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 | The Pragmatician on 39. Jejemon is a word |
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| thisiselsewhere on Mosaic is a word |
An update of the previous word | A suffix to your name to transfer ownership to change one’s | state as if to say I have nothing | to worry about as if there is no one | to worry about as in: Yes dear, I’ll gladly fetch | you your tea.
40. Dead is a word
like this blog
Jejemon is a word
that
is really pygmalion with the romance
that
is free
so free!
that
is but a dream
That is not for me. I open the book thinking that I am ready, receptive enough to abandon a totally different self for great-promising-imaginative-metaphorical-metaphysical brand, a kind of packaging that you’re from. I know you belong there because you were never with me. I convinced myself that I had to do it, as usual. Just like any literary piece, it worked perfect at first. A smile, more time, a few lines of talk and I thought the verses have already consummated the self that longed for a mimesis of the imagination . Ostranenie through what’s common, probably. Self-induced confusion , most likely. White elephant , certainly. False consciousness , absolutely.
You don’t mean, you just are . That’s how poetry’s supposed to be, right? It doesn’t take a genius to know what the symbols mean. Hello, you haven’t deceived me into thinking of something else. I know that was the content even before you formed it . The iamb of what you conceal is the beat that makes me want to read more of you.
But you are poetry. You are meant to be read enjoyed discovered but only from a distance of a page of a book of a cover of a book. I will look at your rhymes as if they were mine. After all, you’re just a book that I as a reader have never been ready for.
Where I came from the corridors are often silent and empty (like churches) except during recess, lunch break, and dismissal (like Sundays) when a hundred pairs of feet would line up and shuffle out of reticent doors, dragging bodies towards food, or friends, or home. But even then it seemed the shoes trod the floors with bated breaths, wary of other feet and bodies, the gaze of the prefects of discipline, the disembodied voice from speaker systems on the ceilings, the trash bins every other meter that clanged when hit with heels and shins. There mouths were wont to whisper things, little things, like are my nails too long? My skirt properly ironed, my hair clip not too frivolous?
Where I am, mere whisperings are not heard in corridors, which are never silent and seldom empty. The corridor—it’s like a zoo! my companion shrieks over the ubiquitous din, skirting herds that eat and snort and walk together, and walk always too slow. I know right! I shriek back as a late runner shoves past me (in the corridors yelling constitutes conversation, about a breathing daydream, for instance, who turns up at your back suddenly and seems to have heard nothing). Or, I say, dodging open umbrellas left to dry on the floor, circles of red and yellow, stripes and polka dots, dripping secondhand raindrops, or, I say, like a carnival! The corridors, where naked men run, dongs dangling, where theater majors run, somersaulting, where dissidents brew and lovers screw (with their tongues and mouths, at least), where, some nights, one hears voices soaring in song or chants and the beats of flutes and gongs and drums of the gamelan. Yes, where we are, it’s carnivalesque zoo, we grin.
It is the name of the game we constantly play.
Like hide and seek, I lace my words with desire and interest while you seek the lies hidden in the truths I speak.
I flick my tongue and let the sounds roll. You swallow them up with your own taking breath.
As serpentine creatures beguiling each other to a sinuous dance, we entice each other with our own oblique methods and casual spinning.
A quick touch is never just a mere accidental brush.
And yet, a kiss is such a simple gesture to throw and make mine.
that means also that mug for beers
as if you didn’t know, as if I didn’t know
because Issy Reyes probably also knows
but she could never really understand Stein
because her Cat–and cat is a word–is
Steinian, and her name is Roselyn Perez
and when she speaks, it is always from
her heart which is her mind dancing
together forever, which is why she’s afraid
of sleeping with me. Stein is a word.
Marc Escalona Gaba
See how she glued
her fingertips
to the picture, and now
is waiting for them to dry.
The street peeks in
from the screen door.
And no one had been passing
for a week.
This child, she might as well
be alone in the world.
Like repels like, but not in this universe.
And we assume this is true, given that it takes all day, and she gets nothing from it.
The dusk will drain into the night, the rainy season into the dry.
The hum of the Milky Way will persist.
Our girl will step out, wash her hands in the sink, move on, another universe.
Although that, too, is an assumption.
when bored, look for anagrams: good, warm, half-broken reason
Seeing how I was back then, not too long ago
Carefree, laidback, a bum to most but not all
Yet now, here I lie
Actions restricted, tongue bound by fear
I tremble at the sight of you
You who made a believer out of me
That God did exist, and you are His best work
The Pragmatician is discussing. 
thisiselsewhere is discussing. 
The Pragmatician 11:36 am on June 8, 2010 Permalink |
Jejemon is word covered with rainbow colored caps and unnecessary letters.