Lacanian Lover

1.
Utterance

Sergei Esenin,
who will hang himself
in Hotel Angleterre
in St. Petersburg,
says:
“And my old dog
is gone from the door.”

Pedro Penduko,
drunk in a backstreet pub
& looking out the window:
“The phone on the table
doesn’t ring anymore.”

Vladeimir Mayakovsky,
who will shoot himself
in a Moscow apartment,
says:
“Our love-boat rocked up
on reality.”

Pedro Penduko,
guzzling beer & words,
& flashing a dirty finger:
“Lotto proves
God is a random lover.”

2.
Redirection

Tiger Woods
had to change his swing
after his knee
operation

The Poet
had to shift his
angle of vision
for the secret language
on the blank page.

Tiger won
his first match play
after 8 months
of healing.

The Poet
stared at the licks
of flame gutting down
his prose.

3.
The End of Season

Ernest Hemingway
blew his brains out
with his trusty
shot gun.
Ernesto Manalo
slashed his wrists,
letting the blood
cover his soft bed.
Sylvia Plath
thrust her head
into the gas oven
& turned
the knob on.

Did art
& its truths
overwhelm these children
of misfortune?

Or simply,
there’s nothing
at the end
of the labyrinth
of words?

4.
Khlebnikov
“wanted to discover
the reason
for those deaths,
during the Russian Revolution.”
But he died of “disease
& starvation”
while rummaging
for truth
among the ruins.
Small deaths
& big deaths:
death in a hovel,
death in a barricade:
Is there a gram
of difference?
The cosmos
chooses the manner
of existing randomly–
& who has found
the wisdom
even in madness
which lies
like a lover
beside a fallen sage?

5.
The Barrister

“Surviving School”
she modestly assures,
deeply engrossed
with the current context
of her youth.
Does she hear
the horses of apocalypse
neighing in the neighborhood?
Bless her,
who keeps her eyes
on symbolic rule
singularly focused.
O How she gallops
like a thoroughbred
with blinders
down the road!
The angel of history,
equally lost
about the future,
wouldn’t know
the ending
of this old, old story
that quietly unfolds.

6.
Interminable

Susan Levy,
mother
to a cold case
until recently,
knows only too well
about mourning
& memory:
“Grief is like a marathon.
you don’t get over it.
It recycles itself.”
The candle burns
ever in the mind,
the incense ascending
the staircase of air.
Is there no end
in sight
when her child
is buried deep inside
her head?
She, who stayed
& didn’t leave–
but had strangely vanished,
her cries creaking
like a torture rack’s?
When gumshoes
cracked the case,
there was no sigh
of relief.
Her murder, after all,
was God’s enigmatic trick.

7.
Early Sorrow

John Updike
remembered how
sure in spring
he was
about everything:
“ I was full of things
to say.”
But thousands
of pages
of his text
wouldn’t fill
the gnawing gap
in Everywhere.
In the winter of his age,
when breathing
would turn so difficult,
eyesights blur
& knees wobble—
could the blank page
assure him
this is it,
this is the imaginable
truth?

8.
Opium

She vouchsafed
her life earnings
to her neighbor
Madoff.
She had prepared for winter,
when the cold would
pierce the bones
& strangers
usually turned aloof.
Now, she has
to report back
to the supermart
& mop the floor.
She even has to pawn
her prized heirloom
in lieu of her zero-sum
pension.
The finance guru
is holed up in Manhattan,
a jewel in the cusp
of lawyers
who mouth
all buyers must beware.
She’s just a number
erased & archived
in the global configuration.
“The system has served only
a few people,”
Stiglitz pontificates.
But who will hear
a pin drop
in the bustle of the marketplace?

9.
Banker

A flat No!
to critics
who want his
pension slashed
from Royal Bank of Scotland.
Obscene?
Immoral?
At a time when depositors
don’t have a penny
to bring home?
They had trusted him with their savings,
but he would shrug,
It’s an accident
in the probability scheme.
O the times
they are changing–
& criminals
are quick to claim
we are also conscripted
by the system.

10.
The Patient

She’s home now
from far-away India,
where she
was stricken ill—
her family gripped
in quiet desperation
at the misfortune
of her bodily health.
The house seems to smile
a welcome,
but the slow bustle
at the hospital ward
seeps into the antiseptic room
where voices
hush the silence down.
“We’re here…
O How long has it been?
Three months since
grief struck familial hearts…
She’s home now,
her circle praying
that they too are philosophically
composed
in the air-conditioned room
that perpetually
hangs in the balance.

11.
Remembrance

“Dimitri, is that you?
but he turned away.
He was in military uniform.
He was our neighbor.
He was Serbian,
We were Slovenians…”
& she remembers him
whenever, upon waking
at dawn,
she remembers
the dead in the family
gunned down in the farm.
Now, she has to make sure
her grandchildren—
whatever is left of them—
don’t forget:
oil and water cannot mix.

12.

It misses a step
at the base of the stairs
& tumbles down
in three complete rolls
on the marble floor.
But, as if piqued
of feline pride,
it picks itself up,
crawls into a corner
& licks its fur
as if nothing so pitiful
has just occurred.
He moves on gimpy knees
toward
the trusty companion
who stares him down
whenever he opens the door—
a habit, a tradition.
& he strokes its back,
its heart in sudden palpitation.
Eyes, or legs
losing their sharp edge?
O An old man & an old cat:
But who comforts who?

13.
Stranger

Nobody knows him in the neighborhood.
They eye him with suspicion
whenever he trots down the road.
They lift their head from cheap drink
as if he’s no danger to their limbs.
Thankfully, they do not spill a word,
nor make a move to accost.
They let him be, as if to mark him out
who’s someone silly, inconsequential.
But what if he wears a red shirt
emblazoned on the front with hammer & sickle?
For sure, they’ll stir like hornets’ nest
& flash their knives for his swagger.
Only peace-loving citizens who suck up
to cops & politicians, ritzy guys
& loose women can freely bum around.
He’s trouble who sports a deviant color,
even these times when beggars
bug passersby, & brats confront your scowl.
They cannot understand why government
must not carry on its lawful duty
even if misery dogs them in their territory.

14.
Nowhere

He was a sergeant
who fought insurgents:
he obeyed blindly all orders
to exterminate the vermin.
But they didn’t allow him
emergency leave—
bosses insist they did—
when father, then uncle
left the world hurriedly.
Police smiled
they would investigate
if his reasons were legit.
While they hound him
to death
for gunning down superiors
whose imprimatur
he needed to secure.
Could he join
underground cadres
to save his skin
from the bloodhounds of state
he served so well?
Should he give up
& land in the stockade
for the murders he committed?
He’s a nowhere man,
serial number on the payroll
marked only for morning roll call.

15.

The Accused

“C’mon, I’ll buy you
a beer, “ he says.
But colleagues smile,
they’ve got appointments,
they’re going elsewhere…
Maybe, he had refused
their company before too often before—
now, he suspects
they’re having a grand time
fending him off.

Akhmatova says it sweetly:
“No, I won’t go
have a drink with you.
you’re a very bad boy
and you’re crazy.”

But he only dawdles
in a corner,
listening to old stories
marketed as new.
Yes, but isn’t he
a morose fellow?
His beer tastes like shit,
his eyes ornery, secretive.

Is this what poets cry
as being terribly alone?

16.

“He cheats on her.
She cheats on him.”
An old story
of lovers
“consummated in heaven”
& bloodily cut on earth.
Tit for tat?
Balancing the equation?
Love has multiple connections
& nothing cancels
each other out.
Faith? Charity?
The world,
wise guys say,
moves on ellipsis & curves.
Dreams
betray
the charted plan
at the finish line.
“He cheats on her
she cheats on him.”
Pure tale of passion
that never has been
divine.

17.
Rewrite

Paul Schimdt
translates Tsvetaeva,
poetry’s Russian icon,
thus:
“Did you think
love was just
a chat at a small table?”

He should know.
He died alone…
of AIDS in a well-appointed
apartment.
Every word
is a gambler’s sign,
every gesture a play of knives.
Invisible blood
drops on the floor,
though no one weeps
like gracious beggars.
Was it love?
Was the conversation
the everything of the moment
that slapped him
like a sudden gust of wind?
When they went out
of the tavern,
the sky was dark,
forbidding.
Yet none was worth signifying—
even stars hiding
like spies in the clouds.
If he could only rewrite
the secret language
of evening.
Was there a comma?
Or a period
that put in estoppel
the morning.
O if only he could
breathe.

18.

Memorial

“Only 300,000 people
died in the Holocaust
and none in gas chambers.”
O survivors were horrified
at their deaths
twice repeated:
Bishop Richard Williamson
religiously affirms
his gospel
that Jewish truth
is a humongous lie.
History lives in the imagination.
Reality dwells
on another plane,
& language is sole evidence
as in a Hollywood film.
They claim it was?
So be it?
In Manila,
Marcos minions
wish it were Martial Law
again:
it was a regime
for the common good,
a lie the multitude
contrarily beholds.
The Memorial for the Dead
is the victims’
falsifying decalogue:
A flick of tongue
& voila!
all myths of evil
are dissolved.

19.
Centurion

I’ve killed countless—
I can’t keep track
of those assassins & their bitches.
That’s the only way
to nip in the bud
the satanic cult.
Yeah, it’s all psywar
that I am scared shit
to leave the camp
without my bodyguards.
I look over my shoulders
for shadows in the dark.
You must trust no one,
except your gun.
This is tactical,
as in any military manual.

20.

Love in the Time of Recession

New York Times reports “just as companies are downsizing people may find their relationships downsized, too. Household budgets, habits and gender dynamics are now in flux as a global recession tightens its grip.”

Women have become “primary concerns” while men nurse their egos for “losing their jobs.” Which leads to “men seeking help”– no brief, psychological counseling.

[Never has patriarchy so shaken by the punches of the market slowdown.]
Couples, who would likely seek divorce in pre-recession, would rather stick it out,
for the “value of homes…[has fallen] below the amount owed in mortgages. “

The positive side to it however is “matchmaking services [have registered] that interest in dating is up as much as 40 to 50 per cent.”
Yes, “people,” says Dr. Pepper Schwartz, “don’t want to go through it alone.’
Money talks, for sure, but there are times when it holds its tongue. After all, you wake up mornings hugging a pillow.
“When you’re not sure,” adds Schwartz, “what’s coming at you, love seems all the more important.”
But when moolah knocks on the door, love also flies out the window.

21.

Edge

The sun is hotter
than a burning coal,
but his heart
inside is ice-cold:
What is there to do?
Things don’t add up.
Backstreets are overrun
by thieves & sluts;
news on radio
is ever so bad;
friends have deserted
stray-Dog hang-out;
& she, the shrew,
got screwed
by a guy in a fancy suit.
Should he slash
his wrists?
Pull the trigger?
But people will only
laugh, ha-ha, & sneer.
There’s another clown
given to stupid frown.
[But someone died
abandoned in a room:
was he a two-penny poet
who ducked
a revolution?]

22.

Animal Rights

The morning is bright
& calm.
people placidly go about
their rounds.
But deep in a farm
you can hear
the squeal of pig
culled by stun guns
for fear they’re fatal
to carnivorous humans.
They were allegedly infected,
but no one is cocksure
which of the hogs
carries the virus.
All the corralled
must suffer the pain
of mercantile existence.
In a carnival world,
animals be damned.
As here in Bulacan,
where a general
used to playfully hunt
pig-headed militants.
As in Darfur, Zimbabwe,
Serbia, Indonesia
where mass execution
is a tribal tradition.

23.
Survivor

Unlike survivors
who zip up their lips
in fear of terror’s
infernal visitation,
Simone Veil
would rather
“talk about it.”
Her husband had shied
away from it,
refusing the narrative
of brutal “deportation.”
Her mother died
of typhus in Auschwitz.
Her father & brother Jean
didn’t return
from Nazi camps.
It was a long, tiresome
sojourn from bloody streets
to the Parliament.
She, the “first elected Euro president.”
She has opted
to spill the beans
on humanity’s; disaster—
lucidly; “straightforwardly” —
the secrets of the pogrom
she must disremember.
& start life
all over again.
At 81.

24.

OFW

He is 47 lbs. overweight,
home for a two-work vacation
from Dubai.
He had not received
his pay for two months;
only recently,
they had wired him
his partial salary…
But he must return
in a few days
to his old company
still bucking the recession.
In April, tenements
will be vacated
by fired overseas tenants;
& he hopes to get a unit,
away from congestion
in an uncle’s virtual
barracks.
O, how he hates
with all his guts
those boorish expats
& backward Arabs—
even OFWs who have
sucked up the habit
of suckering countrymen
for the mean dinar.
Worse, Pinays, coy at first glance,
have turned sluts
hooking up with moneyed louts.
Things are falling apart!
But the Philippines
is always at war.
O multiculturalism
is an academic buncombe!
The Internationale
is a tattered flag on the moon!

25.
Resolution

She teaches him
the art of survival:
you must “recycle grief”
& mourning turns electric.
To explore the hurt
& do away with tears,
become a philosopher
where sentiments are objects,
light as air.
Put the words
in a cellphone box
& watch them throb
like a tell-tale heart.
When you wake up
at early dawn
blot out the dream & visitations.
Start the day
with scientific resolve
living is just another workday.

26.
Lacan

A.

Who talks about
the body
& desiring machine
doesn’t know
therefore his own desire—
trapped as it is
in language
that her infinite signified.
Deep inside his head,
something calls the shots
& he doesn’t
even feel it.
& you, cherished one
who exists beyond
the mirror,
are consequently
beyond recall.
Tell me,
in theory & in work,
were you ever here
at all?
You are the ghost
of air,
my speech
the soundless tremor
across our space.

B.

& if you inhabit
the Alpha Centauri
of imagination,
it is the blinding
light that hides
you from my
spectral eyes—
only the shadow
of your orbit
affirms
the trace of your existence.
Is everything
lost then?
The heart ever hopes,
as they say,
beyond all dreaming.
Yet, a fool’s consolation
in any play of passion.

Lacanian Lover

1.
Utterance

Sergei Esenin,
who will hang himself
in Hotel Angleterre
in St. Petersburg,
says:
“And my old dog
is gone from the door.”

Pedro Penduko,
drunk in a backstreet pub
& looking out the window:
“The phone on the table
doesn’t ring anymore.”

Vladeimir Mayakovsky,
who will shoot himself
in a Moscow apartment,
says:
“Our love-boat rocked up
on reality.”

Pedro Penduko,
guzzling beer & words,
& flashing a dirty finger:
“Lotto proves
God is a random lover.”

2.
Redirection

Tiger Woods
had to change his swing
after his knee
operation

The Poet
had to shift his
angle of vision
for the secret language
on the blank page.

Tiger won
his first match play
after 8 months
of healing.

The Poet
stared at the licks
of flame gutting down
his prose.

3.
The End of Season

Ernest Hemingway
blew his brains out
with his trusty
shot gun.
Ernesto Manalo
slashed his wrists,
letting the blood
cover his soft bed.
Sylvia Plath
thrust her head
into the gas oven
& turned
the knob on.

Did art
& its truths
overwhelm these children
of misfortune?

Or simply,
there’s nothing
at the end
of the labyrinth
of words?

4.
Khlebnikov
“wanted to discover
the reason
for those deaths,
during the Russian Revolution.”
But he died of “disease
& starvation”
while rummaging
for truth
among the ruins.
Small deaths
& big deaths:
death in a hovel,
death in a barricade:
Is there a gram
of difference?
The cosmos
chooses the manner
of existing randomly–
& who has found
the wisdom
even in madness
which lies
like a lover
beside a fallen sage?

5.
The Barrister

“Surviving School”
she modestly assures,
deeply engrossed
with the current context
of her youth.
Does she hear
the horses of apocalypse
neighing in the neighborhood?
Bless her,
who keeps her eyes
on symbolic rule
singularly focused.
O How she gallops
like a thoroughbred
with blinders
down the road!
The angel of history,
equally lost
about the future,
wouldn’t know
the ending
of this old, old story
that quietly unfolds.

6.
Interminable

Susan Levy,
mother
to a cold case
until recently,
knows only too well
about mourning
& memory:
“Grief is like a marathon.
you don’t get over it.
It recycles itself.”
The candle burns
ever in the mind,
the incense ascending
the staircase of air.
Is there no end
in sight
when her child
is buried deep inside
her head?
She, who stayed
& didn’t leave–
but had strangely vanished,
her cries creaking
like a torture rack’s?
When gumshoes
cracked the case,
there was no sigh
of relief.
Her murder, after all,
was God’s enigmatic trick.

7.
Early Sorrow

John Updike
remembered how
sure in spring
he was
about everything:
“ I was full of things
to say.”
But thousands
of pages
of his text
wouldn’t fill
the gnawing gap
in Everywhere.
In the winter of his age,
when breathing
would turn so difficult,
eyesights blur
& knees wobble—
could the blank page
assure him
this is it,
this is the imaginable
truth?

8.
Opium

She vouchsafed
her life earnings
to her neighbor
Madoff.
She had prepared for winter,
when the cold would
pierce the bones
& strangers
usually turned aloof.
Now, she has
to report back
to the supermart
& mop the floor.
She even has to pawn
her prized heirloom
in lieu of her zero-sum
pension.
The finance guru
is holed up in Manhattan,
a jewel in the cusp
of lawyers
who mouth
all buyers must beware.
She’s just a number
erased & archived
in the global configuration.
“The system has served only
a few people,”
Stiglitz pontificates.
But who will hear
a pin drop
in the bustle of the marketplace?

9.
Banker

A flat No!
to critics
who want his
pension slashed
from Royal Bank of Scotland.
Obscene?
Immoral?
At a time when depositors
don’t have a penny
to bring home?
They had trusted him with their savings,
but he would shrug,
It’s an accident
in the probability scheme.
O the times
they are changing–
& criminals
are quick to claim
we are also conscripted
by the system.

10.
The Patient

She’s home now
from far-away India,
where she
was stricken ill—
her family gripped
in quiet desperation
at the misfortune
of her bodily health.
The house seems to smile
a welcome,
but the slow bustle
at the hospital ward
seeps into the antiseptic room
where voices
hush the silence down.
“We’re here…
O How long has it been?
Three months since
grief struck familial hearts…
She’s home now,
her circle praying
that they too are philosophically
composed
in the air-conditioned room
that perpetually
hangs in the balance.

11.
Remembrance

“Dimitri, is that you?
but he turned away.
He was in military uniform.
He was our neighbor.
He was Serbian,
We were Slovenians…”
& she remembers him
whenever, upon waking
at dawn,
she remembers
the dead in the family
gunned down in the farm.
Now, she has to make sure
her grandchildren—
whatever is left of them—
don’t forget:
oil and water cannot mix.

12.

It misses a step
at the base of the stairs
& tumbles down
in three complete rolls
on the marble floor.
But, as if piqued
of feline pride,
it picks itself up,
crawls into a corner
& licks its fur
as if nothing so pitiful
has just occurred.
He moves on gimpy knees
toward
the trusty companion
who stares him down
whenever he opens the door—
a habit, a tradition.
& he strokes its back,
its heart in sudden palpitation.
Eyes, or legs
losing their sharp edge?
O An old man & an old cat:
But who comforts who?

13.
Stranger

Nobody knows him in the neighborhood.
They eye him with suspicion
whenever he trots down the road.
They lift their head from cheap drink
as if he’s no danger to their limbs.
Thankfully, they do not spill a word,
nor make a move to accost.
They let him be, as if to mark him out
who’s someone silly, inconsequential.
But what if he wears a red shirt
emblazoned on the front with hammer & sickle?
For sure, they’ll stir like hornets’ nest
& flash their knives for his swagger.
Only peace-loving citizens who suck up
to cops & politicians, ritzy guys
& loose women can freely bum around.
He’s trouble who sports a deviant color,
even these times when beggars
bug passersby, & brats confront your scowl.
They cannot understand why government
must not carry on its lawful duty
even if misery dogs them in their territory.

14.
Nowhere

He was a sergeant
who fought insurgents:
he obeyed blindly all orders
to exterminate the vermin.
But they didn’t allow him
emergency leave—
bosses insist they did—
when father, then uncle
left the world hurriedly.
Police smiled
they would investigate
if his reasons were legit.
While they hound him
to death
for gunning down superiors
whose imprimatur
he needed to secure.
Could he join
underground cadres
to save his skin
from the bloodhounds of state
he served so well?
Should he give up
& land in the stockade
for the murders he committed?
He’s a nowhere man,
serial number on the payroll
marked only for morning roll call.

15.

The Accused

“C’mon, I’ll buy you
a beer, “ he says.
But colleagues smile,
they’ve got appointments,
they’re going elsewhere…
Maybe, he had refused
their company before too often before—
now, he suspects
they’re having a grand time
fending him off.

Akhmatova says it sweetly:
“No, I won’t go
have a drink with you.
you’re a very bad boy
and you’re crazy.”

But he only dawdles
in a corner,
listening to old stories
marketed as new.
Yes, but isn’t he
a morose fellow?
His beer tastes like shit,
his eyes ornery, secretive.

Is this what poets cry
as being terribly alone?

16.

“He cheats on her.
She cheats on him.”
An old story
of lovers
“consummated in heaven”
& bloodily cut on earth.
Tit for tat?
Balancing the equation?
Love has multiple connections
& nothing cancels
each other out.
Faith? Charity?
The world,
wise guys say,
moves on ellipsis & curves.
Dreams
betray
the charted plan
at the finish line.
“He cheats on her
she cheats on him.”
Pure tale of passion
that never has been
divine.

17.
Rewrite

Paul Schimdt
translates Tsvetaeva,
poetry’s Russian icon,
thus:
“Did you think
love was just
a chat at a small table?”

He should know.
He died alone…
of AIDS in a well-appointed
apartment.
Every word
is a gambler’s sign,
every gesture a play of knives.
Invisible blood
drops on the floor,
though no one weeps
like gracious beggars.
Was it love?
Was the conversation
the everything of the moment
that slapped him
like a sudden gust of wind?
When they went out
of the tavern,
the sky was dark,
forbidding.
Yet none was worth signifying—
even stars hiding
like spies in the clouds.
If he could only rewrite
the secret language
of evening.
Was there a comma?
Or a period
that put in estoppel
the morning.
O if only he could
breathe.

18.

Memorial

“Only 300,000 people
died in the Holocaust
and none in gas chambers.”
O survivors were horrified
at their deaths
twice repeated:
Bishop Richard Williamson
religiously affirms
his gospel
that Jewish truth
is a humongous lie.
History lives in the imagination.
Reality dwells
on another plane,
& language is sole evidence
as in a Hollywood film.
They claim it was?
So be it?
In Manila,
Marcos minions
wish it were Martial Law
again:
it was a regime
for the common good,
a lie the multitude
contrarily beholds.
The Memorial for the Dead
is the victims’
falsifying decalogue:
A flick of tongue
& voila!
all myths of evil
are dissolved.

19.
Centurion

I’ve killed countless—
I can’t keep track
of those assassins & their bitches.
That’s the only way
to nip in the bud
the satanic cult.
Yeah, it’s all psywar
that I am scared shit
to leave the camp
without my bodyguards.
I look over my shoulders
for shadows in the dark.
You must trust no one,
except your gun.
This is tactical,
as in any military manual.

20.

Love in the Time of Recession

New York Times reports “just as companies are downsizing people may find their relationships downsized, too. Household budgets, habits and gender dynamics are now in flux as a global recession tightens its grip.”

Women have become “primary concerns” while men nurse their egos for “losing their jobs.” Which leads to “men seeking help”– no brief, psychological counseling.

[Never has patriarchy so shaken by the punches of the market slowdown.]
Couples, who would likely seek divorce in pre-recession, would rather stick it out,
for the “value of homes…[has fallen] below the amount owed in mortgages. “

The positive side to it however is “matchmaking services [have registered] that interest in dating is up as much as 40 to 50 per cent.”
Yes, “people,” says Dr. Pepper Schwartz, “don’t want to go through it alone.’
Money talks, for sure, but there are times when it holds its tongue. After all, you wake up mornings hugging a pillow.
“When you’re not sure,” adds Schwartz, “what’s coming at you, love seems all the more important.”
But when moolah knocks on the door, love also flies out the window.

21.

Edge

The sun is hotter
than a burning coal,
but his heart
inside is ice-cold:
What is there to do?
Things don’t add up.
Backstreets are overrun
by thieves & sluts;
news on radio
is ever so bad;
friends have deserted
stray-Dog hang-out;
& she, the shrew,
got screwed
by a guy in a fancy suit.
Should he slash
his wrists?
Pull the trigger?
But people will only
laugh, ha-ha, & sneer.
There’s another clown
given to stupid frown.
[But someone died
abandoned in a room:
was he a two-penny poet
who ducked
a revolution?]

22.

Animal Rights

The morning is bright
& calm.
people placidly go about
their rounds.
But deep in a farm
you can hear
the squeal of pig
culled by stun guns
for fear they’re fatal
to carnivorous humans.
They were allegedly infected,
but no one is cocksure
which of the hogs
carries the virus.
All the corralled
must suffer the pain
of mercantile existence.
In a carnival world,
animals be damned.
As here in Bulacan,
where a general
used to playfully hunt
pig-headed militants.
As in Darfur, Zimbabwe,
Serbia, Indonesia
where mass execution
is a tribal tradition.

23.
Survivor

Unlike survivors
who zip up their lips
in fear of terror’s
infernal visitation,
Simone Veil
would rather
“talk about it.”
Her husband had shied
away from it,
refusing the narrative
of brutal “deportation.”
Her mother died
of typhus in Auschwitz.
Her father & brother Jean
didn’t return
from Nazi camps.
It was a long, tiresome
sojourn from bloody streets
to the Parliament.
She, the “first elected Euro president.”
She has opted
to spill the beans
on humanity’s; disaster—
lucidly; “straightforwardly” —
the secrets of the pogrom
she must disremember.
& start life
all over again.
At 81.

24.

OFW

He is 47 lbs. overweight,
home for a two-work vacation
from Dubai.
He had not received
his pay for two months;
only recently,
they had wired him
his partial salary…
But he must return
in a few days
to his old company
still bucking the recession.
In April, tenements
will be vacated
by fired overseas tenants;
& he hopes to get a unit,
away from congestion
in an uncle’s virtual
barracks.
O, how he hates
with all his guts
those boorish expats
& backward Arabs—
even OFWs who have
sucked up the habit
of suckering countrymen
for the mean dinar.
Worse, Pinays, coy at first glance,
have turned sluts
hooking up with moneyed louts.
Things are falling apart!
But the Philippines
is always at war.
O multiculturalism
is an academic buncombe!
The Internationale
is a tattered flag on the moon!

25.
Resolution

She teaches him
the art of survival:
you must “recycle grief”
& mourning turns electric.
To explore the hurt
& do away with tears,
become a philosopher
where sentiments are objects,
light as air.
Put the words
in a cellphone box
& watch them throb
like a tell-tale heart.
When you wake up
at early dawn
blot out the dream & visitations.
Start the day
with scientific resolve
living is just another workday.

26.
Lacan

A.

Who talks about
the body
& desiring machine
doesn’t know
therefore his own desire—
trapped as it is
in language
that her infinite signified.
Deep inside his head,
something calls the shots
& he doesn’t
even feel it.
& you, cherished one
who exists beyond
the mirror,
are consequently
beyond recall.
Tell me,
in theory & in work,
were you ever here
at all?
You are the ghost
of air,
my speech
the soundless tremor
across our space.

B.

& if you inhabit
the Alpha Centauri
of imagination,
it is the blinding
light that hides
you from my
spectral eyes—
only the shadow
of your orbit
affirms
the trace of your existence.
Is everything
lost then?
The heart ever hopes,
as they say,
beyond all dreaming.
Yet, a fool’s consolation
in any play of passion.

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2 Responses to Lacanian Lover

  1. jen says:

    hello sir. kumusta po? :)

  2. edelegarcellano says:

    nakanganga

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