Wednesday, October 22, 2014


By Aby Weygan

Getting to know a stranger starts with one look. Just one.

This is usually followed by some knuckle crunching, then the usual pushing  and shoving, the occasional name calling "Duwag! Duwag!". Now the celebration! Fight! Fight! Exchange of spits, exchange of fists, attempts to grab, fails, attempts to punch, hits, more fists, one boot, one empty beer bottle to the back of the head, hits, more fists, one boot to the face. A foul!  Now others join, get ready to rummble!

Sometimes there's a gift like the Blade, nobody saw it. Must have been a kitchen knife. Nobody saw it.  Lennel, who wanted to know a stranger, didn't. Now he is bleeding:  Leaking blood(from his sides), pouring blood(from his mouth) , dripping blood(from his nose).  

Someone is down, someone called the police, everyone runs. Except for Lennel, he proved his masculinity and bravery, HE IS THE MAN! he did not run, run from the fight? no! not even the police! He is the man.  

In another time, they(Lennel, Jojo, and Raul) would go to a "washing". A washing is just another round of beer after the "hard" drinks. This would end the night or start another one. 

But not this time.  Perhaps if you are a joker you could say he is washing.  "Washing " himself in his own blood. And later others would do the "washing" for him-washing his blood out of his  16 year old now lifeless body. A poor joke.  Of course, there's a bigger joke.

And 16 years ago that joke started with one look, just one.

HOW IT ALL STARTED: Two strangers gave each other one look. Then one touch, two kisses, another touch a deeper kiss. Or was it the small talk first that started with his joke? Does not really matter, nothing really matters. You know the rest, two strangers, one room, one big mistake? the drunkenness, the accident, the room, the father, the mother, the baby, the family?  the regret, the room

But still... the life,

The festival , the accident, the life, the regret, the baby,  the marriage and all those strangers at the wedding,  the accident, the life, the accident, the marriage and all the strangers at the wedding, the life, home and that strange house , the regret, the festival!

But , still..

The life-

16 years after, it ends with one look. DOA

High above in his pedestal in heaven GOD looked down, just once. At the same time, sitting smiling in his pit the devil looked up, just once. Out of boredom, they gave this 16 year old kid, out of all the millions and billions of kids out there, one look.

No, that can't be true, for why look at a kid when there are countless men and women who have more reasons to bleed and die? Doesn't matter, everyone is a stranger. And everything is just one big joke?

Back to earth: HOW IT ENDS

Lennel's made up face is now frozen behind a glass. His hands are frozen hands clasped together. Frozen meat. As Lenell's mother and father(two of them), his brothers in arms(Raul and Jojo) his ex-girlfriend Veronica, and all the other strangers at the funeral take turns to give




Now he is on the news, you probably read about his passing, his unfortunate, untimely, unjustified young death. Or you could chance upon his grave and computing the years between the birth date and the death date, you will probably lament.  You will probably  take one look and you will (probably) sigh, "he is too young".   

 But there are so many dead strangers, so many strange graves. Most probably you don't remember him. You were never there. If you were, you might have given only one look.

Now Fellow stranger, let us give another look.

LOOKING BACK: One really stormy evening (a year before his death) Lennel was cursing; cursing  the weather station, cursing the mayor for not cancelling the classes;  cursing himself that he did not bring his umbrella ; cursing the two lovers he was to share the shade with.

The two were wearing the same white PE shirt that Lennel was wearing.   

Picture this:  
  1. Evening, around 6:30
  2. There is a storm(announced signal no. 2 but is evidently signal no.4 )
  3. There is a small shade near the Baguio Cathedral
  4. Wet white PE T-shirts sticking to the skin, soaked shoes, wet hair, wet bags, the absent umbrella
  5. rain, wind, rain, wind, more rain, more wind
  6. But all these do no matter to those two who were content just hugging each other under that shade, under the storm
  7. Time and again, they would kiss, or hug each other tighter as if wanting to volt into one body, kiss, hug, kiss, hug, kiss, hug, hug, hug
A lovely sight? depends on who is looking. For what Lennel realized that day was simply that he was lonely.

The knowledge, that these two were there,  and the knowledge that he was alone(now lonely), not only here but anywhere  was too much. Knowledge is power.  Never mind the rain, He stepped out of the shade and walked on until he reached the Baguio cathedral where he gave the cross one look and sang "will you send me an angel"(Scorpions)

He got his wish, a stranger, who was an angel, who became another stranger,
 and the Love, that other shelter from the storm that makes strangers of those who enter too fast, of those who stay too long, of those who leave too early, and of those who never enter...

But that's another stranger's strange story.  Another face, another stranger, another look, another joke,


It's hard to tell a story in this storm of countless raindrops of countless faces, who do not matter, with whom you can only give one look, of countless eyes who can only give the story one look for it doesn't matter. It's raining again.

Raindrops that fall on our head soon dry or be wiped out, people we no longer remember,
raindrops that never fall on us, all the strangers we will never meet,
raindrops that fall on the gutter and flow down the drain, strangers we stand in line with everyday,
rain now stagnant water on an empty can, all the strangers you are huddled with inside the jeepney

Strangers, raindrops, strangers, raindrops, strangers, raindrops,
Suggested Activities:
1. Meet a stranger! (part 1)
Stand naked in front of the mirror. Take a good look at all the curves.  Pinch the bumps, bulges and  scars, count the pimples and the wrinkles, poke those moles. Touch everything if you can. Look at the parts you can never show. Then take a closer look, you could ask the 5whs: what, where, when , who and  why?

Write a 300 word reaction paper. Add a moral from the narrative of your naked life.

2. Fantasy writing!
 Look at a random stranger, and randomly write his/her story from the looks alone. Where did she come from?  Where is she going? Who is he? Take another similar stranger, but this time write a different story. This can be done in groups as members take turns telling stories. 
Note: this can be done with people you think you know if so the activity is now titled Tsismis writing(metafiction)!

3. Meet(or meat) a stranger! (part 2, metafiction)
 Blur the boundaries between fact and fiction, between Author, Reader and Text. Look at a stranger. Give him or her that "look" until that stranger looks at you. Maintain for as long as you want to(or can) and then observe how the text comes to life.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Some Dragons are Just Bigger

By Beth

One fight fought
One dragon slain,
Everyone has a battlefield
Everyone has something to exterminate.

But sometimes,

One man’s arena
Is just another man’s ground for play
And one man’s big fight
Is just another man’s sparring game.

Throughout all the wars we find ourselves in
And all the enemies we have to face…
Be it known that all battles big or small,
Are lost or won… inside your brain.

I LOVE YOU! (the poetry of our lives)

Photography and Poetry by Karlo Weygan Kokoi Ravanera

the Poetry of Our Lives,
just like the Poet--
would persist and continue to live on...
For the Days, we count not--
but stead
the moments, we cherish,
for THAT is what's vital and of utmost importance

YOU are;
to ME, LIFE...
YOU, to me, IS JOY...
You is YOU
YOU are ME...



Tuesday, September 30, 2014

When Monica grabbed Bill

By Kurt Bagayao

Snoring your way to your much-anticipated REM.
Hoping you could catch on your dreams with the sun as your emblem.
Numbers and letters on the glass, scribbled and decoded for your viewing pleasure.
Leaving "Aha!" moments leaving a wide grin on your face like a caricature.

I give you a pebble for every ounce of your salty sweat.
Each hard breath of your worry leaves me great regret.
Apologies given thru non-verbal cues have not been sent yet.
Tomorrow, I shall make you coffee with your favorite tea set.

We do not wish to glorify "busy". You sent me here. You chose to be here.
We'll cross the bridge when it's built. A meeting of the minds is only possible if the minds are
At this point, I wish you the basics: Good Mind. Good Heart. Warm Feelings-Had without
the taunting of Fear.
This rhyme is boring me, honestly. So kindly turn the TV on and let's watch wrestling with
Stone Cold Steve Austin's beer.

Tomorrow, while you drink your coffee., kindly accept the non-verbal cues and acknowledge
If not, it would be fine. You are still at the helm.
I will be leaving early because I need to deal with a person who sounds like an excruciating 
But please do consider that the coffee I made was extracted from a gem.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014


By Invictus

How do you murder a butterfly in its metamorphosis?  
Squash the egg?
Splatter the caterpillar’s blood on the ground?
Crack the cocoon open?
Rip the wings off of a butterfly?
Monstrosity will never run out of ways!

This is not fiction. There are unborn babies whose future parents have unapologetically declared on Twitter they’d kill their children at the first sign of gay buoyancy.
Two years ago, Zachary Dutro, age 4, was murdered by his own mother believing he was queer. 
In this picture, his intestines hadn’t been torn open yet.
And it would be months before liquid leaked out from his damaged bowels.
A few months ago, Billy Lucas, age 15, was bullied to death.
Frenetic in his attempt to escape from his tormentors, he hanged himself in their barn.
Two years ago, Elvin Gonzalvo, age 21, was led by his father’s homophobic words to believe he was better off dead, so his body was found dangling in that dungeon of a home.

I have survived this holocaust, but only because of luck.
I am lucky my parents are human beings, not monsters.
I am lucky the people in my community were religious enough to know that homosexuality is a sin but so is violence, so they would just leave me alone… unscathed.
I am lucky my bullies were not creative enough in the art of torture.

I am now 26, flipping the brightest wings you have ever seen.
With much bravado, I shout to the world,
If the whole world is praying for straight children, give me every gay child!
I will unclip their tingling wings for everyone to behold.
They will call me the goddess of butterflies, keeper of beautiful souls with multi-colored bloods.
I aim to save those bloods from splattering on pavements and classroom walls.
I will teach them how to walk on rainbows (with stilettos) and avoid bloody pathways constructed by hands that intend to rip tender hearts with such godlessness!

But reality gets the best of me.
I look at my nephews and nieces and try to guess who among them will soon be convicted of the crime of loving in a different form.
I hope none, to be honest.
Because I wonder… if the world soon cuts his closet open, will he bleed?
I pray for his immediate metamorphosis, for my wings are never wide enough to cover atrocities like this.

Be that as it may, Kid, when you finally decide to come out of the closet, I’ll hug you tight.
But listen to me carefully.
Beware of hands that will break you open.
Do not allow those hands to incise your cocoon to make a spectacle of a murdered spirit out of you.
Kid, enter this world with an unbreakable spirit,
for there are men out there who will try to rip your wings off and replace them with phantom limbs.
Know your laws, be a good son, or daughter, be a good citizen, be a good student.
for in this society, queer is a fucking magnifier of flaws, the instigator of evil, the origin of debauchery.
I’ve dreamed of a world where crimes are attributed to people’s loss of humanity and not to their sexual orientation.

This is for anyone bludgeoned to normalcy in order to fit conventional gender roles,
Learn how to be camouflage in order to survive!
But learn how to lose that dead skin in due time in order to live.
Do not let pretension stick to your flesh for good.
Go ahead, Boy! Kiss that girl with pretty curls for what it’s worth.
But never turn down that boy in the baseball field, the one that always makes your heart leap when he goes for a homerun.
Boy, you have always been running towards home!
Boy, they say the home is where the heart is!
Boy, you are permitted to love that way after being imprisoned by your own fears for so long.

Dear kindred spirit, you are a good thing.
There may be prison cells in your heart, but learn how to bleed beautiful to let yourself slip through metal bars and finally shout to the world that you are still here despite everything!

Thursday, September 11, 2014

SAID THE FOX (as inspired by my favorite story, The Little Prince)

By Beth

The Little Prince and the Fox (c) Harcourt, Brace, & Co.
The Little Prince and the Fox (c) Harcourt, Brace, & Co.

I am not like the Little Prince’s Flower

Protected in her glass globe which she demanded.

She pretends to cough and sneeze so that she will be pitied

Somehow, I find that  irritating.

I run away from anything that comes close.

I am often feared but nonetheless hunted

And I can be as contradictory as the man who fears me yet hunts me.

Do I want to be killed by my seeker?

Of course not. I do not think I run toward my death.

I run toward a home…

So… maybe I can be tamed?

Yes I may cower as a hand stretches out to me

And I cringe at the slightest touch

But I am tired of running…

And you… you calm me down…

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Dear Girl

By Invictus

Photo by:

Girl, you have been drinking dew from leaves
believing it would quench your thirst for morning cuddles.
Convinced that the world is a wide winter bed,
you hike the wilderness alone seeking for a campfire.

Girl, why have you tied your worth to a dying tree?
But that doesn’t matter now, does it? The question
 you should be more concerned with is which one
is better off cut, the tree or your wrists?

Girl, don’t you think it’s time to stop picking petals off
a daisy and start blowing seeds off a dandelion's globe?
It's not a question of whether that one person loves you
or not. It is a quest to find out how many people care.

Girl, as those dandelion seeds dance in the wind with your blow,
I hope you realize that you are much more than a possession.
You are never an auction to begin with, because the world
will always be the highest bidder. You belong to the world.

Girl, the word belongs to you. You are the horizon, the one
that shows the first appearance of light before sunrise
and the one that sunset will soon kiss! Girl, start kissing
those wounds and point your finger to the moon!

Dear girl, there is a thousand words between your palms
and the earth waiting to be written. Write them later and
it will be yours for the rest of your life. The clouds wander
lonely, but you don't have to share the same story.

Dear friend, I have dug a hole in my soul to make
a compost pit. You can dump all your waste in there
and I will turn it into a fertilizer. I will spill it to your garden
hoping it is wide enough to let a thousand daffodils bloom.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Once Upon a Someday

By Beth

I was going over a pile of my stories
And I chanced upon a fairy tale
But the final chapter was missing
Not written yet… maybe someday.

Visited the playground for some release
But there were too many who joined the game
Wondered when will there be room for me
No vacancy yet… maybe someday.

Checked the box for some letters
But nothing was in the mail
Nothing that I was searching for.
Unconstructed yet…maybe someday.

Walked into a room of music
But all your songs were in play
They still stab at my fragile heart
Not callous yet… maybe someday.

All I have now are questions
When everyone said “leave”, I stayed
And when I said I’d stay, I moved
No explanations yet…maybe someday

That’s all I possess…
Now that all convictions are astray
Now that there is nothing definite
All I have …are so many somedays

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Sincerely, Flower

By Aby Yba

He loves you,
Observe and admire how my great beauty spreads itself open before your eager eyes. Smell my scent as every second, I lose it.
He loves you not.


Yes, the one that you pick up and smell, and cut, and tie, and display, for all to see, Or give away, or sell  for others to drown,  for others and for all to see. Do it fast, but not too fast.
Do it, before I wither.

She loves you,
For your  worries,  pluck me(pluck me harder), please don't stop. Choke me and watch as I give you that look. Slap me. Pluck me. To the point where I can no longer look at you - my eyes roll back.
She loves you not.

Truly yours,
The little bud

Yes the once and only once  a lolita,  drugged to be opened. Opened to be gagged.  Trained to be restrained with your ropes, with your silver and golden chains. And then what?

He loves you,
I am a flower: aster, rose, sage, I am your flower
She loves you not.

Very Truly Yours,
Your Artwork

Master, I surrender myself to you, cut me, tie me, choke me and slap me. Pluck harder. Tie me up and give me away. Cut me. Admire my restrained beauty. Slap me. Anything and everything for your worries. Conquer me then caress me.

I am your bonsai, watch as steel and leather block out the blood from my skin, stare as my growth is stifled then forced. Write a poem of pain and pleasure on my skin, read it on my face.  Is this good enough for your liking? Is this the position that you want? Sensei, do your ikebana-on me.

He/she loves you not,
pluck me.
he loves you, she loves you,
pluck me. Don't stop.
slap me.
You missed one of my petals. Please pluck harder.

Conquer me then caress me-
Spray me, force me to blossom, and when I do, splatter my face white to color me-to hide my withering. Pump me - with perfume- as every second I lose my scent. Pluck me harder. Hug me later. Master.
Yes you can parade me. Yes, take pictures, take pictures of yourself with me. Don't forget to smell and touch, but you can only pluck...later. After the parade. After Panagbenga,  After you display me for all to see.

Before and during, admire my great great blossom.

But (pluck me, please)
When i wither, if i wither.
I will wither,
He loves you not.
Will you still tie me up when the neck is nothing but bone? Will you still choke me?
Still smell me when all the spraying and the coloring do no good? Will you still take pictures of me? Take pictures of yourself with me? Will you still slap a skin that is sagging? Please?
Will you still look?

She loves you not,
I will wither, I am withering, I am wrinkled, there is nothing more to pluck. What is there to ravage when I am already ravaged?
He loves you, he loves you not.
She loves you, she loves you not.
There are countless other younger flowers, waiting for you to drug them, open, cut, tie, gag, spray.
They love you not.

There are no festivals for the withering. No tourists for that.

My breasts will sag, they are sagging. If they do, Will you still grab them? My legs are sagging. My arms are sagging. And while you can pump me with all the plastic and silicon, after spraying me with all your beauty products, pesticides and fertilizers,
Remember that
I am and will always remain, degradable,
Just like you
Bio degradable,

Nabubulok(just like you)


Throw your trash properly, do not place me with the plastic bags or napkins, or diapers. Return me to Mother. If you haven't ravaged her.

Monday, August 18, 2014


By Invictus

They say the body is made out of dust, but no one has ever told me the flesh could also erode from the body like a mudslide. A hug can warm the heart, but tell me other ways how I could warm your heart without crushing what is left in that body of yours. Those bones were reaching out to me like branches, and I could only hope I was  a bluebird singing in the vast forest of your lost faith. Unwilling to let go of my memory of that girl you once had been, I held you in that embrace like a remnant of an artifact whose real form had gotten lost in time; you, whose body is now a collateral damage to the bloodshedding of your own hopes.

But that day I saw you, I was engulfed by your stillness. Heaven knows how deep your ocean was, yet you came back up to the surface resilient, sending ripples across the water with your smiles and whispers. Don’t hold back the tears, Love… It’s okay to cry a river sometimes, for every river flows to the ocean, and every ocean sends tides to the shore, to place a kiss on that one lost bird, waking it up to go back home. I know you came back home. 

Once, I was sitting at CafĂ© by the Ruins. I couldn’t help but admire those shattered bricks. And at that moment I had this sadomasochistic realization that we have to break a part of ourselves in order to see beauty. Sometimes, we have to swing the hammer against a wall and to look straight through the rubble to see how breath-taking the sunrise is. That day, when I saw you and your mom loosen your grip on old grudges just to hold each other, I chose to see the sunrise and not the wreckage.

I know some wounds are as deep as an ocean, but I've been told that in order to allow healing, we have to remind ourselves over and over that other people are wounded too, that we are not alone.I know the world is far from perfect. I am not the type who wishes upon a falling bomb mistaking it for a shooting star. But I have stuck my head way up there with the clouds after realizing that Maroon 5 is right, that "it's not always rainbows and butterflies." We have this habit of turning decay into a fertilizer and wounds into a treasure map. Sometimes, our optimism is borderline MADNESS. I can never take away your pain, no one can. I can only share my dose of INSANE OPTIMISM to make you sane enough to believe that it is not yet over, that you are still here. So hear me when I say,

"Just because your heart feels heavy doesn't mean you're weak. The next time you lose count of the times you have come undone, remind yourself that every person, in his most battered state, wears a cape. The fact that you are still here shows the kind of super power it takes to carry boulders of grief and shame in the chambers of your heart. You may not stop the forest from burning, but it takes guts to rescue every cinder of your own faith. May you always find comfort in the fortress of your strength. May you always look up to see the chandelier of your hope and remember that the only thing you should hang is your dreams."

I know it's hard to blow the candles on our birthday cake unsure how many breaths are left. But we still have to call it a birthday, right? We wear bracelets even though they don’t have flesh on both wrists to latch on and even though those wrists are now all skin and bones; because there are just too many good things in those bracelets to hold on to. We still mark our calendars even though we know our hopes and prayers outnumber our remaining days. 

When I told you, everything’s going to be alright, I was not lying, and neither was I giving you false hopes… because that day, I saw past that delicate body. I saw your unyielding spirit.

"In the middle of all these troubles
He is always there
Hold on to the hope of eternity
That all these things shall come to pass
But we will see the wonders
The wonders of our God."

~III-Green of S.Y. 2013-2014

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


By Invictus

Words sometimes do not stay true to form. When used skillfully, they can squeeze out the sweetest of juice and throw away the bitter peel. I use metaphors to hide the forbidding shape of grief and unload my depression out of my chest forcing you to read every writing I post about how messed up life has been. But this isn't mere writing anymore.These words are the aftermath of a battle. This is a war cry, a sound of loss and victory and betrayal. This is me throwing grenades and dodging bullets hoping to see Life plant a white flag on the battlefield. 

Laughter must be the best tool for a masquerade. We conceal that face (the one that we use when we choose to watch Miracle in cell No. 7 alone in the fortress of our bedroom) because it is never fun to be in the company of a person who whispers words of love to his own misery every night.

The face of hardship is the one that is revealed when the Chinese old woman lifts the head of her Micky Mouse costume after a day of parading as a mascot to earn money for her son. Hardship is the texture of rough and callous hands that grip the hoe in the farm digging the battered roots of his spirit in the soil.

Sadness sprouts from decay. They say it gets worse before it gets better. Biology says decomposition is necessary for the cycle of life. But it does not explain the macabre of unrelenting massacre of dreams, the extermination of every hopeful cell in your body, how the liquid of life passes through the funnel of relentless annihilation. No, this is not mere writing anymore. It has not been for a long time.

Getting a grip is sometimes as simple as gripping a piece of chalk. Sometimes, I forklift my own frustration through these literary pieces I teach. I identify with Beowulf's over-the-top confidence because I, too, know the taste of victory only to get choked by my own narcissism. My heart goes out to Queen Guinevere because, I, at some point, was torn between what I needed to be and what I wanted to be. But you're still going to call my tears a visual aid, something that helps you understand other people's situations but not mine. No, this is not mere teaching anymore. This is me leaving my heart right there, for everyone to see, for I am the person who attempts to see through people's hearts but never actually understanding how my own skips like a broken CD every time I reach an episode of rejection, of fear,of paranoia. I drink every ounce of numbness to feel the feeling of not feeling just like how Romeo takes a swig of that poison. No, this is not a lecture on literature anymore.

Still, there are days when I feel the urge to collect the residue of lost dreams, but even a child is taught not to pick up crumbs of bread on the floor. At night, I howl at the moon in hopes of reclaiming that voice that is now an echo from a distant place. It is never a bad idea to grab a souvenir from the beach, but when I stopped hearing the sound of the ocean, I broke the seashell. It is quite tempting to let go of the kite's string to see how far it can go. But life is a bully. The moment you unclench your fist, it starts beating you to a pulp. And all you can do is to bleed yourself dry. No, this is not poetry anymore. It has not been for a long time.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Anime Review: Mind Game(2004)

By Aby Yba

It is easy to mash colors together and call it "art". It is also easy to mash words and scenes together and call it a "story" or a "film". Mind Game if anything is an art film, an art anime. I won't stop there. For while it is too easy to call anything art, it is not too easy to answer the question of technique and craft and more importantly the experience.

How was this mashing up done? How was the experience?

Mind Game is a feast for the mind, the eye and the ear. It will leave you wondering: what is happening? What happened? What am I looking at? and yet it is like a painting that though challenges your imagination, does not go overboard, it still leaves room for meaning. If you find no meaning then it is a song, a beat, that while it leaves guessing, leaves you dancing.

Most Anime offer epic battles, epic love stories, weird characters and their counterparts, all of which depend on the advancing of the plot, or the series of connected scenes. And you will judge the whole film on how a clear scene transpired. You will watch most anime/films to know what happened, what will happen.

Mind Game is different. Yes, it has a love story(between the loser and the  usual big boobed girl), it has the adventure narrative, it has car chases, but it is different. Trying to describe the film now is hard. Which means that no words can describe the experience of watching a series of scenes that at first might appear unconnected, but in time appear to be or not? The experience of watching scenes that play out like an MTV. Or of how fantasies/myths and beliefs are squashed together to portray what is possible, how narrative time is bent, is this a flashback? A future event? An imagined event? A dream? Or what?

Sit back, allow the sounds and colors to take care of the rest.


I admit that the movie might just be noise for the casual viewer, the story might prove too simplistic (un lang?) too chaotic (ewan?) but art is the excuse, technique is the reason and experience is the pleasure.

AND if you can watch and appreciate Adventure Time and Spirited Away(said to be the best animated film) then Mind Game should be on your watch list.

It doesn't hurt that the film has a wickedly fine sense of humor.

Some Awards(from wiki): Best Director, Best Film, Best Script and "Visual Accomplishment" (Fantasia Festival Canada)
Further viewing: Spirited Away(2001), Adventure Time(TV Series), Mirror Mask


-Has the best portrayal of what could be God.

-Imagine dying by having a gun blast on your butt with the bullet passing thru your rectum until said bullet exits thru your head blasting away your brain.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

I MAKE my own Destiny and I AM the Master of my own Universe...

By Karlo Weygan Kokoi Ravanera

I MAKE my own Destiny and I AM the Master of my own Universe...

I AM...

I am Destiny
I am Universe...






National Destination
Universal Verse...


I MAKE my own Destiny and I AM the Master of my own Universe...

I AM...

I make Destiny
I am Universe...

I AM...

I make Destiny
I am Universe...

I AM...



Karlo dG. Weygan
13 March 2014

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Marco 485

By Aby Yba

7 year old Marco woke up hard at breath. His unschooled mind did not yet know if he woke up from a terrible nightmare, a pointless dream, or if he ever dreamed at all. He woke when he heard from inside his own ear- his heavy breathing"huffff.. hufff".  He woke, when in the silence of his room, the brown door opened with a "crriiik", the kind of sound heavy doors often make "criik" and closed. He woke, when in the absence of siblings and he was the only child at home, he heard his name being called "Mac, mac, mac" must be from his mother... she always gets up early to cook.

That was the first time he woke up.

Marco, age 7, woke up perspiring. His kid's mind did not yet know if he woke up from a terrible nightmare or a pointless dream... BUT he was asleep awhile ago, this he knew. He was sweating, and his face was wet.. tears and sweat.  Wet was his shirt, wet underneath and even his pillows were soaked. As if the bed was turning into a large sponge. And Marco ,like water, was being sucked deeper and deeper.

That was the second time Marco woke up.

In a lamp lit room, a 7 year-old boy is sleeping. The sound of a doorknob turning. A large and heavy door opening. And then "Marco... mac... mac..." coming from outside . The boy opens his eyes, breaths heavily,  reaches for his mother at his side(absent), gets up, looks at door that just opened...expects his Mama, but sees only hair...leaving the room.

Hair..long black hair.. just like his mom's hair...
Must be her. It is her.

Third time.

Marco, in all his innocence did not know that he was NOT yet awake. But he got up from his bed, noticed the absence of his Mother's side, he got up still groggy, wet  and found himself turning the doorknob to open the door-the heavy wooden brown Narra door. "Criiik" (Thought he saw it open).

He saw nothing. Not even the sala which should have been there.

He stood a moment when the voice resumed.. "Marco..mac..mac" this time the voice did not come from  outside of his room but inside..  - he turned to see someone asleep on the bed...someone with long black hair.

Now he remembers the absence, he remembers asking his grandfather where his mother is. And Marco is elated. With open arms ready for a hug, he rushes to "her" side.

"your mother went to see saint peter" says his grandfather
"I want to follow her"
"you can't follow her, and she is not coming back, she will be happy there as you will be in here"
"where is the house of saint peter? I will go there
I will
go there"

Perhaps there is a shaver in that "house" for it is a wonder how Saint Peter judges stories cut too short.

How would you?

Sunday, June 22, 2014


By Karlo Weygan Kokoi Ravanera

Through the iridescent lamppost-lined humid streets
Of what I now call home
And looking Life straight in the eye
Both beautiful and festering
I could not,
But have
This terrible
Terrible yearning…

To awake
To cold
Foggy mornings
With diamond-like dew drops
Sparkling lavishly on sayote leaves
Just outside my jalousied-window,
The fresh aromatic scent of pinewood sap
Tainting the cool breeze
With old woolen Navy Pea coat and faded blues—
Worn like second skin
For days on end…

Sidewalk beer and Ginebra binges right in front
Of La Azotea atop Session Road
Evening bonfires and barbecues right in your own
Backyard (or even, a friend’s)
Anytime you’d like,
Anytime you’d wish…

To rejuvenate spent mind and body on top of a mountain
With sleep—
So tranquil…
River flowing in your midst…

Why pack—
When you could stay?
Why go,
When Right Here is where
You could meditate and be away?
The (sick) desire for something Better?
Are you truly happy, or are you Bitter?

In a bizarre experiment in Living—
A revolting desire for the Good Life?
Want more?
What for?!?

Smoggy boulevards and busy avenues
Could not help but haze
From tears that’s yours—
And yours ALONE…

In this place I now call HOME
I walk,
Through the iridescent lamppost-lined humid
Uncaring streets—
FACELESS to the faceless people I pass
My window—
Still OPEN to their Closed Doors…

In this place I now call My Home
I walk…


26 April 2002