To Boyet and his Boomtown Rats, and not the least,
I was quietly clutching a book of glossy cover on my left hand. My right hand was engaged in Kafka or something like—
“off to the gridiron again to catch the spiders
and bag a winged zebra dusting the bars.”
My train arrived…
I saw a man pouring
over his frayed elements;
just as inappropriate
as his Elizabethan impotence;
to the turns and stops,
and tackles of thought pasticci
funding the saddles of miniscule Rosinantes
towing their soundless dreams.
That wasn’t Samsa.
In the mocking gestures of my eyes he spurned my offer of scrutiny. Though out of the sonnets his eyebrows were cleaving to I heard a dusty lore of Marlowe screech on the metal tires of time…
Each departing turn from post to post broke the speed limit gashing between our worlds; between our worlds deckled by hands unique to each of us.
His frayed elements, my crazed opinion of poetry.
His fending silence, ruminating, his atheism
receding; my ribaldries disheartening
the quietude that’s guzzling his age.
The neon signs were usefully dead outside;
the buildings dancing like leaves of grass;
the seleccion untranslatable as the
unmistakable huevos that made for
the binóculo of a slim breakfast…
Is that a look of tired heart? The speed must have weighed much on him, I whispered. How I pitied him and his frayed book. And how I wanted to talk to him outside this speeding time! Fuck it!
But the scheduled midstream stop finally arrived.
The familiar hoot shushed
the flipping pages
into the hissing
of the opening doors.
The train reached my station.
I emptied my soul.
Never look back. It’s Monday. Your Boomtown Rats.
From the needling crowd that took the place
of the marvel of the book I rode by
I heard him whisper.
And another like a sting that never rusts: “Throw out the perfume cardboard. It hints of a fake, unfeeling heart.”
Think what you want.
It was Bob Geldof on a busy walkway
doing a modern bhukki,
strumming his guitar above an empty tin can.
Happy holidays to everyone!
At humirit si Geldof habang pababa ng estacion
Tunog palasyo bokadas ng palakang bukid.
Indak pang-regala, siyang pakiramdam na ganda.
Sa pundahan sikat ang palakang bukid.
Giling ng bituka, utot na bida kay Abunda.
Astang mataas, matining, ang palakang bukid.
Pilapil ang salat, matarik ang pangarap
Ng dilang matulis, ng utak na talihis.
Yan ang palakang bukid.
Ang ganda niya…
Isa Pa: “Christo”
Think of a sweet Esmeralda lisp.
Happy New Year!