Your Flesh is Sweet

Poetry by | January 27, 2008

Your flesh is sweet
and tender
it melts
on my tongue
a raincloud on
a sunny day
consumed
by a hungry blue-ness
you inhale water
as i do air
and speak in bubbles
that i drown
in my language
to touch your words,
which i will never know.
My catch for the day
fresh from the lake
tomorrow again
another you.

Junior

Fiction by | January 20, 2008

Listen to me, Jun. To tie a box, you have to make sure that you have strong straw. Strong straws don’t break easily even if you pull it hard. And once you twined it around the box, the straw would hold your box in place. I told you that before. Remember?

Now, hold the end of this straw and shove it under the box as if you’re scraping. Follow my lead. Here. You shove it this way then pull the other end upward. Straws are puckered, so be careful not to split the thread. Don’t even try doing it. Then, bring together the ends of the straw and do a knot. Just a single knot, though. That’s good. Now, twist the straw and shove it again underneath. Pull it up. No. Do it carefully. You’re breaking the straw.

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Night Out

Poetry by | January 20, 2008

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”

Making Real Friends in GenSan

Nonfiction by | January 6, 2008

Pioneer Avenue is a place in General Santos City that has made me feel the real spirit of friendship that no other friendship networks can provide, not even the ever-famous Friendster community over the Internet. Having lived in General Santos City for eighteen years, I feel so proud that Pioneer Avenue has come such a long way. The whole length of Pioneer Avenue extends from Sydney Hotel to Chowking on one side and from Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Colleges to Golden State HRM laboratory on the other side. The place is purely a commercial area. It was named Pioneer Avenue because it was where the first settlers of General Santos City had lived — “the pioneers.”

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The Clock

Poetry by | January 6, 2008

He whose hands
never grow weary
of moving on,
marches with cadence,
round and round —
as if that were its only purpose —
to race with time
and never look back.