A Slip of Complaint.

Today I had my plates for breakfast,
With leftover black chicken on the side.
Mechanical drafting is trying very hard
To turn my arm into a robot.
Lectures are trying very hard, too,
To turn it into mush.
It feels like robotic mush.
Either I'll paint my nails pink to cheer it up
Or black to help it express itself.

In class my seatmate put on perfume.
I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm allergic.
My breathing tubes are screaming.
They can't see the point of putting perfume on
Twice in the same hour.
(And neither can I.)

On my way home I realized
That I like the smell of smog.
Well, better than what my seatmate had, anyway.

Notes From Yesterday's Green Yellow-Pad.

Yesterday, I saw a lady jeepney driver.
She braided her long hair back, wore a denim jumpsuit, smoked, and drove like a devil.
I saw her orange jeepney from the bus.
One moment she was right outside my window
and a few seconds later she was gone.
(Like, wow.) I've been waiting for this day to come.

I was on my way to school for an unusual meeting thinking I was late,
but I turned out to be the first one there.
I spent a while rereading memorable parts of my inbox when a groupmate tottered up.

Our task was to eat balot and write a poem about it.
Here's mine:

In our hands lay a river stone
Where inside red rivers coursed through like in maps of old.
We are gods
Moving the world with our tongues
Breaking, destroying, engulfing,
Marveling in the iron taste.
Wanting more.

It was edited to go with all the other people's stanzas, and that group output was awesomer.
We presented it today and everybody was impressed (or so I like to think.)
On the way home, I kept chuckling and smiling to myself on the jeep, bus, and tricycle.
Everybody must think that I'm either in love or retarded.

Thanks to Gino for keeping three-fourths of me un-drenched today and sacrificing one-fourths of yourself. You are a darling. I promise to bring my umbrella from now on and repay you one unsuspecting rainy day.


So here I am in an internet store, because the laptop at home has been kept away from me. I'm trying to concentrate on the mysteries of how floating counters came to be, but I'm just itching to be somewhere else.

Where Do We Go?

We walk hand in hand
In a field of time.
Our cat feet crunch
The ice and frozen grass.
We break off a point
And reel at the numbness.

Onwards, onwards.
It's no place to rest.
The wind howls and urges
Pushing with the weight of the sky.
Nothing to be done,
Yet so much to do.

Who knows where we're heading?
All around is more of the same.
Countless trails,
All meandering and lost.
They mean nothing to us.
We find our own path.