Self-Portrait as Memory

I was walking, halcyon

as this anthology of water

bringing new life to my eyes,

fragrance to this very language

of the free the old Mekong wears.

I was wandering here and there,

feelings they’re the smell of the river

escaping the chasm of war, fears—

baht (បាទ)—the glistening skulls

decorating the streets, dirt-stitched,

swathed in requiem. You know

those old houses raised on stilts

over the surface of history,

like time with wooden legs,

they belonged to your state of charm

swaying between the aromas

of the Khmer sun and the gaiety

of gerberas. It was before sunset,

and I was wasting in the sultriness

together with the cicadas

and this memory poisoned by tears.

I was almost traversing darkness

in the middle of nowhere.

But the air was penetrating

and having me, like your solemn

touch of the rest of love.

I was a kite awash in your zephyr.

fɪlɪˌpiːnz

There are 7, 107 islands of indeterminacy in the far east.

My country seems to float on a giant coconut shell

where there is no excuse to not be busy for it’s the texting

capital of the world. That’s what’s been said

on record

and I recall 7-Eleven for being the miniature NYC

to our videoke bars, massage parlors. Don’t you know

that reportage is a heavenly outcome of the tropics?

Sleepless lovers

are about to take on their neon sabbatical in the streets,

hungry mouths fed by psalms and promises,

time and again; some pained like academics

dwelling on their etherized research plans

rethinking discourse on the head of a pin.

Boxing legend Manny Pacquiao may have been

the next president of the republic of speed

and politics in 2022. The young bloods, too,

may have debunked cultural stereotypes

with probiotic drinks. A one-two punch

to Filipino time as Manila traffic

takes the shape of an Olympic gold medal.

What about selfies and birit singers?

Oh they’re all passion setting fire to the world

using only the butane of their inspired

buoyant souls!

And nurses, nurses

the forever crowned kings and queens of diaspora.

How heroic, how proud and ambulant.

This is the painted feeling when you place

optimism in the oven

and it doesn’t get burned.

Or the fantasy of reading love poems

to frontliners in times of uncertainties,

to digital ferrymen of drugs and fake news.

My country is a paradise.

It is a paradise. It is paradise.

Come see death and poverty in their twilight gowns!

*Birit is a Filipino musical style characterized by high vocal power and

melodramatic performance gestures.