“AB Lit? Ano yan? (then dirty finger).”
— from an FB Meme
Brethren, we are the chairs
on which they spent time with books,
booze and boos—bickering on writers
and their maladies, while the rest
of the citizens were glued to your lucky arms—
watching telenovelas. We are the chairs,
we are the rugged chairs unto heavy
opinions were downcast. There was no time,
no time for us to interject nor object
to the useless appendage of their speech.
Tigsik and other metaphors do not sit
on us well ever since the priests
were washed ashore and the trees
were butchered for industry and political seat.
So Legazpi went to Manila rather than Legazpi,
and so what? The carpenter’s nail is God
and destined us for this shit. Pardon
our impeccable French for we’d rather kiss
the fertile loam with roots and twigs.
Or we’d rather be the seat of romance
or of cunnilingus and other types of tweaks
to buttons that make them weep.
But there we were, your severed brethren,
smelling second-hand smoke and twits
on whether or not this weather of summer rain
should be proud, be proud, give accolade and sweets
for this wordster who utters pained paeans for violated
youth, for sodomized innocence, while molesting
his pupils with his conduct and speech. We are the chairs,
we are the chairs on which they spent time,
they spent time, when time we could not make.
As the rest of the citizens were glued
to your lucky arms without care on their teeth.
(for the Bayaw poets of Sta. Cruz)