(standard blabber)

Say it- these days are crap- plastic, paper, and old bread in the fridge growing molds and a collection of antique herbs and spices, artifacts from last year’s montage of birthday parties and sorties and hey it’s a boy! Nothing ebbs as spontaneous as the exhale of a cigarette puff- not even close- so you stick to your cigarettes who “know” what you need and you breathe in thick voluminous white come-to-where-the-flavor-is'es and breathe out wisps of some strange, thin Martian gas and bullseye! Now standing at the receiving end of a catastrophic global phenomenon- a freak flood of words, visions, and ectoplasmic manifestations, take in everything- give out two zero’s: Yakety shmakety blahblahlah burst into gibberish in your vacuous reverie in rhyme in song or plain babbling like how they babble at work. At work. At work, a flock of blue-shirts huddle in to obliterate whatever sociological construct you’ve guised yourself in and shout BLUE SHIRT! And you might as well pass by the drying room, point at it and whisper “drying room” to yourself and listen to all your other selves respond in Heya-brother-how’s-the-rehearsal-going-ARE-YOU-STILL-HERE? Or there? Still wet in there?
Stop.
Stop.
Think.
Stop.
But wait, you’ve been stopping and thinking too much.
Now rest.
Rest.
Rest.
Rest.
Rust.
There you go. And it turns, yes it runs, like hell it does, playing like an omnibus record of 1001 tongues with a bonus library of laughter from the 21st century but wait-there’s more! A wonderful perch in the splendid desolate realms of the past present and future combined! See it- there that room atop that empty house- the only room upstairs- the one with the ghoul howling Frankenstein-ing himself. Been there for twenty-three years, of course you’ve moved around much in the same area most of the time but there you go. There you go-there you go-there YOU go. And your days, oh your darned days- they lag like nights, and nights rush like a renegade jeepney to a whistle. And oh how you want to learn to whistle, so you whistle, blowing blowing blowing off some steam until you emaciate into a 2,000 year old mummy from Meso-America- Aztec Inca or Maya, but yeah, whatever, more would say Maya -pun intended. You emaciate some more as the days disinegrate more of your magic tricks and the nights bloat like a carcass of a moon-jumping cow on a dream lake, blue-black and that blue-black starless cloud-ridden dream sky turns inside out into the Hell-yeah! waking earth lagging your nights in return like workdays and days rush like your salary 3 days after payday. Who would have known boredom was an incessant brooding monster on your back named Jim- gnawing at your nape like a hairy over-sexed 6 foot tall 24-yr old closeted law student and the solitude you once knew as sacred and divine, harmless and nurturing turns freezing cold as your distant father on Sunday after church service and it bites like he bites on your face, that face you so courageously fought for against all bigoted Chistian odds and Christian ass. And you work work and work but you’re not really working, you’re waiting for December, for Christmas, and when it comes you meet Judas manifest-born into the real-life inspiration for the next hit soap opera or that MMK Christmas special starring Nora Aunor, Vilma Santos, Sharon Cuneta, and Maricel Soriano and that little child actress who looks like a boy-what’shername-Serena Doll Pimple?.
And you write, of course you write, only you’re writing crap. Escaping the first person to emancipate from that block, that block of ice on your head like a 3-day migraine attack that keeps you lying about absence and guilt and pain because you’re really absent and guilty and in pain this time and all your secret invisible spells for invincibility amidst your own Cold Front crumbles amid showers of rain rain rain, the cold type that burrows through your skin and deposits in your bones and you become this human-sized water tank, ballooned onion-skin thin and a prick like your ex boyfriend bursts your floodwaters on a cat meowing meowing meowing and you meow back meow meow me-ow. Me ow. Me ouch. And in this cat’s eyes you see an Ewok, e e e e ewok cute cuddly and e e e e e ignorant ewok and you wish had an e e e to e e ease the throbbing of that other migraine caused by this lightning bolt in the shape of a 20 year old boy that dubs thee “Wheel the Third” and lodges you into third person personal documentation: Lightning boy strikes - Russ is stunned unconscious-for a day- and tomorrow he wakes up with a “good morning” text and later at night, the boy announces his singularity- Russ is stunned unconscious again -for 5 days-and on the sixth day he wakes up with “yeah, we got back together” til 2 days after, Russ is completely brainwashed and gets an automatic membership in the House on three legs, and carries on with the waiting- ah the waiting- the lovely waiting- how romantic odious waiting sounds when in the next room the boy nurses his stomach-sick, also 20 year old primary companion and whispers “possible” through a crack on the wall out through and into the walls of yours ears seeping into your brain and crackles-yes it does-it crackles and the sound is spite. That’s right, like that crackle in your Sprite, sweet sweet sweet and trite. Spite. Bet you didn’t know that but you did know that and you do know and that’s it , you just know you know and you know when you know when you want to know but who knows? Who knows right? Right. Who Knows. Now say it.