Linggo, Nobyembre 9, 2014

for the muse's parakeet by Led Villafuerte

i have been in love with the same girl for eight years now. meanwhile, north koreans position their ICBMs along the eastern coast of their country, one aimed at alaska, another at south korea, another at japan and maybe one eyeing the verdant plains of luzon. she doesn't know it yet, or maybe she knows but doesn't care. i re-read kierulf's poem somehow i expected the words to change. you studied it in geology 101, every once in a while a plate moves silently, sometimes violently, at any rate, it effects change(s), the land shifts: it moves to the left,to the right, it claims lives, sometimes. you look at the view outside your window then cry, tomorrow you have to leave, say for paris, or for  ithaca, new york. you return after 10 years and after 10 years the room has barely changed, nothing's new (except for that musty smell which all abandoned places acquire), in fact everything is the same as you left it only, you can't tell. not surprisingly, the mustiness of the room comes as a welcome change from the antiseptic scent of your apartment abroad.
 then, you look outside your window, this time not a solitary tear springs from your eyes. and the view—it's not the same: the crack on the pavement, it was not there 10 years ago, the house of the diazes, it didn't have a roof top before, and it was painted white, now it's blue like the sky, a lot has changed but you won't be able to tell, no one can recall what something looked like 10 years after he'd last laid a gaze on it. everything changes. i thought it was the same with poems, in perpetual motion but the words were the same: "one less obtrusive gaze, two less discerning eyes." so much for that bullshit about change being the only constant thing in the world. we were friends back in high school, i was a year ahead of her. but i knew her before that, i knew her as the girl who borrowed my tolstoy in my past life, she never returned the book. I knew her as the lady who killed me with the blunt side of an ax, in the life prior to that. the problem with me is that, when i look at the moon, i see words. when i look at the swelling sea, i see words, when i look into the eyes of someone, i see nothing. the soul is not made up of words. meanwhile, people weep for the victims (there are two of them so that qualifies as plural) of the boston bombing, no one weeps for the many dead, among which  perhaps are poets, in iran due to u.s. bombings. i have been in love with the same girl for  eight years now. she borrowed a tolstoy from me, in my past life. killed me in another. i love her now. meanwhile, the night covers herself with dust. the cold just became unbearable.

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