• The Stalker



    The motorcycle rider who kept on running about
    near the station gates? That wasn’t me. I don’t call,
    text, or visit with pastries, fruits and pansit just so
    I could smile at you like I wanted to eat you myself.
    No, Ms. DJ, I cannot be seen, felt nor be heard. But I

    was fishing, listening by the river, while you complained
    of sleeplessness and stress. I caressed you with the calm
    current and winds of my boat. So I had to reach land, be
    the farmer who left for you fresh vegetables and nuts.
    No notes on a torn notebook, no quotes or phone jokes

    for this is no joke. Remember the two yellow-blue ATMs
    lonely and forlorn in the middle of a stormy night
    on a deserted thoroughfare? I was there. Full metal jacket,
    at the ready for a rogue cop sentenced to die. His sins against
    the Republic? Stealing from government coffers, ATM style.

    You were with a motley crew of writers, shamans
    and musicians. One even remarked that the cash
    machines looked like a couple of prostitutes past
    their prime. You disagreed, saying they looked more
    like a couple in a love quarrel. The shaman started

    a ritual and pointed at my location. The rain stopped,
    blowing my cover and perimeter. So I had to disappear,
    again, and become a college freshman without a care.
    Exam crammer, distracted by your voice on the ear set,
    secretly waiting for you by the window, the lady’s dorm

    right across his room, so he could watch you turn
    the lights on, open your window shutters, undress
    down to your undies and do aerobics. If you were
    that girl. So I rewire the explosives I was working on,
    your voice getting on my tickles as you advised

    a gay couple to just let it go, let it go, even if
    both of them are CEOs. But a snare had to snap, guns
    went off outside, and Marwan was dead. So I ran
    and ran, and ran but I was a Manny Pacquiao fan.
    Had to watch his bout and be gone. Again I was

    a Chinese fisherman by the sea, turning, fine-tuning
    the knob for some fresh non-Chinese lullabies, spice
    for spies. And there you were on air, telling me how
    you love the siopao and siomai some listeners sent
    you from Binondo in Manila. Just near Malacañan.


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