• Two Poems

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    The Spectator
    He unhooks the rope, places the knot to the skiff
    and drags it towards the water. Unreadable, the waves
    are pages that keep on rewriting themselves, like thoughts
    of the American President on China’s artificial islands
    at West Philippine Sea. He could see the structures
    from where he stood, like as if some rich neighbor

    decided to build a strip club on a sand bar. But he was not
    bent on avoiding them, these “builders in bad faith,”
    as the Barangay Captain calls them. For he, his father
    before him, and all the village fishermen had long
    considered that reef as their inter-island waiting shed,
    shoal away from shore. So he packs his provisions of fresh

    water, dried fish, rice, kerosene lamp, transistor radio.
    He fixes the nets and of course, the bayonet. He once
    found it during an oyster dive, sharp metal stabbing sand,
    glinting in underwater sunlight. Did some WWII soldier
    drop it to mark our Exclusive Economic Zone as prelude
    to the UNCLOS? He asks himself, aware of the proviso

    in the Constitution reserving all archipelagic marine
    resources for Filipinos. He pushes for the sea, the skiff,
    a sharp pen piercing through sand and waves as if writing
    land titles. Better occupy the waves than be written off.
    Treaties redefining territoriality become useless in the context
    of man-made shores and artificial islands. He turns the radio

    on and Floyd Mayweather is now being booed, declared
    winner over Manny Pacquiao. The “Pambansang Kamao,”
    they say, carried the game, the elusive American, all form,
    all technique, won by points before a jeering live audience.
    Is this how boxing should be, won by crafty non-fighters
    with cheap tricks? Boxing can’t win wars. He thinks. “I thought

    I won,” said Pacquiao, apparently, more dizzy with the defeat
    than the punches. Manny, you can never win against Money, no.
    Not against this undefeated American in US shores. Their government
    need him in this age of ISIS and Chinese threat. He tells the Las Vegas
    prize fighter, still thinking of how Obama danced around, ran,
    hugged, elbowed, jabbed, and smiled his way off a China issue,

    whether or not the Philippines can expect American military
    support in case of war. His motor is roaring now, in full throttle
    towards the Chinese firmament. “Manny can’t beat Floyd
    because he’s not bright enough,” he hears Floyd’s father.
    So he throws the net down the water, a Chinese vessel
    speeding towards him, his bayonet shining under the sun.

    * * *

    Satan and Chili Ice Cream
    (After “One Bright Morning” by Cirilo F. Bautista)

    The planet succumbed to the pressure, deciding to light up
    a cigarette so the volcano’s crater lit up, ashes and smoke

    coming out of the perfect cone and curvaceous lips—Her angelic
    exit with rolling stones, white dress with licks of little flames,

    “Daragang Magayon” so they say in the heat of pageants,
    campaigns and elections, there She went in same fashion

    and poise, no horns, no tails or pterodactyl wings but sweat,
    flowing sweat and eyes with a mission, ISIS, Chinese threat,

    MILF, SAF 44, sold out bouts, assassinations, should She tweak
    some knobs in the cosmic equilibrium to give hope a chance,

    or should She stay a while, stay a while for some cold treat,
    Her tongue going for licks, colonial chili ice-cream, halo-halo

    from Tiwi, where ice turns to fire in sweet abandon, where hot
    is cold, sweet is spice, like when good is evil and evil is good

    just to pass time in trial courts and the news, now should there
    be tweaks in the cosmic electronics? No, everything stays as is,

    nothing moves even the Eye of the Storm or the flaming lips
    of Mayong. She disappeared ignoring the restaurant counter.

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