Rainwater surges
over the uneven road,
whipped with scars. 

Waiting for the bus, 
the brown-haired woman,
dressed in a blue skirt, 
long feline legs 
in silk gray stockings,
sinks her beige doll shoes 
into the concrete river.

Aching toes 
that stood eight hours 
in the mall’s lipstick-
mascara aisle
now drenched 
in rat-pissed water. 

Checkout my other creative works about life, heavy rains and floods in the Philippines:

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Nagtutulakan at nagsisiksikan ang mga plastik ng chichirya sa mga kuwadradong butas ng center island fence, kinakalawang na lambat bakal na pumapagitan sa kalsada. Isang kusot na orange na plastik, cheese flavor ngunit wala nang laman, ang todong ipinipilipit ang katawan para makalusot sa butas: konti na lang, konti na lang . . .

May tatlo ring plastik na bote ng red tea na ulo lang ang naisiksik sa butas. Pilit nilang pinapapayat ang mga katawan–inhale, inhale–para lumiit ang tiyan. Gumaya ang neon green na plastik bote ng softdrink ngunit bundat ang kaniyang tiyan.

May ilan namang umaakyat sa center island fence na gawa sa wire mesh, tulad nitong isang pirasong sapatos na may check sa magkabilang gilid–dating kulay puti, ngayon ay parang maputik na basang daga. Nagdadalawang-isip siyang tumalon sa kabila, waring hinahanap ng dalawang eyelet niyang walang sintas ang kaniyang kabiyak sa kalsadang kinumutan ng itim na putik at burak. Saan kaya siya napadpad? Nasa ibaba pa kaya siya? Ngunit ang kalsada ngayon ay himlayan na ng iba’t ibang kulay na plastik na bote, mga inanod na piraso ng kahoy at karton, rainbow na basahan, mga kulay asul at berdeng damit ng noodles, at gula-gulanit na sakong matagal nang walang laman na bigas.

Ang mga nakaligtas, ang mga pilit sumusuot sa mga kuwadradong butas, ang mga umaakyat, ang mga nangangahas tumakas: lahat sila ay parang mga kaluluwang nagsisiksikan, nagtutulakan, nagbabalyahan sa pantalan para makasakay sa bangka ni Charon upang makatawid sa kabilang buhay.

II.

Sa ibang lugar, wala pa ring tigil ang pagragasa at paglamon ng mga malapot at malansang itim na alon sa mga hapong-hapong kabahayan at sasakyan na parang minamartilyo ng bagyo. Kahit ang mga beteranong daga, na kasing dilim ng halimaw ang budhi, ay magdadalawang-isip lumangoy sa ganitong parusang karagatan.

III.

Patuloy ang pagpila ng mga mabuting aparisyon, hatak-hatak ang kanilang mga stroller bag, sa immigration. Mga tupang pagod nang abusuhin ng mga nasa poder. Sumusugal silang makatawid sa ibang mundo, langit man o panibagong impiyerno, makatakas lang sa lupaing walang hanggang binabaha, ninanakawan, at tinitira sa pwet ng mga buwaya, mga halimaw na ang tingin sa marami ay mga basahang tinatapon lang kung saan-saan.

***The video and images are all captured by me. I removed the audio of the video because someone is speaking beside me while I’m recording the flood.

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Wala na ‘yung Hotel Iris pagdating ko sa Booksale. Five days ago, nandoon pa rin ‘yun nung naisipan kong dumaan ulit sa bookshop, ngunit hindi ko pa rin binili. Sa paghahanap ko kasi ng iba pang mga titulo, nakakita ako ng dalawang libro tungkol kina Adorno at Nietzsche na parang maganda, dissertation at research work ng isang PhD tungkol sa dalawang pilosopo. Kilala ko lang sila sa pangalan pero ‘di ko naman talaga alam ang kanilang mga nagawa. May The Iliad din, translation naman ni Stephen Mitchell. Hardbound at maganda rin ang pagkakagawa: hindi pantay-pantay ang gilid ng mga pahina kaya para silang pinagpatong-patong na mga lumang sulat.

Kahit pa, no question, binili ko sa murang halaga ang dalawang philosophy book na alam kong kailanma’y ‘di ko babasahin. Pero paano kung wala ‘yung dalawang librong iyon na parang maganda? Paano kung sa ibang pagkakataon hindi libro ang babalikan ng isang indibidwal kundi isang tao (isang babae, halimbawa)? At pagdating niya sa lugar, wala na ang kaniyang pupuntahan. Alaala na lamang kung nasaan nakapatong ang Hotel Iris sa isang book shelf o ng babaeng mahaba ang buhok na nakatayo’t nagbabasa ng Don Quixote sa classics section ng isang secondhand bookstore.

***This is really an old flash fiction of mine, but I added some minor changes. The Booksale branch in Robinson’s Novaliches is already closed for a long time.

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Motel

Sa Recto nakita kitang lumabas ng Sogo
Nabasag na ang pula
Gusto kong sumabog.

Motel1

In Recto I saw you leave Sogo

The red yolk has cracked

I want to explode.

Gawa ito sa dalawang magkadikit na monay na parang kambal na maliliit na unan. Akala ko’y isang hotdog na hinati sa gitna lang ang palaman. Hindi pala. Sa tiyan ng kambal na monay, may natutulog na dalawang pulang cheesedog. Binalot ni Mama M ang tinapay sa paper towel tsaka inilagay sa isang plastik labo.

Kinain ko ang kalahati ng hotdog sandwich nang alas-tres ng hapon, merienda. Ang lambot ng monay, parang ulap, at ang hotdog naman ay hindi gaanong maalat kaya hindi nakakaumay. May konting lasa rin ito ng butter na kumapit na sa ngala-ngala ng tinapay. Espesyal sa akin ang pagpiprito ni Mama M ng hotdog dahil inilalaga muna niya ito saglit sa kumukulong tubig bago iprito sa mantika na may konting butter. Ang resulta: malambot at very tasty na hotdog na hindi sunog ang balat.

Kinain ko naman ang natirang kalahati ng mga alas-singko medya, bago ako umalis ng opisina, para may laman ang aking sikmura habang naglalakad papunta sa sakayan ng bus at ejeep.

Habang umuulan at ako’y nakatayo sa loob ng siksikang e-jeep, naalala ko ang mga pagkakataong palambing kong binibiro si Mama M at sinasabing, “ I love you, ‘Ma.”

Sasagot naman siya ng, “ Pa-I-love you, I love you pa!” o kaya’y “Tumigil ka dyan!”

Pagkatapos ay tatawa siya. At tatawa na rin ako dahil ramdam ko sa aking kaloob-looban ang mga katagang hindi na niya kailangang sabihin. Kahit hindi niya ako kadugo.

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A young woman in a cyan org T-shirt, cuffs folded once, smokes a menthol cigarette beside a red Coke fridge outside an open-air sizzling sisig joint. Skinny jeans hug her legs like a leopardess in her seductive coat. Thin lips puff smoke; a green ring circles the filter.

The floating smell of melting margarine, crackling pork fat, and a sliced calamansi squeezed over a hot black iron plate of diced meat, onions, pig ears, and a raw egg at the center. A busy night.

At the other end, a young man shyly tries a menthol cigarette, shielding it with his left hand while his right thrice clicks the store’s lighter tied to a string. A little warm, then cold is the first smoke drag on a night without rain. A slight breeze like an electric fan set to number one. Beneath his feet, washed red octagon bricks carry the dry, chalky texture of puto seko.

Won’t you walk up to her before it's too late?

A few meters in front of them, the slow, nervous rolling of tires in heavy traffic, almost to a standstill.

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As the bear mascot sways to and fro, a man with a lean runner’s build and thin glasses comes up to him, dragging his girlfriend by her left wrist.

“Love, let’s take a photo with Mr. Bear,” says the man.

“Do we really have to? We’re not high school students, you know,” says the woman, a sunflower-print tote bag filled with papers slung over her right shoulder.

“Please, love. You’ll like it, promise,” the man replies, pouting his lips in a mock kiss.

“Landi mo ha! [You’re a flirt!]” says the woman.

The bear mascot has stopped swaying and dancing. He looks at the squeaky-clean tiles and sees the reflection of his large grizzly head and round, huggable chest, the color of dried, abandoned cheese. Through dark bear eyes like duhat, he continues to stare at the floor but notices the couple is now posing right before him, both beaming, as the man drapes an arm around the woman’s slender and silky waist.

He is so happy, the man inside the mascot whispers, such joy can make one forget the simplest act of saying goodbye, even just through a note or PM.

“Kuya, ready, ready, smile!” calls the man. The bear mascot jerks as if returning from a distant dream and weakly waves his right hand. The man taps his smartphone, and its camera clicks.

“Ang ganda! Bagay talaga tayo, love [It’s pretty. We’re really made for each other],” says the man, looking at the photo before kissing the woman on the cheek.

“Wooosh, bolero [bullshitter],” replies the woman, waving off the compliment.

The man starts walking away from the bear mascot. “Come on, love. The mall is closing,” he says.

The woman turns to the bear mascot and notices a jaggedly stitched tear on the upper left side of his chest, like a fresh surgical wound closed by a careless hand.

“Oh,” the woman says and touches the bear mascot’s heart. “Ingat, Mr. Bear [Take care],” she adds, slipping a two-hundred-peso bill into the light gray tip box.

—

*Duhat is also called java plums.

*I added English translations (in brackets) for the dialogues in Filipino, so no need for Google translate. Haha.

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Dixie, my Dixie, Roar
By Dwight Norman X Tikbalang

Roar, roar, roar, my Dixie. Lion-fancier, wild-boar-wannabe,
white, sweet beast shifting from roars to grunts—urrgh, urrgh, urrgh.
You’re our aspin, brave and alert, 
barking at the striped gray cat that leaps onto the gate to sleep, 
or at tricycle drivers arguing basketball during late nights.

Roar, roar, roar, my Dixie. Today you’re a hunter, 
snatching from the green laundry basket my purple sock, 
clown-printed, taunting, laughing Hahaha!
You clamp it in your teeth, thrashing your head left to right,
knocking the jester’s laughter out of the cotton, ripping the fabric 
as if you're tearing big pieces of chicken liver and gizzard adobo. 

Give it, give it! 
But you keep chewing, battling the intruder,
your teeth sinking into his fabric heart. 

Roar, roar, roar, my Dixie. Now your tail—smooth, fresh tofu—
is dancing as you gallop across the living room’s orange cloud tiles.
The jester is dead, bathing in his ube blood, 
his insides mangled and soaked in your vengeful drool. 
You stop. 
You sit in front of me—your roasted peanut eyes sparkling, 
jaws relaxed—as you offer your purple conquest: 
a hard-fought, precious gift. 

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Sun at six is the color of money.
Eight-hour toil, three meals missed.
Six PM, six PM, ticktock, 
                                     tick.
At the cashier, 
a darkened and scarred finger
rings a rusty call bell.

A hand like marble
again shows a note: 
Good evening. Come back 
tomorrow.

where’s the money
where’s      my        money
        where’s  
 money
                       where 
         money 
                                  where

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This is not a still life. 
I look forward to more gray and white hairs: 
you are all welcome. 
Come, as long as the elixir flows.

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Half Giant 
By Dwight Sarga  

Madalas, nakaupo si Half Giant sa paanan ng footbridge 
sa tapat ng 24/7 convenience store. 
Nakayuko, mahirap mawari kung siya’y nagdarasal o nakaidlip 
habang nilalagpasan ng mga bumababa at umaakyat ng tulay. 
Ngunit ang isa niyang kamay ay bahagyang nakaangat, 
bukas ang kalyadong palad, naghihintay, naghihintay. 
Parang tuod ang ilalim ng kaniyang balakang: ang kinis at tibay. 
Putol ang kaniyang ibabang bahagi. 
Walang binti’t paa. 
Tadhana ba ang lumuwal sa kaniya nang ganito 
o likha ng mga naghahari-harian? 

Minsan kapag umaambon, hawak ng maugat niyang kamay
ang pawisang bote ng beer. 
Lahat gasgas na ng semento’t bato: bungong singsing sa gitna,
tila pinagkabit-kabit na mga kadena sa hintuturo,
mga natirang daliri’y may bilugang bakal din. 
Lahat, kulay pilak, lahat pinanday sa hurno ng buhay. 

Minsan, kapag umaga, siya’y umaakyat ng tulay
patungo sa tahanang lingap ang lahat.
Sa tulong ng malalakas at parang nililok na bisig,
ang matitigas niyang palad ay humahakbang 
patungo sa mataas at bukas na pintuan ng simbahan. 

Sa paghingal ng kaniyang baga
ramdam ang tahimik niyang mga kataga. 
Sa ilalim ng liwanag, 
siya’y pinagpala. 

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She'll hang, they'll all hang.
Bop & dance with me,
or you'll hang, too. 

You made me
your senyorito.
Too bad for you.

Time to screw you.

You never learn.
In the darkness, my Lakay 
rimmed your elders.

And you think
I won’t give 
you all a bumming?

Only now, I’ll do it
while everyone’s awake
and the sun’s whippin’ your back. 

Wail, shriek, if you like.
Coppers, glasses, pens
are watching.

They'll do nothing.
Prices will crucify you.
Floods will devour you.

I've made fools 
out of you.

Circus Clown

Make way for new circus clown
while previous punk makes his exit. 
Yo, as Slim Shady sings:

These hoes don't want him no mo', he's cold product
They moved on to the next schmoe who flows
and so the soap opera
Is told, it unfolds, I suppose it's old, partner
But the beat goes on, da-da-dom, da-dom, dah-dah-dah-dah.

Da circus clown haha
snakecharmer’s smile.
New jester, old tricks, 
same masters:
his wallet & 1% club. 

—
*Song excerpt (in italics) from Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.”

Artwork sources:

Francisco de Goya, Saturn Devouring His Son, 1819–1823, mixed technique and mural on canvas, 143.5 × 81.4 cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Francisco_de_Goya,Saturno_devorando_a_su_hijo(1819-1823).jpg.

Norman Rockwell, Clown Training Dogs, 1923, https://www.wikiart.org/en/norman-rockwell/clown-training-dogs.

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Last night, you hurt
my feelings
not by spearing 
my heart
but by ignoring me
delightfully.

Eyes fixed on the smartphone,
you were so lost in your K-drama
you shooed me away
like a tindera ng isda
randomly smacking visiting flies
with a red plastic flyswatter. 

The helmet remains impenetrable. 
I woke up 
loving you
still. 

I am still
under 
your spell.

Filipino version (Taglish)

Ander da spell 
By Dwight Sarga

Kagabi na-hurt mo
ang aking feelings
busy ka sa k-drama
'di mo 'ko pinapansin.

Ang tibay ng helmet.
Nagising ako
ikaw ay iniibig
pa rin.

I am still
under 
your spell.

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The Well Is Not Dry
Dwight Sarga

The well is not dry. 
Sometimes, while washing the dishes at night, 
it appears, and I dip my pink tabo 
into the red-brick-lined balon, 
brimming with water, so pure and transparent. 
I wipe my hands on the sides of my T-shirt 
and grab my phone,
speaker blasting Rage’s “Killing in the Name” 
I start typing on my notepad app. 
The dishes can wait: 
round ceramic plates with sunflower rims
that I’ve won by landing one-peso coins 
on a painted table’s small numbered squares; 
glass plates from exchanged gifts over the years; 
and my favorite, a white plastic plate 
with three partitions, 
the sawsawan part scarred 
by lingering, light-red ketchup stains.

The well is not dry. 
Sometimes, it appears 
while I’m walking along Q. Ave. 
On the sidewalk, a handful of cats moonbathe. 
A tricolor stray licks his brown balls 
like a pair of ripe aratiles. 
Near him, an orange-striped cat sleeps 
like a loaf of bread. 
Could she be his wife? 

The well is not dry. 
Sometimes, while smoking a Red Marlboro 
near a jeepney stop, 
it appears. 
The top of a chipped, battered concrete barrier 
is my ashtray. 
I take a long drag and release smoke 
that almost resembles joy.

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To Experience Hardship
By Dwight Norman X Tikbalang

[is] to be alive, every moment, every second.

[is] to drink the hot squidball and kikiam chili sauce and feel the magic of sugar, salt, garlic, and pepper turn to melted caramel on the tongue. 

[is] to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a jam-packed e-jeep: mall baggers in shiny black slacks, blue-skirted sales ladies, and an SHS couple holding hands; the air thick with J&J baby powder, dried sweat sharp as Sukang Iloko, and the saving fragrance of olives and aloe vera in long black hair. 

[is] to enter the gates of fire and, down there, know the journey to the Empyrean begins. What else to do but climb, and know that even if you do not reach the top, you will still survive. 

[is] to feel, like little rocks inside your shoes, that Jose and Boni are right: meekness will not do. Man is no mere carabao, not a beast to be sustained solely by water and grass. 

[is] to be tricky with language and know the right words are enough to woo your Reyna Elena; and to love her with all your being.  

[is] to welcome Death knocking at the door and invite him for lunch: rice fried in adobo grease and crushed garlic; three-day-old adobo, swimming in pork oil. The meal finished, tell Mr. D: “Ready when you are. Let’s drink this quatro cantos while we walk.” 

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The men’s CR is a confession box of worldly wisdom.

Shitting on a marble toilet stained yellow, 
I hear the soft whistle of the dispenser’s head 
tapped in succession, the faucet’s hiss, 
its wet slap against the aluminum sink, 
hands rubbed and sins washed down the drain. 

A spotless brown penny loafer halts beside loose-laced red J1s.
“Bet on the cock named Killer. He’s a sure winner.”
“For real?”
“I know someone inside, a bubwit.” 

I pocket their secret, pick Killer, 
clear ten grand by sunset. 
At dawn, the portable radio of the roadside karinderya crackles:
Sabungeros missing, either gone to Hades 
or admiring San Pedro’s golden rooster. 

Never, never whisper the secrets of the world 
in the tiles of the comfort room, sticky and salty with dick drippings. 
The gambling lord might be listening 
though he has, for now, hidden his visage on the face of the Earth. 

—

I wrote this poem after watching some video clips of the anime Rooster Fighter.

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To love is to write
To write is to love
I write:

Iniibig kita.

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Biyernes ng gabi ay sumapit na muli. 
Yosi muna bago ang huling bus pauwi. 
Nagyeyelong usok, pandikit sa pira-pirasong dibdib. 
Dama ko na ngayon ang dunong ng gin bulag 
Ng tropang makinista na hangin lang ang maiuuwi: 

Pulang baluting mawawala pagsikat ng araw.

*** 

Bear Mascot 

Sa aking silid, pwede ko nang tanggalin ang osong maskara,
ang kulay pandesal na kamay na may puting palad,
ang malaking paa na may itim na mga kuko—
lahat gawa sa telang malambot at bulak—
para punasan bago pumasok ulit pagdating ng Lunes.

Pero iiwan kong suot ang katawan, ang jumpsuit,
na may puting dibdib at tiyan para
hindi nila marinig ang paghikbi ng puso. 

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‘Di na ako nakaabot.
Tatlong malalaking pintuan
ng sinaunang simbahan: sarado.
Hindi ko maiwasang tumitig.
 
Kung mang-uukit lang ako,
uukitan ko ng mga anghel
ang itaas na bahagi ng mga pinto—
yari sa narra o acacia.
 
Uukitan ko ng mga batang anghel na umaawit
habang ang iba naman ay tumutugtog 
ng lira at maliliit na gitara. 
May mga nakaupo rin sa ulap, nakikinig.
 
Ang kanilang matatabang mukha
ay nasisinagan ng liwanag—
kita ang galak, ang pag-iimbitang
pumasok.
 
Para sa mga empleado sa labas,
mga nag-aabang ng dyip sa sidewalk, mga tindera
ng yosi, candy, softdrinks, at sampaguita:
Tara, tara.
 
Pero ‘di ako mang-uukit.
Hindi rin sila papayag.
Sapat na ang disenyo ng tatlong matatayog na pinto:
mga parisukat na magkakapit-bisig,
 
inaakay ang isa’t isa.
Bukas man o hindi ang mga pinto,
narito na ako—tulad ng magkasintahan sa harap,
magkahawak kamay at ternong white running shoes.

Gaya nila, ako’y nagsimulang magdasal.
Ang linya ng langit ay palaging 
bukas.
Sarado man o hindi ang bahay-dalanginan.

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