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Afterbloom
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TUNNELS Automatic for the People
Shoppers, take this time to please your companions. Right, left, right—obviously they take your attention via clockwork sales talk. A drop of discoloration is being processed when you talk to them—lover, robber, gender, industrially colorblind—magical are their actions to repeat the blooms of magnolia on marginalia, high-price of intentionsunder duress. If all good shoppers are careful enoughto be attracted to the sheen of the lights, or to somethingstrange like Mambrino’s Golden Helmet, I would liketo think that life in a crowded place is clueless about the appeal of mass nouns to the art of small things like undeclared birthdays and acupuncture points. Inside the fitting room, there’s a hunk of love, all spruced-up with a groovysense of purpose; this I’m referring to all typesof clothing as professionals, feeling the way we feel right now, are available on site to serve you,always. But what is fake measurement if everything at this moment
TUNNELS Mito
What glimmers in the treeseyes so sweaty as minutesbefore midnight howlsthe transona burst of twelvethe myth lives with usthe myth is shakenthe myth called mito—so strong the village folksfrom out the coldscream, sputtered outas the sigbin5 claimsits wild phantasm of humangyrating metaphors, of signsrobust with backwardrhymes splitting farinto the distancewhere a text is sighted(that refried ectoplasmcalled by Filipinosa kamalig) read blurrily: catastrophe sigbin—nomonstre sacre crampedby molecular science.
TUNNELS What is Phenomenology?
Things forgotten suddenly met me when Iwas asked that time the question my memorycouldn’t wield a cut grass, a mercury dimeI only held on for was dear life in general—something more present than schoolchildren& the charts they count are no moreno less my simple kind: silence felled& human signs felt & this feeling screamedwhen I wanted to speak about the worldwe live in & how those prescriptive mathswould have kissed happiness in passing,though my views may be wrong, they mayeven be non-academic since the essence of it allis to patiently wait & watch the lilies grow& remember how to laugh once againon the side of the bridge drinking the everydayfrom an empty Coke can & while curfew callscould be so alliterative, I guess repetition& all sources of knowledge could potentiallyturn us white, as though July birds scatteringinto the r
TUNNELS August 14, 2017
When I greet the daypeacefully, you stabthe day with a knife—a knife that stays,looks like you,a pith in the coreof tireless beginnings.Remembering…I bleed for youred alphabets of time.I bleed, like an ancienttear in the eyeof the strangest wall,the impregnable fogin our midst.
TUNNELS Splintering
Through the hedges darkly buffeted by the feral state of gravity,of the unspeakable, its melancholy birds preening under the suncaught in the breath of a revelation: summer lying, you.We cannot suspect the horses running to be like the pastharnessed still to what’s not fading away; crisp hellos are a theoryof disembodied music, gospel at times, your blues most of the time.Let me hold the perfect hand, white, blinding, lifted highto make me touch the melody in a forest once you saidwas giving you death, the time my eyes were full of skies.Seasons arrive in no known glimpses of flowers, of fallingleaves, of snow splintering into muted signs. A living clock tells.The river runs past you and me, flowing into forked destinies.Now the mocking presence of the forgotten: how could younot know that part of your existence was built on large ruins?Oracular was I to echo your bone to your bones: Xanadu.In the context o
TUNNELS Operation Optimism: Twin Futures
Escapism Run, run like the light that never goes out, the bulliedcharm of the matador pain-projector, also called the cousinof the law in uniform, flashing suspicion on the escapees, escapistsbreaking from and within the corners rattled by barbs,shackles, ex-lives, cuffs, left-handed lies.Whiskers there, paw signals everywheresharp eye contactthe language verifiedby the generoussources from the crime scene. The yearof the cat feedson artificial intelligence,the cat clashes with the K9 chiefs, sothe year of the Old Possum dispatchesno racial star, no un-Cheshire unit, no whatsoever in forensic translation.EqualityOperation optimism is highly tranquil. Moreinformant tips drop hystericallylike a Feng Shui forecast about life under surveillance. Scream, scream for the subjectthat meows compassion, allegedly sellingluck in the B-side,that is about 30 gramsweighedtradedbut never used.As ‘used’ is a word like curious Gus
TUNNELS Postscript to Pronouns
For one: I saw a book, ash-colored; on the sideof its skin lived the initials A.I.riven by blanknessand a fatal crave darker than dark.It read Ako and Ikaw. My eyeshungered, wishing for anothercourt in the sky, or another throatto house another world in another time.Second:I should be in jail. I have been cripplingsyntax to its spindly few. SpellingI pummeled to misspell Astrosphinxas statuesque as May I sing with me? Words whiplashed on fire icejeepneying with Saint Lazarus—the emperor of English over grasslilt parsing poison into ice creampoetry and screaming grammar noir.The narrative of tradition, beer-fellowedby cultural madness to digressand mull over a foamof savory crab fat alongsideour pickled come-what-mays. For this,‘Ikaw’ and ‘Ako’ separately are You and Mein Filipino, that by accident tryto understand Taglish as nomadologywears thin of its spatial possessions,rhymes, or like those rent checksno prettier than your beinga residential state s
TUNNELS Heartbeat
(Alright make it official you heard it in a speculative membrane-bus!)Watching fast cars from the edge-row seat of a bus, my mind safe-assigns a regular thought I thought was running pristinely naked, or an odor of a girl I thought was the effect of an 8AM lesson on Pierre Gourou slowly kicking in, embracing the trees from around my vision which I thought was tropical time carrying code-specific heat back to my lovely province. This back seat of a speculative membrane-bus now turning loco, calling out all aesthetes and commuters of the Manila mundi to reunite! And ringing—my mind’s chasing the hour like a whiplash too quick to move. Love this shy avocado hope on board—of all round trips I couldn’t finish: tickets there turning to peanuts, roasted peanuts scattering around a wheel to never make this poor brain tired of thinking aahh thoughtlike an Atom-U freight memoryringinglike a heart. Or: a deadbeat’s heartbeat.
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TUNNELS Footnotes
TUNNELS Intro to end
TUNNELS a story about a bruise in light of Lacan’s le sinthome; or, because love rolls in the fifth eye of our homelessness
TUNNELS The Poet Who Wrote Adam Snow
TUNNELS tɹaɪsɪkəl
TUNNELS The Rapid Room
TUNNELS Call Center Angels
TUNNELS Little things
TUNNELS #taglish
