Monday, November 28, 2005

Color Me Angry.

As usual, I have somehow f_cked up whatever was happening between me and my friend. I tried to be careful, I tried not to screw it up, but I must have somehow. Because I 'm male and it is always--without fail-- a male's fault.

That aside, I am irritated because people are still tossing fireworks carelessly in the street. Despite high prices. Despite the decline of the local fireworks industry. Despite the fact that it's common knowledge that behavior like that causes people to lose fingers, hands, legs and feet.

I'm mad because we're never going to bridge the gap between men and women, and that many of us local males will wind up with gay men or priestly vestments, or worse: become gay men in priestly vestments. Because our women just. don't. want. us.

Because there's always something wrong with-, missing in- or better than you.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

An Incomplete Answer to the Question of Meaning

Don't believe 'em when the tell you "things just happen." It's always somebody's fault. Maybe you were busy, maybe you cheated, maybe it's a million other little things that snowballed into the giant mess that killed whatever shot you had at forever. It's still somebody's fault because somebody let it happen. Be that as it may, punishing somebody, random acts of vengeance, don't accomplish anything in situations like this. They don't address the central issue: they don't bring the loved one back, they don't restore the old order of things.

What's true is that people want. I can't stop that any more than I can stop the sea from touching my feet on the beach.

So let 'em want.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Bodega Bits

Ma-RULE-is

American Idol alumnus Constantine Maroulis, he of the infamous pout, is coming here to tour the malls. Great news for gay guys, women and diehard Maroulis fans—make a guess which category yours truly belongs in. Having been an ex-rocker myself, I say “More power to ya.” Maybe I’ll even stop by one of the rather high-end malls just to (figuratively) say hello, and support a brother in music.

It’s too bad that he doesn’t have his old band with him though. I would have liked to experience firsthand the sound of Pray for the Soul of Betty.

Rape

…is never funny, unless the situation is so out there that the idea of it becomes hilarious. Case in point, the burly but sexually inept man, who cries Rape! after being “forcibly seduced” by a woman half his height, weight and mass but more than twice his equal in appetite and aggressive behavior.

What happened to the 22-year old college student from Zamboanga does not the above case make. Even if she had been a sex worker specializing in group activity--which I doubt-- she deserved better treatment than being more or less discarded like a rag doll out of the side of a van after the deed was done.

Uncle Sam, our collegialas are neither pigs, nor slabs of meat who exist to be shot or ravaged by overstressed GIs.

Maybe the Visiting Forces Agreement has its merits. I’m even willing to concede that it may have been bad medicine we needed to swallow at the time, what with Uncle Sam being vengefully stingy with aid for his long-suffering ally. But crap like this should not have happened at all. Crap like this should not happen again.

And While We’re on the Subject of Rape, Uncle Sam…

It’s bad enough that one of your boys performed an NLP-assisted Jedi mind trick on my then-fiancee to convince her leave me. It’s worse when said boy stands idly by while his black ops buddies make her life inconvenient.

I’m Asian so I can understand the need for states to protect themselves. But my ex has never given you reason to question her integrity. If I recall rightly, she single-handedly streamlined one of your most annoyingly mired-in-red-tape departments.

I. love. this. woman. you. bastard. And you and Whitebread ultimately made me waste 12 years of my life. But if she wants to spend the rest of her natural existence with Whitebread, then so be it--it wouldn’t be the first time I loved a woman and she wanted to be with someone else richer, more settled, more suave than me. But please treat her with the respect she deserves.

Slay the Father

I owe Uncle Sam a lot-- for English, for my formation as a freethinking lover of philosophy, of the sciences, of art, poetry, prose, comics, Star Trek and Buffy. But if the gifts he gives have the kind of pricetag that involves us selling more and more of our souls to him every time he comes a-knocking, then maybe it's time to figuratively stake him and live life outside his shadow.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Essay

You'll be happy to know I kissed her.
No, not in the way you wished.
That path frees you from me and
I will not willingly take that road
Until every street, shortcut
and footpath to your heart is
Hopelessly, irredeemably blocked.

But if it comforts you when you lie
With that man, in your highway raodside
Motel dreams or out of them, know this:
Last night, I loved her; I barely thought
of you.

My eyes moved across her expanse
Noting the topography that I
Once willingly overlooked for your sake.
From space I recorded the landscape
Of skin, broken only by clouds of
Cotton and urban constructs of leather.

I held her, extracting pleasure
And comfort from her geologics--
Every heat spike, every sigh,
her tremors, her subtle tectonic
shifts.

I longed to descend into the wet
Depths beneath her smile, explore firsthand
Her teeth with my tongue. To loose her hair,
Measure the dark foliage of her crown
With fingers that before ached only
To touch you.

When we parted she touched my cheek.
I simply held her hand and kissed it.