I logged into my Facebook account for the first time in two months today.
I got the fuck out quick as fuck.
I’m toying with the idea of
Re-downloading the instagram account
Just so I can get the love again
Because on twitter
I gets no love
But I’d rather not
When I think about it
At the end of the day
Because these would be cheap love
Love that I cannot hold
Love that I cannot kiss
Just some ethereal love
The love that happens
When two people think about
Each other at the exact same time
or at the very least
In the past 24 hours.
Category: Poetry
The C chord is a magical chord
powerful from the get.
I struggle with its shape
but when my fingers nail it
it defines the moment.
It’s present.
The G chord is just right
like the swish of a basketball through a net.
When it’s strummed
reverberations flutter through my heart.
It echoes through time.
The guitar, like water from a spring.
The guitar, where have you been all my life?
We looped a thread around the beetle’s body.
It buzzed over our heads.
Circling, circling, circling.
No remorse. No retreat.
Wasn’t about life. Wasn’t about a game.
Was about the day, was about time.
The Scarab Beetle, lost in the world.
Found.
Only to be handcuffed for being strong.
Held down, flight cancelled for the night.
The next day, dead. The thread tied around its corpse.
Limp-like, breathless.
The salagubang. A friend.
It was by Helena Lipstadt entitled “A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth.”
The word “village” lured me in.
I fell in love with each “Even her” – especially in the following line:
“Even her avenues are lined with pikes.”
Then I read each “Of course” and was compelled to share.
Read “A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth” at Porter House Review.