Something Worth Trying

Mikael de Lara Co blogs. Tumbls. Whatever.
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My failure to evolve has been causing me a lot of grief lately.
I can’t walk on my knuckles through the acres of shattered glass in the streets.
I get lost in the arcades. My feet stink at the soirees.
The hills have been bulldozed from whence cameth my help.
The halfway houses where I met my kind dreaming of flickering lights in the woods
are shuttered I don’t know why.
“Try,” say the good people who bring me my food,
“to make your secret anguish your secret weapon.
Otherwise, your immortality will be
an exhibit in a vitrine at the local museum, a picture in a book.”
But I can’t get the hang of it. The heavy instructions fall from my hands.
It takes so long for the human to become a human!
He affrights civilizations with his cry. At his approach,
the mountains retreat. A great wind crashes the garden party.
Manipulate singly neither his consummation nor his despair
but the two together like curettes and peel back the pitch-black integuments
to discover the penciled-in figure on the painted-over mural of time,
sitting on the sketch of a boulder below
his aching sunrise, his moody, disappointed sunset.

Because goodbye.
Because sometimes we imagine benevolence in leavetaking.
Because mostly there is none.

Because mostly the world treats earnestness as sin,
looks for trees beyond windows when often there is only city.
Here a dry rag dragged across a table.

Here a closet full of blankets only, curtains drawn,
sometimes too little light to begin with.
So much cloth keeping no one warm.

Here a room and a bed and a child sitting on a bed.
My cupped hands containing a whisper,
my pockets brimming with stars.

You keening for some hidden brightness.
Because the heart relies on wishing to keep its rhythm.
Because the task of hands is to insist on holding.

Because mostly we fail.
Because mostly we wish each other forgetfulness.
Sometimes we wish each other well.

Turnilyo para sa mga piyesa. Pati board, gawang-kamay. Regalo ng utol noong nagdaan kong kaarawan. #chess

It is the nature of throats.
Every people that has suffered enough
has suffered through song.

It is the way that a ribcage
articulates ember.

It is the universe vibrating in minor chords only.

It is the fish humming in the gulf,
the fishermen wading through a history of murder.

In a clearing in Cotabato a tribe of B’laan
spends mornings sweeping the ground of fruit
and shards of mortar.

Spends evenings sharpening needles.
This is the weave of the world.

Everything doubles as a weapon.

Everything a compass to navigate
window and monsoon, benevolence and war.

Every ache, however vast, is knowable if held
against the little body.
A blind woman grabs a stranger’s arm

and asks, “Are you real? Sing if you are.”
A prayer lilts and dissipates from a mosque.

I bleed.

Ito. Ito ang nagagawa ng insomnia. #2tothe13th