterday...

i have always told my friends that there is a sense of magic with talking to someone who is, for a lack of better word, a stranger. not really a stranger in the sense, for you do know things about the other person, bits and pieces of who she is. ok, part stranger/part friend. something in between. someone you meet throught the electronic highways of cyberspace.

the good part of this is that, since you are not that close to each other, the other party will not have any biases against you, though i should admit that there might be a small tendency to side with you cause she knows you more than the other party involved. but then, being a stranger of sorts gives her the freedom to say whats on her mind without worrying if she is offending you.

a breath of fresh air.

the dust of yesterday might have been blown by the winds of, well, yesterday. and yet they have this quality that makes them stick not only to your clothes, but to your skin. you could somehow imagine it bond with the sweat you give off. of how it pains. of how it feels. of how it maddens.

and yet, laying it out through electronic bits and wires, with someone on the other end listening, makes inhaling the dust of yesterday worth it. its not the self-pity that comes, or the pain. but i suppose its that i feel a surge of life that i am, that i am still going on with every telling.

her memories won't kill me. and i prove that with every gulp of the past that i take. of course its possible i am killing myself slowly, perhaps. perhaps.

Song for Katrina (unfinished..work in progress...)

and to see
the flower of your smile
blossoming against
the dark and cold
of my screen

i see you and i remember
how it felt this morning,
in this land who
know no winter
and yet is cold,
i see you and i savor
the flavor
of sipping
hot black coffee.

- (so far...)

i seem to get tongue tied. no my fingers are tied trying to finish this poem for a friend i met in one of the rooms. she even asked me if i dont get bored looking at her...and if you saw her smile..you would have replied as i did..or perhaps even better...try to finish this later...waaaaahhhhhhhh

almost feeling it...

i have been in contact with quite a number of friends whom i haven't seen in a long time. and all of them ask how i am doing..and i always tell them that i am still alive...that i am still dying. im not morbid, its just that that is the truth anyway.

and yet, i almost feel it.

i know that its dangerous to play around with ones mind..but on some days, it is as if i could peel pieces of me drifting by to go to some unknown place where there is surely no return. as if i feel shreds of skin, fingernails and sweat oozing out of me...falling out.

in short, i seem to feel as if i am dying.

perhaps i am just fucking wiht my mind..or perhaps what i am feeling are all too real.

the memory of sad faces...

a couple of days ago, or perhaps it was last week, one of my "neighbors" in the place where i hang out came in. she usually comes with her bf in tow, but for some reason, she was alone. we shared a table, she on one side and i on the other. no, not the same table but two separate tables that is. i was busy with my reds, my coffee, and with my own thoughts.

then all of a sudden, i felt something was wrong. so i glanced up to her and saw the hard outlines of her face.

and so i wrote her something on the piece of paper lying around on the table, which happened to be photocopies of some chemistry notes. i could nothing else, thats why.

if only i there was a peso for every sad face that i see in women, i would be rich by now.

yeah..i wrote her something..and i dont really know if she kept the copy, the only copy of that something which i wrote. not my best work, but not the worse too. theres something about writing that piece in that moment that somehow made it good. if only i could have done soemthing to make her happy.

because her sad face reminds me of all the faces that i saw hardened and wet, faces of women whom i said i loved.

pattern recognition

quite odd, to recognize a pattern that has been staring at you for the longest time possible in ones life and only realize its true shape now.

admittedly, i have created a lot in my life, and when you talk about my poetry, even others would tell you that i have written thousands. though i also have to admit that only 1 out of every 10 poems that i create passes my own very rigid standards. the remaining nine are like practice, exercises, though it is frustrating sometimes when a work that i am not satisfied with ends up being liked, loved, admired by those who read it. i mean, why did they see that i, the creator, did not? i see clearly the flaws of the work, and yet all they could see is that it touches them, and they love it. ashamed, though i try to hide it well, i shape my face into a smile and accept their words. partly im happy, much more sad.

of course, there is that thought that is always at the back of my mind about creation, that once released into the outside world, the creator does not have anything to do with it, that it has to survive alone on its own merits, with no connection whatsoever or help from me. and it saddens me to think that i give birth to a lot of sons and daughters with missing legs and arms, blurred faces, undecipherable names. the woes of guilt!

perhaps it is i who missed things and not those who read my poems. perhaps it was my eyes whose windows have been living under a blanket so wide that i no of no other else but that. perhaps. but there is something that i have seen that some have been mistaken with.

many have thought that because i have written so many poetry, most of them concerning the best and the worse when a man and a woman comes together (i wonder if any other mortal topic could beat this) does it mean that i know a lot about love itself. and yes, the pattern i recognize is that i do not know a thing about love, that i have been blind to the praises and the shapes that wanted to be free inside of me.

i do not know anything about love. true. and it was scary at first to admit to myself. felt alone in the world, a feeling that i thought i have forgotten.

but it is true, and afterwards, i smiled. yes, i smiled because i somehow recognized my stupidity.

i wrote a lot about "love" because i did not know what it was. all of the other works were searches, excavations and flights to regions in search of the elusive thing itself. out of 10 love poems, only one had a shred of truth about it, faint traces.

and now, i have to learn what "love" really is. like a child.

after the show....

three percent would have made all the difference. and it was the only difference between us and the other band.

ok we did not win as we had hoped we would. but for the record, we placed third, though too bad coz there was no prize for being third best...hahahahahahaa.

though our stickman reigned supreme among the 15 drummers in the fold. we placed second on vocals and bassist. but then again, there was no second best for the other categories.

we did not vote ourselves through sms, as other bands did, and we did not win texters choice and one other award. ok, we lost..

but we won too! =)

we won cause one contest is not gonna kill us. it was not the end, but only the beginning.

i raise my fist to the future....

just a matter of time...

in a couple of hours, judgement would be handed down.

i did not mean to sound that melodramatic. its just that the rx band breakout is slated for tonight, and yes, me and my band are quite on our feet and fingers to let it roll.

in a matter of hours, we would somehow know something, and that is if our collctive best was good enough, or not. not to mention that we got a lot of flak last night from most listeners. admittedly, it started to get on our nerves, though its worth considering that if we are really losers, then why are they paying attention to us? we should be beneath their notice, and yet notice us they do.

but whatever happens tonight, the music will play on. a worse case scenario that we played was that we would win nothing. nada. zilp. zilch. void. and yet its nice to know that even with the worse case scenario becoming a reality, the music will play on. in the first place, it would be shallow of us to let go just because we lost.

though we have to admit this early that it would be painful to lose, to see all the craftmanship and sacrifices go down the drain. but hey, thats life. the band exists not to win contests, but to play. though the perks that coems with winning are good. but on the other hand, winning the contest is also a responsibility, a responsibility to prove further that winning it was not a fluke.

win or lose,contest or not, we know that we have to prove our worth. at least to ourselves.

oh, im the last in an 8-man band. and by contest rules, only 7 would be on stage. but its ok, cause i did my job as a dark horse. being a writer in a talented band has its own pros and cons. it gives me the privilege to work hard first and then sit down when the show happens, though i have to say that i t would have been better if i was upstage, performing and not merely a spectator.


now, to take away the failed melodramatic start of this log, tonight is not judgement night. its just one more night whom afterwards we have to start all over again.

"as the music plays the band", as one contemporary writer croons. and so shall it be for the band, for my brothers.

bonz, macky, edward, jojo, mike, mik-mik, arvy, collective known as the band "junkyard", i salute you brothers.

it would be a great show.

far behind the light of stars...

i do not love the way the crown of your hair gather the blossoms of summer, nor do i love the canvass of your face where artisans such as i can find color, shape and lines to sculpt, paint or write as poetry into the pages of memories. i do not love the slim trunk of your neck that connects to the branches of your arms capable of lowering themselves so i may taste your fruits.

i do not love the twin peaks of your breast in whose valley i could burrow myself and find rest, nor do i hunger to trace the path that leads to the center of you where the half of you could meet half of mine and become whole. i do not love the two poles of your legs where my tongue can become a vine twirling downwards to discover the roots of your feet holding you upright from the earth, thrusting you into the open sky to declare your place, of who and what you are to the senses, to the seasons.

i do not love the notes of your voice who echo what may have been the songs from the first day of the world, nor do i adore the twin suns of your eyes who could hold me into the warm season of your gaze and then plunge me into the winter darkness of seeing you not seeing me, ignoring me.

i do not love your soul, i do not know what a soul is, that metaphor for the one flame that burns inside of you, or so they say. you are not a metaphor. you are more than that.

i do not love you. i do not love you because i do not know what love is.

"love" fails. what is love is "love" if not a mere word, four letters who attempt to become fingers holding in its palm the colors, taste, shape, and seasons of what you are to me: the naked sun, the dying stars, the dance of day and night.... the word "love" is not enough, and so i cannot say that i love you, and so i do not love you.

though i would like you to know that because of you i seek for the roots of my memories, the moment of my birth. because of you i become aware of a tomorrow where i will never be. i do not love you woman, but because of you i would like to hold both roots of my memories and the tomorrow i do not know and stretch it and throw it far behind the light of stars that my eyes could see.

as for any errors....

i dont edit the writeups i do here...for all the errors, it is my fault alone. i know i should be careful about this, considering my position in the past, but then, lets just say that since this is one of my home in the nets, im taking the liberty of letting things be as how they were..you know what i mean. thanks...

letting go..finally....

it would have been good if we could talk, in the flesh, even if it would be for the last time. but then, that is not quite possible, and perhaps its one that we would like to avoid as much as possible. still, if only it could be done.

let me tell you about a dream i had last week. i fell asleep on a sofa, and i had this dream where i saw all of my friends, silent, and yet there was the unmistakable look in their face, a look of such profound sadness. i asked them what was wrong but they kept their silence. it was only when i insisted that there came a voice, from a friend, though i really cant say who. anyway the friend said "were sorry jace, but we have to let you know that..." i then woke up. and the first thing that came to my mind as i felt the first tear falling from my eyes was that something happened bad to you. i had a feeling that you had died. admittedly, it was a bad dream. but that was not all.

after that dream, each of nights afterwards were filled with dreams. and they bad dreams in the sense that they are lies. lies because they are things that will never be. the dreams share a constancy though. you, me, jian. smiles. laughters. touch. kisses. hugs. lies, all lies.

anyway, got me to thinking that like it or not, we would always be linked to each other. but there is nothing more between us except for that common link. thus, it made me realize why we are so called "friends", in all of the possible scenarios, in friendster.com. theres no point in keeping it, thus what i should have done sometime ago would be done by the time your reading this.

its one thing to see some other guy enjoying my wife. but why did i give you the perfect way to show me that not only is he enjoying you, but he is also enjoying my son. i guess that was the last straw.

if ever you would like to keep your promises, then do it with love. if you could not do it with love, then do not do it at all. you could send me pictures like you used to. but do it out of love, not for me, for i know theres nothing in you, but do it for him.

thank you for the lessons you taught me. thank you for the gifts you gave me. words fail me, honestly, and yet i am thankful.

it is my regret though, that we, who we used to be, a reality, has been reduced to myriad possibilities, fragments of stories, pieces of poetry, soon to be forgotten memories. but that is life. and that is all.

one last thing before i go, heres somethign iw rote for you, the first i wrote in a long time, and perhaps its the last, though my friends disagree with me.


An Epilogue for Crossed Out Hearts

i may never recognize your smile even as my hands retrace the contours of your face, nor name the secret name in your eyes even if i am to meet, and hold and drown in your glances, not because i am blind, or my limbs and flesh are numb, but because your smiles and your glances are no longer meant for me.

there will never be a poetry from me faithful enough to reconcile the burrows i dug in the earth of your face when i made you frown, nor a poetry potent enough to heal the breach i broke in the dam of your eyes when i made you cry. there is no poetry for the dead and fallen leaves of yesterday whom we gathered, and burned by the fires of our distance, our regret, our shame, and our forgetfulness.

but there is poetry for the blossoms of yesterday. faint, almost absent, transparent, and yet they lace every breath that i take, they tint every shape i know. they flare like stars in the empty skies of my dreams.

and so i write to you now. this may not be poetry, but this is for your gifts, your ancient gifts that are pieces of my soul, of my pride and shame.

yours were the first lips who sought mine and taught me a language i could speak for the moments when words that sound could not duplicate. yours was the shadow who stood at my side and thus i discovered that i had my own. there you were in your island home of Basilan, a destination full of love, worthy of navigating the violent waves of the stormy sea so that i may touch you. you will forever be the fruit, ripe, sweet, nourished by earth, wind, water and fire whom this boy once plucked on a summer day nearly a decade ago, and i became a man.

you are the lesson i know and yet dare not learn when you took your first steps away from me into a city half a world away in the clutches of a winter whose fingers would ultimately touch me, far as i may be from you in my kingdom of sun and rain.

you craved the trinkets of the world much more than the tattered clothes of my soul, i know that now, but thank you for loving the seeds of sleeping promises inside of me whom you planted into your womb, whose name i wish would always be Jian, the Beautiful, as a testament that before the breaking of things, before sunset claims those whom the sun caressed, there is Beauty. there is Beauty! however brief and painful it may be...

i love you with such passion and intensity that no stars could outshine, no poetry of mortals or gods and goddesses could ever define, and i would have bestowed them upon you if only, if only it did not mean my own long and suffering death. and that is why i kept it far away from you, even until now.

i am dead now, in your eyes, in your glances and in your smiles. i dare not explain how i have bound my life inseparable to my art, of how the boy who became the man died, not by your arms, or from the wine of your regret and shame and abandonment. i died on the hands of my own, dying with every drop of ink, every page after page of paper i stain as i attempt to chart the map and portrait of where i long to be and whom i would like to be.

once loved.

twice betrayed.

never to be forgiven, and forgotten. a poet.

thank you. goodbye

damon steine

the fragments of dreams

i dont know why, but i have been having dreams lately. i know everybody dreams, though most of us barely remember them. and for the past years i have not remembered a dream, which is something quite odd. but then, the past few nights have been something different. recurring dreams. or better yet, call them nightmares. its not that they are the scary or gory kind. its just that they make me remember so many things about my past, about a face i know i will never forget but one i would really like to stay away from my nocturnal journeys.

and it doesn’t help that the last book i read was from connie willis, entitled "lincoln's dreams" (check this one out, its worth your time!) and yeah, by the title itself, it tackles some issues about what dreams are. Freud tried to explain them, though other people think that dreams are worth nothing. but like connie, i do believe dreams are something. its just that i dont know what it really is.

perhaps it could be my hidden desires raging, wanting to come out, or fears in my subconscious, trying to break free. perhaps. i dont really have an idea.

or perhaps a dream, the occurrences of dreams is what every one of us longs for, a secret place. a place where we wish to run to, a place of solitude of some sorts. a place that may be dark and cold, and yet comfortable. a place that may be bright and warm, and yet whose light reveals shapes and colors we are afraid to see.

wish me a good night sleep tonight, and for the other nights ok?

now, about the dreams that i have been having.

there is a woman there. yes, i do know her, i know her as much as a person could possibly know another person. i am familiar with her face, the way she smiles. and yes, she is smiling, no, she is not mocking me, but smiling nevertheless, a smile that you could say is a mask for the desires in her heart that she hides.

though there is no sound there, we are having a conversation. we go places. and then other elements come, elements i dare not mention...

and then i wake up. its not scary i know, but it hurts because those are images of a season now long dead. its only a fucking dream.

but a dream that i would like to become true, even if only for one last time, before i die.

early morning with venus...

about 3 nights ago, one of the eletrical post went with a blast, bright lights before plunging the streets into darkness. as you may realize if you gaze up the sky, the moon is nearly full (or has it already been full, i dont know...) and so are the stars. then, i found myself staring up at the sky. it feels cheesy though, remembering that line from an old song about two people far apart looking at the stars, thinking of each other. not only cheesy, but it also sucks, cause im sure there were other people looking at the sky at that time, many of them in pairs, while i am very sure that no one is thinking of me though i am thinking of someone. self pity

background music - 3 Libras by A Perfect Circle

though the moon was full, it was a good sight of the stars, clear skies. i tried to remember the constellations that i remember, small dipper, orion..the rest i forgot. it must have been the planer venus that shined the brightest. then suddenly, i felt, remembered, that though the stars have served as guides for voyagers, the constellations reminded me that my own is down the drain. there i was looking at the lights, soem dead, some living, some perhaps newly born. i saw the light of the stars and remmebered that they are mere fragments of the past, their light that is.

and where was i? i felt insignicant. i wanted to go inside and write, find shelter between the pages that i always tuck with me. but something kept me rooted. and gazing. remembering.

3 Libras
Mer de Noms

threw you the obvious and you flew
with it on your back, a name in your recollection,
thrown down among a million same.
difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed
and passed over
when i've looked right through
to see you naked and oblivious
and you don't see me.
but i threw you the obvious
just to see if there's more behind the eyes
of a fallen angel,
the eyes of a tragedy.
here i am expecting just a little bit
too much from the wounded.
but i see through it all
and see you.
so i threw you the obvious
to see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel,
eyes of a tragedy.
oh well. apparently nothing.
you don't see me.
you don't see me at all.

(watch the video..you wont regret it!)

after sometime, i found myself feeling empty. i dont know if the stars and moon have taken it away from me, or if i somehow offered it to them, and they accepted it. empty, yes, but i had a smile on my face. and the reason? i dont really know why...

i guess it had something to do with venus, flaring for mortal eyes such as mine...

a confession

for quite some years now, there have been friends who have, in one way or the other, told me that i have an addiction. admittedly, i had a previous addiction, you know, the killing kind to the mind and body, but this is a different addiction. and whenever they point it out, i would strongly disagree, saying that whatever i am doing is a part of my craft, a payment that i have to hand over as i hone my art. but for the past 3 months now, i have began to realize that my friends were quite perceptive. or perhaps it was I trying to be blind to the obvious. and the addiction?

i am addicted to women. ha! and quite sad actually, but redeeming at the same time to accept one of the truths about my life.

since i was a kid, i was the observant kind. i had my normal childhood, playing with the other kids, whether real games or imaginary ones, but if there is a camera somewhere, a camera of god perhaps, reviewing it would see me sitting down and just thinking away. i was not a loner, but as a child i learned to savor my solitude, and a good thing that i learned that because that acceptance of being alone has helped me a lot these past few years.

and i spent quite some time of those years observing women.

perhaps i am a voyeur of sorts. old women, young women, mothers, maidens, the highs and lows, the beautiful and the ugly, the silent and the meek, the abused and the domineering, and everything else possible i have observed about women. and i should say that my poetry is full of them. perhaps the adjective is "reek", that my poetry reeks of women i know, i tasted, i met, i left, i lusted over, women i have hurt, intentionally and otherwise.

and what an addiction.

i do believe in god. why? because only god could have drawn the schematics, the portraits of whom women are nowadays. nah, im not trying to get some brownie points at you by saying that i do adore women, but it is the truth.

without women, where would i be? what would i be? of course, i should make it clear that women have not been responsible for any of my evil deeds. but i would say that they have been, in one way or the other, a source for some of the purest things about me, my poetry for one.

it is my wish that before i would leave this plane, i would be able to give back what women has given to me. if not, then die attempting.

to the women of the world, i offer you my words, my heart, and my voice.

and my love, whatever remains of it.

An Epilogue for Crossed Out Hearts

i may never recognize your smile even as my hands retrace the contours of your face, nor name the secret name in your eyes even if i am to meet, and hold and drown in your glances, not because i am blind, or my limbs and flesh are numb, but because your smiles and your glances are no longer meant for me.

there will never be a poetry from me faithful enough to reconcile the burrows i dug in the earth of your face when i made you frown, nor a poetry potent enough to heal the breach i broke in the dam of your eyes when i made you cry. there is no poetry for the dead and fallen leaves of yesterday whom we gathered, and burned by the fires of our distance, our regret, our shame, and our forgetfulness.

but there is poetry for the blossoms of yesterday. faint, almost absent, transparent, and yet they lace every breath that i take, they tint every shape i know. they flare like stars in the empty skies of my dreams.

and so i write to you now. this may not be poetry, but this is for your gifts, your ancient gifts that are pieces of my soul, of my pride and shame.

yours were the first lips who sought mine and taught me a language i could speak for the moments when words that sound could not duplicate. yours was the shadow who stood at my side and thus i discovered that i had my own. there you were in your island home of Basilan, a destination full of love, worthy of navigating the violent waves of the stormy sea so that i may touch you. you will forever be the fruit, ripe, sweet, nourished by earth, wind, water and fire whom this boy once plucked on a summer day nearly a decade ago, and i became a man.

you are the lesson i know and yet dare not learn when you took your first steps away from me into a city half a world away in the clutches of a winter whose fingers would ultimately touch me, far as i may be from you in my kingdom of sun and rain.

you craved the trinkets of the world much more than the tattered clothes of my soul, i know that now, but thank you for loving the seeds of sleeping promises inside of me whom you planted into your womb, whose name i wish would always be Jian, the Beautiful, as a testament that before the breaking of things, before sunset claims those whom the sun caressed, there is Beauty. there is Beauty! however brief and painful it may be...

i love you with such passion and intensity that no stars could outshine, no poetry of mortals or gods and goddesses could ever define, and i would have bestowed them upon you if only, if only it did not mean my own long and suffering death. and that is why i kept it far away from you, even until now.

i am dead now, in your eyes, in your glances and in your smiles. i dare not explain how i have bound my life inseparable to my art, of how the boy who became the man died, not by your arms, or from the wine of your regret and shame and abandonment. i died on the hands of my own, dying with every drop of ink, every page after page of paper i stain as i attempt to chart the map and portrait of where i long to be and whom i would like to be.

once loved.

twice betrayed.

never to be forgiven, and forgotten. a poet.

the bane about reputations...

i woke up this morning and for some yet unknown reasons, i remembered a conversation i had with a female friend, a close one, one of my many "sisters" that i have collected over the years. it went something like this...

* * * * * *
she: so bro, when was your last time?
me: (gazing up from my book) my last what?
she: you know, your usual sexcapades.
me: well... (thinking) about...
she: about?
me: (beaming with pride) its gonna be three months.
she: (curls up her middle finger and gives me the infamous sigil then..) fuck you! yeah right, 3 months my ass!
* * * * * *

i was gonna argue then, but i just laughed. whats the point of arguing when they won't believe me, no matter how true it was that it would have been 3 months since my last sacking in the sheets? i could not blame her that time, and i have not blamed her eversince, but it got me to thinking how reputations can somehow stick to us, like when your eating peanut butter, the way it sticks to the top of your mouth.

and another time, a friend asked me about my lovelife, soemthing like this...

* * * * * *
him: so damon, who's your girlfriend right now?
me: i dont have a girlfriend these days.
him: who are you courting right now?
me: im not courting anyone.
him: hmmm..so who is your crush these days?
me: i dont have one.
him. ( a long pause) is that really you?
me: why?!
him: just wondering if you are sick or something...

* * * * * *

admittedly, i had my share of fun between bedsheets. i even went for sometime thinking that a fuck is a fuck, and its better if the fuck was good for both parties. but those days are gone now. i cant really say what made me change my ways. though i do remember the time i did it in the car of one of my "friends with benefits" in front of the chapel of tetuan, in the parking lot while her parents and brother was attending mass.

seems like my reputation has grown larger than i have hoped to be. yes, its nice to know that some people admire me for some things i do better than most, no matter how "immoral" the deed may be, but its another thing when it gets thrown out of proportions, the way the truth becomes distorted after how many tellings.

i was and never ever was a hacker. admittedly, i was only a fast learner, thanks to my teachers.

i am not a sex machine. i am only mortal, and i have had days and nights when getting my other head to rise the occasion becomes a task even hercules and that guy who rolled those boulders would understand and pity me. and if you know soem of those who had the pleasure, and the displeasure of knowing me carnally, they can attest to the truth that i failed a couple of times, just like any mortal would.

but then, reputation stays longer than the deed. a legend of sorts. of the wrong kind.

honestly, the last time i went out and spent time with one of my "friends with benefits" was about a month ago. it was pathetic. only got as far as foreplay and that was it. no digging and plumbing with my tool. it was not because of not being able to get it working, but i guess after so many "a fuck is a fuck" thinking, things have changed. i am getting old, and the play has lost its allure.

i guess it finally dawned on me the inevitable truth, that its a different thing when you do it with someone you love. and if there is a god, then god knows i love her so much that no matter how many cherries i pop, she will always be there, taunting me, haunting me.

but that is another story.

should i apply what i have learned, or should i forget?

memory memory memory.

memories from the past have been having their time with me lately. it started with a dream that was something like this....

"my friend was hesitant to tell me something. yet after the silence that was there, he tried his best to look into my eyes and told me that he did not want to be the bearer of bad tiding but he had to tell me that..."

and i woke up. i never knew what the bad news was about, and then for some reason i got to thinking about this particular woman in my life. hmmm... you could say that she is a thorny part of my life. i got confused, and is started asking myself if i have been repressing feelings from seasons so alive of long ago who are now dead. perhaps. perhaps not. and after that, memories came rushing by, uninvited. unwanted.

still, the question is, should i apply what i have learned, or should i go for a tabula rasa ?

and what are the lessons i have learned? well, lets say i know by heart the basic tenets of sun tzu's the art of war. as well as some lessons from the man himself, machiavelli.

of course, i read a lot of gaiman, and i learned a lot from dream's imprisonment and changing and ultimately, his dying.

i know you don's have the answer to my question. i know that only i could possibly answer them and make them true. i guess it won't hurt to blurt it out.

im outta here.

the persistence of memory

when i was a kid, i was really afraid of losing my memories. as a child i tried to satisfy the cravings of my senses in recording the sights and colors and sounds and smells of the world. then, i thought it was just something about being a kid, a ravenous hunger for stimuli. now, i think that was when i started to be the starving, struggling artiste-poet that i am. back to the memory, i was afraid i would one day lose them. i set my eyes to remember the details, details that i would run like a movie inside my head when i close my eyes in the darkness.

if only i had known that some memories are better left forgotten.

you could say i had a very good childhood, i was a happy kid, i was loved, and i guess that is a reason why i did not want my memories to fade away like photographs being eaten by the hungry patient mouths of time.

but i grew up. and as they say, the rest of it, is history. or so it seems.

memory is such a good backstabber. you sit on your favorite spot, sipping coffee with the cigarettes and then someone would pass, and a whiff of a woman's perfume ignites memories, unlocking them, and they hit you fast and present, with each breath. you cannot help but stand against the waves of memories, of emotions raging and overflowing. hate love lust anger envy rejection, each has their own way of being drawn together, to produce something greater, much more painful.

i have friends who always comment that they envy me. they envy that i could spun my crafts i dare call poetry as easily as i breathe. or so it seems to them. i always tell them that i would be willing to trade my poetry if they could give me back one thing.

innocence.

on being fucked by a poet (PG-13 Rating)

Warning : As the title suggest, this is going to be one of those topics your mom always warned you never to talk about or listen. it is not my intention to make u feel what you would feel after reading this particular entry, not my fault, but yours, because you chose to read it. agree?! =)

On Being Fucked By A Poet

i could say that being fucked by a male poet is something most women haven't experienced yet. the truth could be said about males being fucked by female poets, but then i know my kind, we dont care of the "fucker" (that is the one who fucks) is a poet or not, and even if she was, it does not really matter, cause a fuck is still a fuck, more more so if it is a good fuck. but going back, i would say that a poet fucker would make the whole experience more than the ordinary for the "fuckee" (the one who is getting fucked, duh!) i will try to give plausible and believable reasons for this outrageous if not seemingly-wrong statement.

of course, we have to agree that the fucker we are talking about is one of those rare and true poets. not those who write thinking that every word they write is good enough, or those who think that being tagged as a writer/poet is "cool", or those who prefer to have artistic lifestyles. i should stress that there's nothign cool about being an artiste, and its not about lifestyle: its a way of life.

since he is a real artiste, then let me assure you that he does not see the act as the simple mating and bonding of female and male flesh. he does not see your breast as mere breast. it reminds him of mountains, mountains that one gets to the peak not on a blink on an eye but each step up should be savored, endured. he sees your face as if he sees something new, something beautiful being born right before his eyes, a creation of sorts, which is actually where poets get satisfaction. he parts your legs not just top reveal your hidden treasure but with a tenderness and knowing that it is not just about a part of you that makes you worth discovering, but it is all those parts joined together, sky, earth, and wind, fire and ice and salt, waves, starlight, and so many more.

and he does not just pump into you to be merely inside you.

he goes inside you because he knows you would like to fill up a void, and he wants to be hugged, embraced in this world.

i am not a poet, yet, and perhaps i never will, so i guess i should stop writing about this.

i have to go and try to enhance my "skills" for now.... fingering skills.. on how to hold the pen when i write my cheesy mushy lovey dovey wastes i call poetry that my father P. Neruda would shun me if he ever gets to read them.

perhaps he already is.

hey, im getting late.

pirating for the ears

if i had lots of money, i would gladly pay for all the music that i have listened to. though i have to say that i did have my share of paying for music, way back when cds where not really that available and music lovers like me had to buy tapes which had a very short lifespan especially if you really dig the sound. but that was before, and a lot of those tapes were stolen. nowadays, i go for mp3s, and theres no better way to get them than through the net.

yeah, napster is gone, the company still exists but not as how they used to. still, the advent of so many peer-to-peer (P2P) softwares around keeps sharing music files possible.

now as i am writing this, i am on the process of burning a cd for some rare to find songs, the ones i grew up with.

thinking about music, i am sad about the new ones, the listeners these days. except for a few old dinosaur bands still around, the rock scene is dead. new bands sound like all others. i guess i was lucky to have been there when the changes happened, from new wave, to glam rock, metal music from sepultura and the likes, the grunge era of the seattle bands and yes, sadly, until its demise.

i guess that says i am quite not so young. ok i will say the word, old.

but one is never too young, or too old, to enjoy music. of course one is never too young or old to pirate music.

on being a pirate of the electronic oceans and seas...

as im doing this, the pc of a friend is on its way to recovery. krieste's pc decided to take matters into her own hands and performed an electrical form of suicide, the one that gives you a plain looking black screen (black screen is better than the dreaded Blue Screen of Death (BSOD)). after quite a few hours trying to find out which build of WINXp am i pirating this time(microsoft has this attitude of making so many builds, must have something to do with the number of bugs they put into each release), and succeeding, i decided to take a breather, and it got me to thinking about my life.

that is my life as a pirate of the electronic oceans and seas. yeah, i am one of those bad guys.

i have never paid a single cent regarding the softwares i have used throughout the years. started way back windows 95 until the present, and of course, my # one company of all time, ADOBE, makers of adobe photoshop which i started using way back when they released version 4..

but i should say that i never made money out of my pirating hobby. if truth be known, i shared what i had with my friends, free of charge. of course, this is not an excuse. but thats the truth.

anyway, me and my friends made a deal: that one day, about 5 years from now, we are going to pay back adobe by buying a product. yup, buying it legally.

now, if only i am alive that time, and still have money.

i never wanted to pirate, but then for a third world country such as ours, i and my friends dont really have a choice.

and so i am still a pirate.

videos

funny that i spent the whole time watching videos, ranging from the newest korn video "y'all want a single" which is a kick against the music industry, to slipknot videos old and new, and yeah, some of the videos released by the band a perfect circle. had a nice time enjoying the eyecandy of the video "3 Libras"... funny that no matter how loud they are..hmmm..where was i? ahh, that i am finally sleepy. cant believe that i am writing this entry at this time..without the benefit of sleep.
i am really not sure if this is gonna make any sense.

i believe in God. Yeah, i do. how can i not, when he is the greatest sculptor alive. only God can sculpt women.

i hate her. damn her. why did we have to be so good with betrayals?

i miss her. someone else. i dont wanna be cynical, but i guess i should try it a bit. it cant be that bad.

im a bit sleepy. gotta publish this stuff.

i love her. she doesn't care.

burn burn burn

Something Like A Bridge
by d. steine

We parcel our selves
And trade with each other,
Through glances, gestures and words
A handful of fears
And a sky filled with our desires.

We trade quotations of our lives
Fruits and goods of experience harvested
After being toiled in the garden
Where the sun lives and dies
All over and over again.

We even trade our silence,
We breathe deep
While memory seeks to unearth
The pieces we lost or misplaced,
At times finding those pieces
We choose not to trade.

I spread our traded pieces,
Yours alongside mine
And discover they share
Bursts of red passions,
Hues of blues,
Warm white and cold black
On their skin and flesh and smell.

There is that space between us,
Silent as the dead,
Distant like the stars of no particular time
And I would like to fill it
With something I crafted on my own,
From the memory of the pieces of what we trade and traded.

Something like a bridge
To span along the ocean of gray space
between us.

the equation of my poetry

there is no one rule on how to write poetry. if you would like it simpler, there is no rule actually on how to write or what to write or what not to write.

i am not saying that this makes poetry easier to write. it actually does the opposite: yes, it nakes it even more difficult. its like the lights are out, your eyes are useless, plus your limbs are cut. hmm..something like that.

if you are gonna write, don not write like the past masters. you can't beat them, you can't be like them, and if only they could rise up, i am sure they would beat up the hell out of you for trying to imitate them.

i tried to write like my father did, and im sure he is glad that i realized my mistake.

so, where does that put me now? now rules? no right or wrong way. there is only one catch though; that the written works must be good enough to survive after its creator. ha! the only way to find that out is when the poet is already dead. plus, nobody among the masters wrote to become famous. they just wrote and wrote.

im gonna do the same thing.

write and write and write, until i die. the rest, is up to the world.

i would like you to know

it is not my intention to let my silence be the language that we would use with each other beloved. its just that there are just some days, most days actually, that i would like to cover the ocean of distance between us and yet see myself unable to do so. i am a starving struggling poet, you know that, and i am one because of choice.

not hearing my voice, not hearing anything from me in any manner does not mean that i do not whisper your name whenever i wake up and before i sleep. my silence does not mean that you are forgotten, discarded.

but i cannot blame you if you would doubt, and feel otherwise.

i am just here, here where you are not. wish you were here.

the long painful and sweet truth...

"only with fiery patience will we conquer the splendid city that will shed light, justice and dignity on all men."
- Arthur Rimbaud

what we should do sometimes...

sorry, but i have to go on with my shadow as my only friend. i could stay with you, but everyone is born alone. i have my own road to walk, and you should walk your own.

we dare not be blind to the illusions of comfort. confusion does not die when our voices dance together. there is no escape for the prisoners held inside the dungeons of our minds.

this is not a push and pull away. this is for what words, no matter how sweet, could never sway. inside loneliness lies the secret key to unlock us, to set us free.

there are things we should never forget. memories that should never be reborn as dried up, rotten fruits of regrets. we could share the sunset. we could trace the path of dying falling stars. but i must go on and you must go alone. together, apart as we are, let us discover for ourselves the many different things we still dont know.

just another lazy sunday...

most people spend their sundays cooped up inside their rooms. or getting the most out of the cushions of their private beds. or couples humping like electronic bunnies. or fingering...fingering the buttons of the remote control in search of some mindless(?) way of fishing for electronic information ( damn, im too much a fan of w. gibson). admittedly, the town is crowded with the sunday patrons, some going to mass, worshipping, while some do other kinds of worshipping, usually between legs and tongues. some spend it sitting until their butts ache, muscles immobile, reading a book while sipping cold coffee with marlboros after marlboros in hand. like me.

but i did that earlier, and like always, i find myself in town.

penniless, just enough to go home and some spare change for some cancer sticks. and yet i never tire of going to town, of seeing it everyday, as if i was an insistent stubborn rejected lover always coming back for something that could never be mine.

i guess i am just trying to sick in all about zamboanga. crazy as it may be, considering that i have been almost here since i was born. but then, there are places in this city that i haven't had the pleasure of visiting, though i should say that most of these places are usually those that are not pleasurable to go to in the first place.

i guess im just a crazy starving poet, trying to savor every scent before leaving. leaving?! i guess i am...

bad weather...

Clenched Fists
by d. steine


Mother Heaven,
What sadness has the winds
Carried to your clouds?
They are full, dark and mournful,
Their cold tears fall from their many eyes
That mortals such as I remain
Beneath covers
Attempting to contain
The remaining warmth
Your crying children are stealing
From my clenched fists
Who remember and hungers
For the colors and textures
Who were once citizens, friends and lovers
Of my now sepia tinted memories.

is it really?

And To Love
by d. steine


Only silence is enough
To speak of the beauty
Of Love’s birth,
Of how its infant cries
Defy time space and chance
That angels and beasts,
Bees, leaves and trees
Strain through the screams
To listen to its every whimper that,
When joined together,
Spawns a sonata the world
Will hear unlike any other.

Even gods would pause, and breathe
And as if the sole bonfire
At the height of winter’s fury,
Many are drawn together,
Many would gaze at the stars
Amidst its ocean of silence
And the same many would find
Their chilled blood infused
With more than just warmth.

Only silence is enough
Only in silence while comets chart their maps
Only in silence when paintbrushes
Are held still in space,
Only in silence where the poet would gaze,
Close his eyes, breathe,
And write once again.

remembering...

Sunday On La Vista Beach
by d. steine


I went back to where your eyes
Once joined with mine
While the sun gave us
Her final bursts before
Falling to the sea.

Here, were we consoled ourselves
That unlike the shoreline and sea,
We could hold each other longer,
Where our souls, through our fingers and lips,
Could clamp tighter and drink deeper.

I sat and let the wind,
Laden with salt from the waters caress me
While I let the voices of the waves
Coo to me a lullaby as ancient
As the first ears that ever listened

There were dark clouds
Being born at the horizon,
And behind them I did not see
The sun plunging to its absence
Until I saw the first smiles of the stars,
Distant and silent
As we are now.

And so I left,
And the chair were we once
Kept each other was laced
With the dust of yesterday.

father said...

my father told me that i should do two things. leave the place where i came from. then come back.

of course he tasked me to make sure i have something good to bring back.

and not only that, but i should also never forget where i came from, no matter if its half a world away from where i stand.

when i remember these instructions of my father, it dawned to me that i may have to disobey him.

in the first place, everyhting that could have made me happy and safe and warm have already left me. i dont really have to leave this place, for everything good and decent in my life have already packed their suitcases and left.

and yeah, they are now half a world away from me.

and yet...and yet...

perhaps, i should try it. who knows?

anyway, here's something for people who have left their homes...read on...

------
Lament for Mother Zamboanga
by d. steine

To call her Mother
And then abandon her,
As if she was sick, diseased, crippled
And invalid for whom we can do
Nothing.

Of how you, my brothers and sisters
Set your eyes now amidst
Forests of skyscrapers lined
With concrete snake paths,
Gazing towards her
Whom you left in her bed.

I wonder how many of you know
That the land of milk and honey
Was not once always so:
Milk came from cows who gazed the land
Who filled it with stenches of their defecation;
The honey flowed from the constant hum
Of worker bees toiling in spring,
In summer and in the first days of autumn
Because they could not do so in winter,
Because in winter many of them will die.

The land of stars and stripes was born
From men and women whose hands
Kept the souvenirs of scars
from sharp and heavy stones,
piece by piece laid out
under the supervision of the taskmaster,
the sun who whipped and whipped
until sweat poured from pours,
piece by puzzle piece placed:
herbs, spices, meat,
water, vegetables, and salt
into the pot, to make soup for dinner.
The stripes came from the tunnels
Shoveled by time on their brows, foreheads and cheeks,
Where flowed a stream of sweat
Piercing the eyes, towards the arches of noses,
Down to a trickle on their chin.


I do understand how cold
are the fires of hunger
burning in ones belly,
far colder and crueler
than the winters you now have to endure.

I only wonder,
And so I ask of you
When are we going to toil
The garden of our Mother,
Her earth, her wind and her seas
As others have done for their own?
---------

my state of love and trust...

i would really love to trust someone again, someone i trusted like no one before. but i dare not.

ironic as it may seem, that the only person that could ever betray me is the person whom i trust.

i trusted her, and she trusted me, until the day we decided to betray each other.

it seems that its the end of the story huh, fair is fair, we both really did a good job of betraying each other. and yet the story has not ended. not yet.

and i have this feeling that it will never end, not for quite some time.

still, amidst all the pain, the hate, i would like to trust her again. i really do.

but theres this side of me that tells me " trust her again?! for what?! so that she can betray you again?!"

its not paranoia if its true. and my cautious side do have a point for asking and telling me so.

if only i could trust her again.

in the beginning...

just got in and set this blog up...

am working on my works for Ateneo de Manila University's writers workshop slated for next month. 12 slots are available, and im competing against writers from all over the country.

stay tuned, i will try to post my chosen works here later on...