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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Long-distance truckers were a kind of nomadic mercenary guild existing throughout the Diesel Era of the United States.¹ They lived in their Trucks, an enormous mobile caravan-like structure.² Although some purchased the Trucks outright, others held them in trust from their corporate³ patrons⁴. Truckers would frequently decorate and customise these caravans, modifying this hostile space into a kind of domicile. They lived a solitary lifestyle in which their only contact with other human beings was the frequenting of their vast system of trade posts along the great East-West trade routes.

[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Peace

"Peace I leave you, My peace I give you."

So why do they praise war? Perhaps they want to see His wounds Writ large on a thousand bodies Again, And again, And again

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

War

Where is the glory in war?

"In the tactics," cried the strategists "The spoils," replied the soldiers "The innovation," said the technocrats "The peace," the statesmen answered

Behind them all, a trembling hand Rose up; I beckoned And a wizened man appeared Wearing faded fatigues They were studded with stars and flags That all weighed down his shoulders Hollowed and beaten by time

The others retched at his presence And begged him to leave

But he told us, "The glory in war Lies in the flowers that bloom In the billions When all the marks of its wake Rot away."

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Taste

Do you see me? Do you smell me?

Please, come! Come and take a seat by this table Take that tiny spoon, Take a scoop, And taste me

I once slept in a dusty bed My feet spread contentedly beneath The damp coldness, which matched The warmth that beat upon My verdant hair

There they grabbed me— Hands rougher and tougher Than the loam and rocks that anchored me— And pulled

I couldn't cry out Or did I? I don't know They can't hear me anyway

They threw me into a giant vat Along with my kin And in its wet, freezing stomach They tossed and turned us Many flew out (or were they plucked out?) Never to be seen again

They picked the rest of us in handfuls, Wiped us of the last bits of home, Laid us on a tray to scorch under the sun Before throwing us into cramped, crinkling bags So tight our breaths fogged them

Then into heat, then cold, then heat again We passed And then, were picked once more apiece

I was the first

They ripped my paper skin off me, Lopped off my head and rear They turned me sideways and bisected me, Dicing both halves for good measure

And when I was nothing But meager bits of myself, They tipped all of me Into a boiling tub With many estranged folk All torn and crushed and broken And covered the exit

Please, help yourself I swear I will not stain your shirt Or singe your lip Or sear your tongue

In fact, I will kiss every inch of you As you take me Into final nothingness I swear it will delight you: My melting into darkness

I will give you warmth, Tickle your brain, And quicken your heart for a while Isn't that the point Of all that torment?

Please, take a scoop And say you like it Make it all worthwhile

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

An Ode to Sinulog

Once, You were taken hostage Mistaken for a gift

Thrice, They tried to bring You back To their fold

Yet thrice, You returned To the kingdom You made for Yourself In foreign isles

"Out of Egypt I called my son." And out of Spain You came to Cebu, Where somber rituals paled Before the child-like ardor Of red-hot song and dance

Now, every third Sunday Of the first month of the year, Thousands of bronzed bodies Crush together And scream in one voice:

"Magnet of love! Magnet of love! Magnet of love! Beloved of our ancestors. Have mercy on us Who call on You!"

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

What's Hope Like?

"Hope is such a pretty thing."

Or is it?

Tell me, how does she look like to you?

How does she taste? How does she smell?

Is she as fine as sugar cubes?

As white as snow or many-hued

Like rainbows after thunderstorms

Or circus banners gladly borne?

Do her teeth shine like clear sunbeams

That fill the jumbled, sordid dreams

Of harrowed folk with blissful light—

A lamp that wards off cruel night?

And is her fragrance flower-like,

A balm for pain, a cure for spite?

Please tell me, friend, I'd like to know

What is hope like, please tell us all

I've seen her once, and I can say:

She's barely any of these

She's ragged, bruised,

Covered in scars

And stitches drape her

Arms and legs

Both end with claws

As sharp as knives

Just like her teeth—

Or, what's left of them

She reeked of ash

And tasted like it

She's haggard, haunted, wild

Like me

Yet, still, she smiles

That's how I knew

I could cling to her

For longer than a while

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Keep 'Em On

The room was dark

The windows small

When I peered through

The broken wall

I saw myself—

To my surprise

I did not know

The how's or why's

But then I heard

Other Me speak:

"These bills might hold

Me 'til next week.

But I can't take

More of this fast,

This endless wait

And stifling cast!

I shouldn't have bought

The training shoes

Or the new phone

So much to lose!"

I leaned away

And cast my eyes

Down to my feet

And hand besides

Said phone's alight

With all the news

Of all the stuff

I gained and use

Without a care;

Same with the shoes

A laugh escaped

My pursing lips

I shook my head

And at a clip

I told myself:

"The race is tight

But then, one day,

This endless fight

Will end, and then,

With teary eyes,

You'll see the twists

And turns and miles

You've walked—no, ran!

Since who knows when

Out of that pit,

That dreaded den

You call the past

Keep running, boy!

Those training shoes

Are not just toys

Your soul's a well

And heart's a pyre

So what if you're

Right on the wire?

One more lap left

And then, you've won

Just keep those brand-new trainers on!"

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Oops

I forgot to say Happy New Year.

Happy New Year!

There.

[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

To J

You are the most heinous thing I've ever laid my eyes on It makes me sweat

The bearing of a miserable grandpa In the body of a baseball god The morals of a wretched cut-throat With a gentle giant's hands Your tub-thumping makes the vilest Redditors blush As it falls from luscious lips And the sleekness of your decor and design Clashes well with your grimy looks You bear all these and more With the stride of a schoolyard bully And nothing else has made my heart race like this

Ever since you conquered me in my dreams I dreamed of conquering you

If we should meet, It would be a fateful meeting indeed And I know, with bitter pleasure, That you would make full use of it

And that's alright To become one of your pawns Is a double-dipping deal But having your attention For one second Would be compensation enough

Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

I Live

The world is dark and cramped I lie in a walled void, The only light in this emptiness Coming from a tiny spark Within me

Outside, I hear the roiling Of a million monstrous beasts, Squirming, Skittering, Squelching, And gnashing with gigantic jaws and feet One brushes me— If there was something stiller than still, I did it— But does nothing else

I shake my head: This restless fear Can't be borne much longer

Then, I feel it, Something cold, crisp, and clammy Touching me I twist and turn to taste it

The walls break To reveal a darker, heavier, deadlier darkness

But I thrum with thirst So I dig down, dig deep Then push, Shove, Crawl, Crunch Against this crushing expanse With feeble, fluttering hands And heaving head

More drip down in damp drops And I drink deep But then, something else draws me Something hot, high, And brighter Than this tiny spark within me

I struggle— An abomination nips my side, But I struggle on A million miles, a yard, an inch, A hair's breadth

Then, I break through And take my first gasp of air, All bursts in green, blue, and gold: Warmth, wind, and a wide world Welcome me With a fragile, vibrant circlet Of glorious color For my crusted brow

I shake off my withered cowl And put it on, Then, I spread out many arms And shout: "I live! I live! I live!"

Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Dump Depot

Pennies, dimes, a quarter, A couple of 10-dollar bills A quick rub on the sleeve Can clean—oh, look, a Benjamin! Must be my lucky day!

"Pipe down," she said, "You'll wake the neighbors up. The shopkeeper's as mean as he looks. Go check these here; You'll find some better steals."

They smell like hell. "There's more over there!" Alright! Now you pipe down.

Oh, wow! This bomber jacket Still looks fresh. These Docs and Skechers, too! 'Dunno what an LV is, But it looks fancy enough.

And—holy crap! They dumped a whole-ass blender here! Looks good as new. I bet you can use 'em.

"Or sell 'em," she replied. "These folks don't care about this stuff Like we do."

Yeah. I wonder why.

Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

Reflecting on Those Who Are "Down Bad"

No, I am not just "down bad" for someone I am a full-on simp A simp for life— Life itself! A life-simp, if you will

Yes, It's unrealistic But what is real? The priests of post-Enlightenment Have preached Reason Out of the throne they wrested, Or rather, redistributed, For her (They're republicans in the old sense For that)

Neo-Nietzschean, Posing-dramatically-before-the-void Stoicism is simply Dead —And worse, dull The happy life Is one that suffers and dies Dreaming of love

Let there be plagues! Pests, poverty, and politicians, Powers that kill down to the atom; Love is older and above them And outlasts them all

And death? Darling, life and death are the same In love Come Judgment Day Or, less interestingly, Heat Death, Let the last beat Of the last heart Say "Love!"

What if the aliens come, Or AI rules the world, Or the sun explodes, Or worst of all, the one I love Disappoints? Well, these catastrophes Will find me watering the water lilies Singing of love

What can I say? In darkness, death, And boredom, I can't help but love!

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

the worst part about being an adult is thay its no longer socially acceptable to just roll down a really big hill and then run back up it and roll back down again. "oh is this a syphilis metaphor" passerby would ask. "is this for a tick tock". no i just wanna come home covered in dirt and scratches and bask in the the solace of childlike mirth

[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

It’s my grandpa’s birthday next week and he said “I don’t want to be 85” and my grandmother, his wife of 59 and a half years, said “well your only alternative is to die”, I can’t believe how affectionate they are

[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

The Orchids

As a kid, I was always drawn to orchids I drew them on the backs of Xerox scrap In my grandma's old shop I doodled them on the corners of my notes When the restlessness kicked in I once got laughed at by my mom, my aunt, and my cousins Because, while the other kids made fishing rods From the extra tinsel and plastic straws They threw out while decorating for Christmas, I made orchids

My great-grandparents' ancestral house, Tucked in a tangle of quiet fields and groves That weathered the island's rapid, reckless growth, Was once ringed by orchids on a wire fence When we moved in, I used to stare at them As they caught the dew and fire of the rising sun, Their dainty blooms and stately leaves and stalks Glistening like flutes of emerald and blue, And I mourned when they suddenly fell dead and dry A couple of days later, only to be amazed When they flowered again

The books call them commensalists: In the wild, they stuck to branches and cliff faces, Taking in what they need from the open air Without harming their roosts

I, too, wish I could take up space And thrive wherever I went, Daring both gales and beasts alike To bloom for a day, wither, and fall, Then get back at it again

Maybe that's why I was drawn to orchids: I wanted (and want) to be them

Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry

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[whythehekirekiareyouwriting]

To O.O

I plod outside the gate And out he comes With little feet a-padding, A tiny nose a-sniffing, And a minute mouth a-wailing Like it's been ages (more like a month) Since we last saw each other, To greet me

O.O I named him After a silly K-pop song Panned by self-dubbed experts in the medium He had great swathes of orange Splashed over a white underbelly As if by an artist At the end of their wits Much like me

He lounged with fellow felines That colonized our whole alleyway Now sheltered at a neighbor's house And there he spent his nights and days But once in a while, He'd cross my gaze And run to me To do our little ritual Consisting of pets and scritches Long rubs against my hairy legs And finally A plop to the ground, Four paws in the air, In a game of who-scratches-who

It would not last, much to his grief Since he did this on errand-days But when that once in a while comes I let the eggs and dishwashing soap wait A lifetime longer

Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry

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