Should I dedicate this text to a “Pancholo”, like one or two or three had shouted i.e. suggested? You see, in Spanish-Bikol-Filipino “Pancholo” means “The historical champion boxer with the little uncircumcised dick.” I gave the prototype to Pocholo Goitia, written on scratch paper as a gift.
June 2 2008 8:24 pm And Waps San Diego sings “Superstar”---- I can now die. From behind, I saw, blinked, and Angelo Suarez looks like a pretty girl. Pocholo Goitia said, “Uy, sorry ha, haven’t worked on new CNF.”
8:24 - 11:26 pm. Joseph Sagui was a priest who took me to the Church of Poetry, where dear Satan gave me a funny-mind-fuck the Lourd de Veyra called “Notes on Wasak”. And I thought that’s why I loved his 1997 Monkey poem and 2002 or 2003 or 2004 Santa Claus in Kamias poem. Or was that Elvis in Kamuning poem? We all have to know to what sounds and images refer in puns to find a poem funny.
Allen Ginsberg is alive, only it’s Ken Ishikawa but I see Cirilo Bautista.
A poem dedicated to the New Pancho Villa(nueva) by Marie La Viña cheered by “Yeee-heee!”: clutter is a virus. And the bell for cliché rang once or twice.
So are reading tones therefore is Kael Co, so is Dr. Drey Terran in two poems of Karen K(C?) apto, cheered by “Para rin kay Pancho! Hindi! Para kay Pancholo!”
Waps will be a good lawyer for he quotes “Go all the way!” X-men spoiler, thanks a lot, grrrr--- laughed Joey. Still, I YAWP to his carpe diem poem! Excited to see the comics he’s working on!
Larry Ipil reminds us with a CNF text how video killed the radio star because that video of that gay who got cologne pulled out of his ass by quacks who forgot the Hippocratic Oath in Cebu stank all over Youtube. And yeah, that stinks. So do men. And Larry said to the audience, “Halatang walang bakla sa audience noh?!”
I laughed and clapped, I’m going gay---- go all “nature” as Pancho Villanueva would usually (off-tangent sometimes) say.
Then I piss the beer, and stop, to think if I should commit to suicide via evil spunk, said so by Khavn-with-hair-of-Funky-Skunk.
Then it was onto Ms. Delgado’s excerpt on academic tale of love, the horror, the horror--- oh wait, pardon me, it was that Basti Artadi story, damn text association in anthologies, a tendency.
Then it was Melvin Medes on a “henyo”, yeah, Mang Kulas pabili nga ng tsinelas, yeah—YANO—Dong that henyo, what happens to henyos? Dong Abay, come back to music, you henyo.
Glen Atana-Lovah-Soulja-boy got it right: you can’t read if you can’t write.
Sasha Martinez got cheered with “Para rin kay Pancho! Yeeee! Pancholo! Yee-heee! Off-shoulder para kay Pancho! Yeeee!” (I thought Give them that long and bony middle finger my dear little tall girl) before she read plot excerpts for short stories and poetry here and there and then there’s the usual scene-with-a-bed trend.
I stopped listening since I was six to high school jeers for a sausage party.
I asked Joey to please ask Angelo Suarez for a copy of his poem “fathers’ congress” because I couldn’t hear him amid the cymbals and rolls of Rock Drilon’s nephew’s drums and Khavn’s below middle-C piano keys.
(Which after I read damn good and thought here’s an exam)
that he dedicated to Adam David (who later said when he woke up Get me a copy, please, Ate bitch)
who was absent because he was asleep while his dad was sleeping like the dead
and Adam is little-boy-allergic-to-hugs given by his Kuya’s friend
because no more Daddy Howling Daddy Dave Daddy Dead.
May 25 9:23 am.
Adam said, …Just don’t know what to do, haha. Punta ko dun in a while. Taas daw blood sugar, mga 328 daw.
May 26. 4:57 am
Adam said, Woke up from a dream mere minutes ago with the line supposedly uttered—in the dream--- to an old jazz musician before he died: “Sir- would you like to take your afternoon nap and follow it up until Tuesday?”
I woke up at 8:52 am and said, Whoa, potent portent.
Adam said, Yeah, namatay na siya. Text kuya.
And I sent his kuya a message then immediately called, asking him where he is, saying I just heard, asking how he is.
“Heard what?” his kuya said, then, “Well, now I know.”
All part of friendship: I winced.
June 2 10:32 pm. I said to Adam, “Jello read something for you…You should hear the good stories from your kuya about your dad and mom’s time. Good memories, too.” Remembering how little kuya once said that he would be all punked out on gigs…
Just to remind you that not all fathers go away to and never come back from “fathers’ congress” therefore are shitty fathers. We all have shitty fathers one time or another but never really always. Fathers are not all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good unlike God, they say, but even God is a father, too. We all have choices: choose who and what will be your father.
May 26.
End of an era, man, which this generation hopefully would understand that punk and so on became a star in our country’s radios because Adam’s Daddy was Howling Daddy Dave Daddy Dead.
To which the old man said, “I find it sad. I don’t understand it. These guys are younger than I am. I find it sad.”
And I made a sad old man burst HAHAHAHAHA! by telling him, “You still have purpose… I’m alive so you should be.”
June 2 9:19 pm. Lawrence-the-recent-Dumaguete-Poetry-Fellow sent a message: “just wanted to hop on a bus so I could go back and listen 4 d Sound. Wondering if I have it. Happy Monday!” We’ll all see, won’t we?
8:24 pm I tease Joel Toledo, “Tangna, bakit karamihan lalaki ang magbabasa? Ano ‘to sausage party?!” Joel jokes to Joey and me about “real men” smoking Marlboro reds and being bald and saying “I love you” to another man. We three laugh.
I find myself laughing more. I laugh, almost suspecting that tonight will be a happy sausage party. Waps is singing “Superstar”. My mind has become silent--- thoughts, as if, afraid of lingering lest captured and then caught--- frozen. The room begins to be emptied of silence, filling with words--- these words… I wonder if we have all drunk from one fountain once--- or perhaps a ditch--- and not liking the taste, with our words, turned wine into beer or piss.
11:26 pm: Bopped to the bands Carnival (that had What’s the frequency Kenneth and Butterfly Carnival riffs) and Tsongkey. Douglas Candano sat with Joey and me for a while and agreed to meet on Wednesday night for Selena’s solo debut.
June 3 2006 12:15 am: “Leaving already?” Pancho asked.
I said, “Yeah, may turo pa ko mamaya eh.”
“Balik turo ka na?! Saan!?”
And Joel laughed, “Nagstart na nga sila two weeks ago pa!”
Yeah, and today I will likely see some more Philistines and I will make sure it won’t be a sausage party. Please bless the sausages with feminism in this country. I’ll probably say, “You can all fuck around today because of poems written by Filipinas like Angela Manalang-Gloria like Revolt From Hymen in the 1940s. Otherwise in 2008 you have to marry the girl first before you can fuck her. Yeah, and in 2008 an un/married girl/woman who chooses to fuck a boy/man is still called a slut (especially those who end pregnant).”
While the un/married boys/men generally get it all for free and are free to cheer or jeer at “sluts” and “virgins” and “bitches” and “whores”---- slaps on backs.
And I slap you back.
Wake up.
There, fuck yadieudes!
No comments:
Post a Comment