we sold all our possessions
except for a vial of the smell of hot showers in the bathroom
(metallic, warm and low sillage) with the shower head now plucked and auctioned.

we laid on the bare floors - no carpets or cords,
no scurrying roaches, all drab and dust
and footprints fading, and a bag of used clothes.

the rooms are all soaked in the natural light - the curtains
have been folded and given away to relatives in the province.
we threw the windows open to let it breathe.

there were no buzz or hums one is used to hear in a household.
you can make out the faces on the ceiling
and see slugs crawling down empty electric sockets.

soon birds chase each other as they hover and flutter around the rooms.
then the homeless, shaking from the cold. wrapping poop in newspaper.


Life: It would be sad to think that you'd be using it for a long time.

Hungry seas

Maybe you're the presence
That begs needing other reasons
I got "Summer still looks pretty"
I got hungry for the hungry seas
Oh, living for the people
That have nothing but their blues
And I have nothing to be nervous about
Hungerin' over you

Butterscotch blondies

Life is strange. Sometimes you'd want to swallow a coin to make things go, and sometimes you'd write off a fortune to make things stay where they are. Last night I met with a friend who thinks 25 years old is his deadline - while I would like to live until 50. It took us two buckets of beer to talk about himself, and another three bottles each for both of us to read between each other's lines. We hopped from Bollywood to Pura Vida to Handlebar and ended up downing eight bottles. It was a windy night - and from the balcony at Greenbelt, the wind streamed from Makati alleys and buildings, almost throwing tables upside down. At 10PM there was light rain. We found ourselves sort of crouched to see the ATM keypad with our dimmed visions. Conversations weren't the same from 12 years ago: here we are, talking about his project that won't be finished until 2022, or my five-year old son. (Funny, as a father my age, I have to juggle between getting drunk and being responsible. Or maybe that's the essence of adulthood?) There was talk about drugs he had taken already: opioids, LSD, cocaine, hash, and weed. He recommended Brockhampton. I thought of Ashbery's "What is Poetry?" as a defining moment. Then, the stranger questions: When we first met at MIBF, did I tag along a Japanese friend and a girl friend? Is life as a tub of clay handed to you, and you mold it in ways you wish it to be? 

The capital in writing

Hi, my name is Junji. I write fiction on the side. One advantage of story tellers is that we know how to place ourselves in the shoes of any character. Marketing operates the same way: the characters are customers, and the consumer journey is the story. Managing how the story unfolds is what I'm absolutely passionate about.


I rarely talk to anyone new. Office banter fills my head. My mind is calibrated to tick off lists, to list down minutes of three meetings, only to send those to people who wouldn't read them. Same old songs play in new contexts - usually when stuck in traffic - overwriting a previous, more colorful life. This quote from Anne Carson sums it up gracefully: "I can feel that other day running underneath this one / like an old videotape." But the other day is more glorious, much more glorious. I read Bourdain in traffic once, the rustling of pages spooking out people. Reading an Anne Carson over sleazy R&B, the water guy knocks the gate, delivers three jugs exactly an hour after I texted. These days, the only respite is a conference room at 8 P.M., when everyone tells me to leave the pilot lights on before I go. The room overlooks the traffic in and out of the city. The ebb and flow. I stare at the office TV that projects the progress of my file upload: 86%. I rode a taxi to the bus station: the driver has been doing his job since 1975. The year when my second sister was born. "Monumento to Baclaran would only take 10 minutes." Maybe it will be just a breeze? Last night my wife forwarded an email I sent her way back 2012. The email, entitled 'Family Romance' (named because we both liked the song with the same title by Deparment of Eagles), which did not include anything except for the signature "sent from my iPod", has an attached photo of the two of us with a two-month old baby boy asleep on her clothed breasts. Now my five year-old dreams of a time machine to transport him to his future pilot self. I wanted to go back, instead, to those few days when I victoriously claim to be "a day without problems", those days that just pass by in the same ease as swiping on a smartphone. Then, this afternoon: men from the bigasan at the market was tossing sacks of rice from the truck to the floor. It didn't take a while for one of the sacks to break upon landing. Grains burst from the sack. I looked at the grains on the dusty market road. 


Fantastic read from Mark Strand: Poetry in the World. I'm going to re-read it and write my thoughts here.