ZEN Bitchin'

Nega-star

Wallowing in grief and sadness

I didn’t realize that instead

Of being unhappy I was

Increasingly becoming

Like a pig in a pool of mud:

Oblivious and indifferent

To all the things I thought

Caused my deep misery.

Sure, I still keep my family

At bay, all my friends insist

On frustrating me, my job

Is as un-fulfilling as ever,

And my love-life remains

Bitterly non-existent, while

The rest of the world teeters

On the precipice of doom via

Wars, disease, and the effects

Of climate change.

I think, when the real shit

Hits the fan, I will only have

My Misery to shield me from

The stinking gobs that will

Soil the perkiest and liveliest

Of these damn optimists.

Because shit really happens.

And sometimes, they rule, too.

Phnom Penh, 2009

Copyright Michael P. De Guzman

Gana

(tulang prosa)

wala akong sinagot nang tanungin niya ako kung gusto ko rin ba.

hinayaan ko siyang magsalita hanggang ang kanyang boses ay nagmistulang tunog ng alon na humahampas sa dalampasigan ng aking mga tainga. malamig ang tunog na yaon, parang tubig sa dagat kapag dapithapon, nanghihila sa magdamag na pagtulog. ngunit mahirap makatulog sa lugar na ito, naisip ko. ang kalansing ng mga kubyertos na kumakayod sa maninipis na platong melaware, ang pinaghalu-halong amoy ng mga pagkain, kultadong usok at pawis ng mga tao, at ang liwanag ng mga puting ilaw sa food court ay sapat upang manatiling mulagat ang aking mga mata at gising ang aking pundidong diwa.

nang dumating ang aming pagkain, wala akong nagawa kundi kunin ang aking kubyertos, ihatag ang aking plato sa kanyang pagsandok ng kanin, at langhapin ang alingasaw ng gulay na ginisa sa binurong isda.

phnom penh, 2004 (hinalungkat sa baul, 2009)

copyright: Michael P. De Guzman

Barado

Pinilit kong magsulat

Ngunit ako’y nagulat

Nang walang nailabas

Kahit na pahimakas.

Inspirasyo’y hinanap

Magdamag na nangarap–

Nagpigil sa paghikab,

Ngunit Musa’y mailap.

Utak yata’y barado

Diwa’y nakabilanggo;

Pati puso’y sarado:

May kadena’t kandado.

Phnom Penh, 2009; Copyright Michael P. De Guzman

For the record,

You’re one of few whom I loved most:

I felt unique and precious each time

You held me close–your eyes

Ready to pierce holes in my soul,

Before a smile blooms on your face

And we’d laugh, and I’d lay my head

Against the base of your neck,

Where I’d smell the fabric of your shirt

And hear your heart beating vigorously

As I feel your fingers skimming gently

Over my almost-shaved head;

I would always laugh at the sensation

While the sound of my name, uttered

In your distinct manner, slips swiftly

Inside my ears, lulling me to peace.

Now you’re gone, and remembering

Doesn’t bring any peace, memories

Stir up old joy and along with it

Forgotten pain and misery, such

As this admission: ‘I miss you still.’

Had you seen your eyes each time

You looked at me, you’d realize

How much you really loved me–

Things would’ve ended differently.

copyright Michael P. De Guzman; Phnom Penh, 2009

II

It seems I’ve waited for
Far too long that I have
Forgotten what or who
I had been waiting for;
I have distanced myself
From people that now
I can’t figure out how
To behave in this circle;
Seems I have unlearned
All the nuances that made
Me so attractive before–
All I have now, aside from
This quick wit, are my
Sharp tongue and insecure
Heart beating furiously
Inside my hollow chest
(not very charming).

Waiting seemed the best
Option then; wish I can say
The same thing now, what
With you hovering like
A fat clump of storm-cloud
In my used-to-be-barren sky;
No one has brought me
This much apprehension,
Euphoria and paranoia
In so long a time–my mind
Runs off like a fugitive
Every time I am beheld by
Your gaze, and I have no
Choice but to yield to this
Force, so like gravity.

My feelings swirl until
They’re undecipherable,
Like hieroglyphs or some
Other form of communication
Alien to my comprehension;
It seems that I have almost
Forgotten what or who I
Had been waiting for–
When I finally remember,
I hope that it isn’t too late.

Copyright Michael P. De Guzman; Manila 1998; edited Phnom Penh 2009

I

Waking up from a dream
Of walking with our hands
Clasped and kissing you
On a deserted street,
My eyes squint against
The bright rays of morning,
Wondering for a moment
What could I be doing
Thinking that I’ve fallen
In love once again.
There are no answers
To my questions, no promises
To assuage my heart, and no
Prayers to pacify my soul;
Except for, perhaps, your
Lingering presence
In my life right now.

Yet even this seems unreal.
When I’m with you I feel
As if underwater, disembodied,
Between living and a gentle
Kind of dying, swimming
In the waves of you being you.
Like an eagle I can soar
To unimaginable heights:
Ecstatic, before plunging into
Depths where no shaft of light
Ventures, the darkness almost
Naturally permanent.
My feelings are strong, there’s
No sense denying, and all
I have to do is to fashion it
In a way that won’t make me
Lose sight of what is important
Than what our future can be:

Together, or not.

Copyright Michael P. De Guzman; Manila, 1998; edited Phnom Penh 2009