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| Dagiti Aglablaba iti Karayan Padsan idiay Laoag |
it's a wet morning, but a promise
of sun lingers on the glass panes,
the room is too small for these
public men dissecting omissions of
the boss now gone to nowhere to
celebrate alone his fall. (was it the
absent magazine message that triggered
his disaster?) we are like
conspirators revising the plot in
some alleyways dark with hate and
violence: a, brutuses recreating
caesar's gory death. no matter: the
joy is ours now and we shall jot in
our diaries this day of victory.
basil valdez on tape wails out a
song of love sans ends. (requiem to
a dead rat?) the waxed floor is littered
with crumpled tissue papers and
cigarette butts. the rubbish can wait
sings the janitor baring a set of tattered
teeth as he joins in the banter and
the laughter (ha-ha-ha-ha. the fetters
broken?)
indeed, this people's domain needs
cleansing cream, new manners, new minds
that, in pursuit of the sun, shall burn
the night with liquid fire of gods and
high ambitions: no more ruins to tread
this midnoon of our separate lives: the
swan song has been sung and the recorder
is broken forever.
(did he not know, did not the cabal
that fed him with parables of lies
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| Art Representation of the Ilokano "Dadapilan" |
the typewriters are silent, the whir
of electric fans lost in the cacophony
of sounds. like cattle loosed from a
coral, we excite the air and our voices
reveal kinship with roman assassins.
no matter: this joy is ours now. permit us
these stupidities for just this day for soon our
ship shall move again and blaring trumpets
shall in distant shores announce
our arrival.--prize-winning poem by peter
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