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...
Friday, October 29, 2004
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
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
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.
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.
Friday, October 15, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2004
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.
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.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
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....
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....
Friday, October 08, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, October 04, 2004
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...
Saturday, October 02, 2004
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
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
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