No Lifeguard On Duty (... or, haikus for the new year)

New year morning sun.

Weeds and driftwood wash ashore

with resolutions.

Tiny toes tickle

winter waters, rippling

in the great Pacific.

A sign's stern disclaimer:

"No Lifeguard on Duty."

Winter at the beach.

"Play it Safe," it warns

of changing conditions.

"Proceed at your own risk."

Caution is a bell

rung by those who forgot

about carpe diem.

Greatness hence,

a resolution in courage.

Making waves, making waves.

some new outrage

some new outrage this way slinks,
in nine-inch heels and tousled hair.
lips, a red-ripe apple, laced in sugared nothings.
shiny, shimmering she slithers wily
then she strikes.
with the crook of one adulterous finger,
he is snared.

Liminal

I am the in-between:
the waiting space
where overgrown vines push against the trellis,
reaching for the light;
where the sun slants before its repose
and the world, for a moment, is gold.
Not-here-nor-there,
a mythical rock rolling on Hades’ hill.

What is Love (or the Bar Brawl story)

If I had to think about my previous lovers, they seem to melt into each other like candle wax drippings congealed on an old bottle of chianti. There's the Muslim, the Italian and the German. What would happen if they all walked into a bar? Would they each buy me a drink and vie for my affection?

In the story I would write, they would all end up in a brawl. Each a fighting cock, ruffling feathers and one-upping each other. They would show me and, more importantly, each other, that one was indeed more worthy. Perhaps a Muslim jab, an Italian punch and then a German kick? Tables, chairs, and emotions, all askew. All this, because of me. Wouldn't that be grand? And me?--well, I'd feign indignity. How could you, I'd say. Then I'd most likely end up with the bartender. C'est la vie, mes cheris!

But this is a story already written. This is about love. Love that twists and wrenches after the proverbial honeymoon is over. There are no knights or distressed damsels. Nonetheless, if you do end up with Mr. Right, despite the rough spots and broken glass, there's always the promise of a happily ever after around the bend.

For those anchored attitudes

I cannot stay anchored on this dock
where barnacles stick and rot.
Floorboards, one by one, splinter
at the sun. And salt, for what it's
worth dries out my skin.
I think I've tarried long enough
and played my part with ease:
the dutiful shipmate, the captain's hand,
I scrubbed the deck to gleam.
The plank so tempts me like a lover with a
promise -- not yet broken --
and one day soon I'll walk it
with intention to pave my way complete.
The anchor has weighed heavy,
deceitful and mocking,
towards worlds beyond the horizon.
Yet degrees of latitude and longitude
remain untraveled.
We dilly and we dally and then
pretend to live out wishy-washy dreams.
How it happened, I do not know: we somehow meant
to sail away. So here we are, worn out
and brittle; tired of the sunset as we wait for it
to rise.

*title line taken from Sylvia Plath's "Touch-and-Go"*


©2011 b.cisek

Room for Doubt

We sit across--
apart--and it's more than space between us.
That space where several lifetimes were lived
like moving pictures on the silver screen.
Nostalgic-tragic-sentimental.

Arms crossed against your chest,
but even that couldn't stop the piercing words
flying out of my mouth like arrows dipped
in hate, or worse, bright white contempt.
Whatever happened to silent pictures?

There was a time when there was no space.
Just us.
Time, imperceptible, shifting,
like snow, heavy on a branch.
Snap! And something falls

Into something else.
You are no longer the you I knew.
And neither was I.

Buried in the snowdrift, chilled.
I am so cold.

And there you are.
Here we are--sitting
with that space.
In this room, where doubt has thrived.

(The Broken Spaces)

Where pigeons hunt for food in festering streets
Amid shantied bungalows where life lies low;
The once-bright houses now all faded, as if to blend with sky in shame.
The cracks, like wrinkles, worn out and gray.

Where pigeons build their nests in broken spaces,
Needles scatter like confetti from a long-forgotten birthday party.
The only fix is that one-time high, the momentary release (relief) of mind.
Denial is a tempest that lifts you up--

Where pigeons fly away from all the shambles,
Height smooths out the grungy faces.
And hope?
Well--hope was once a good idea. Like your last five bucks coursing through a vein.

Bring Your Cart

*a revision of an older piece*

She's taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What's next? A fireman's hydrant? The next-door neighbor's dog's hydrant? Where'd she come from, pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I'll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn't let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: the reality pitted against dreams. On the other side, the streets were filled with corporate creeps, sipping their lattes and espressos, catching buses to nowhere and somewhere--somewhere where economics grew. Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, radio-controlled. Speaking on static, frantic cellular phones. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Where is blue, I asked. Blue is a state of mind, man. The home Dorothy talked about in Oz. But no ruby slippers clicking. Man, it's fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim. In blue candles drip their tears unlike your post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

I looked around and began to see what she meant. Across the street the people metamorphosed into Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, 21st century lords. Blue sold out to multimedia guilches to manufacture uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and khaki weekends.

And then she interrupted. I really want those fries. That's right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? With a twinkle in her eye and a sneer on her lips. Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody's going to look you in the eye. They're too busy watching screens and graphs on iBooks, listening to iPods and talking on iPhones. All the iWalls are up. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!

Too Darn Hot

She hit me with all that glorious hair and all. The audacity!

There we were, Jack and I, standing in line at the Roxie. Saturday night and the hustle-bustle of the Mission was palpable. It was an uncharacteristically warm night for San Francisco. The kind of Indian summer night that could've inspired Cole Porter's complaint that "I ain't up to my baby tonight/cause it's too darn hot". Neither were we up for anything much, so it was off to the movies and if we were lucky, two hours in air-conditioned darkness. Across the street, diners at the Picaro were sipping sangrias and picking hesitantly on plates of tapas like they were picking pricklies off a cactus. Too. Darn. Hot.

There we were, Jack and I, hot and bothered and nevertheless minding our own business as usual. Then BANG--"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Who...wha--?" Smack into me. That hair. That hair in those jeans in this heat!

Jack, ever the protector, pulled me back instantly as we came face to face with this chick who looked like a throwback from the '80s. Hair like a tidal wave, cascading all the way down to her butt. Black turtleneck (in this heat?), shoulder pads, black jeans tucked into black boots (in this heat?). Looked to me like a Bangles wanna-be. Shocking as she was, the tsunami hit two seconds later: my brother. Right next to her. Sporting that lost-at-sea-without-an-anchor look, to belabor a metaphor.

"Oscar," I started. It was more a question, really.

He started with a stammer, then stuttered, then sputtered. Didn't think he'd manage anything, really. But when he finally did, he wouldn't stop. "Oli... ye-you remember Rebecca... ra-ran into her th-this afternoon... sh-she works for a client of ours... th-thought we could go grab dinner... we're working late on this project, you see... a project for their company and then it was seven and we hadn't eaten... all day... so busy... just a quick bite... here in the Mission... there... at Picaro... don't you remember... we went to school together... high school... basketball team... just grab a bite to eat... there at Picaro... heard they had good tapas... just a quick bite...."

Oscar babbled on and on like the damned on judgment day. And as we stepped up to purchase our tickets, all I kept thinking was: all that hair!

And poor Janine.

Home alone, having to wear that wig.

Too. Darn. Hot.

Six-Word Memoir

Check it out: Six Words

and feel free to share yours

Polvoron

I remember Sunday morning drives,
counting bridges on the way to that church.
We strolled through the market
and got sick on
polvoron and pastillas.
In the distance, the sorbitero was ringing his bell.


polvoron: candies made from powdered milk
pastillas: sweets
sorbitero: ice cream man

The Quill

Like a blunted, scraggly quill,
my soul inks its dreams along volumes
of shoulda- coulda- and woulda beens.
Dreaming is a trick of night,
as though the possibility does indeed exist
of bigger and better things.
Mornings, for what they're worth,
are brighter and brighter still.
Another day, another chance--
like a gambler sick with game.

Negotiations

"Five more minutes," whispers the little voice in the morning. Sleepily, I accept and hit snooze. And all too quickly, I am alarmed once again. "C'mon... you can work out in the evening instead," the voice urges on, "another five minutes."

"I really should get up."

"Well, you can still work out and take the later bus, you'll feel better if you gave yourself another five minutes."

Snooze-buzz. buZZ. bUZZ. BUZZ.

"That's it, there's no more time to work out. You can afford another five minutes of sleep, and then catch the bus."

SNOOZE-buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz. buzz.

"Well, you did kind of resign yourself to that later bus already. May as well get another five minutes of shut-eye..."

Why do I never have a proper comeback for that little voice?

Picture Perfect

She enters the room with her head held high, every little strand of hair in place. Her 2-inch heels are polished, and so are her legs, by the way. Chin jutting out and shoulders back, the way they probably taught her back in finishing school (back when she was just a project). The veritable Eliza Doolittle transformed into a duchess. Color-coordinated, monochrome, and matching scent to boot! (If you can imagine that!) Yet as she walked past me, on her way out the door, I did finally see a little rip. At the very bottom of her hem.

Near

Never before have my
nerves tingled the way they
now do. Inching closer,
nearer and nearer. Roused
now--abandoned pleasure.
Needing. Reaching. Coming.
No more space between us.

By The Book

There was indeed the Word, in that Book. And it was good. And then there was you, without an independent thought. How simple it must be, to have this book. To live by, sleep by, swear by, and die by. Nothing less. And nothing more--to discover, to believe, to question, to discuss.

Nothing more to argue. So that when people are hung upside down in the name of that Word in that Book. That is still good. And when people are gassed in the name of that Word in that Book. Likewise, good. Even when people fall victim to hideous epidemics... well, you say, they dare to not live by that Word in that Book. And that is why.

Simple.

So what happens when you are on the other side? What happens when you are the one tortured in the name of a word in some other book? When you are the one plagued with illness? Will you still look to your book for a prescription? Or will you be able, at some point, to improvise of your own accord?

Still simple?

The Morning Rush

The barely-awake-yet-rushing irony of morning and breakfast-on-the-go. Of coffee, of news, of will-I-make-it-on-time. For the bus, the train; the meeting, the class, the test. For the presentation, the gossip, the water cooler bets. The slowly-picking rhythm of day. While not-so-perfect strangers file alongside you. In cars, streets, lobbies, elevators. Going the same direction; ending in separate ways. We start with good-mornings and end with have-a-nice-days.

Slow

Slow is a turtle making its way across the sand to bury its eggs. It is the length of time as the tides shift from high to low and back again. It is the scorching sun, melting the ice cream cones of children playing on the beach. It is a grandmother watching the kids and remembering her own youth. It is a mother cursing traffic as she heads back home from work. And a father trapped in a meeting, looking forward to the weekend. And a girl wondering if he will call. And a sixteen-year-old buying his first car. Slow is the first two minutes after waking and the last ten seconds of a long journey. And the entire day of your big night. It is the faint ticking of the clock when you'd rather be doing something else. It is the crest of anticipation. And waiting. That is always slow.

Go Figure

My brother has a talent for figuring things out. Not a skill, mind you. A talent.

When we were kids in Manila, we always heard about how the Japanese would give their children transistor radios and have them break it apart and put it together again. The rationale was that if they could put the radio back in working order, they'd have the ability to build a better radio. This was in the 70's, of course. The dawn of Sony and Toyota. Well, my brother was not a Japanese child but he did just that. He tinkered. With everything. So much so, that now he seems to have some magical-miraculous ability about him that can figure anything out. Sometimes, I would even swear that he can fix anything just by looking at it. Case in point: the CD player in my car had been broken for maybe about six months. Lazy me, I never got around to having it fixed. And then my brother came for a visit. In the car, he picked up the faceplate of that said CD player, and with his bare hands (no joke!), tweaked and twakked. Voila! It worked like new!

So it happened that one day, my sister's toddler got locked in their bullet-proof SUV. With the keys! I guess it was one of those ultra-safety, kidnap-proof type of setups. At any rate, nobody was able to break into that car. My sister, in tears, did not know what to do. The cops were called, nothing; the marines were called, nothing; the MP's (military police) were called, nothing. Finally, they called the prison to send over the Philippines' "number one" felon known for his skill at picking locks, still nothing. Finally, my brother came. Two minutes flat and my niece was back in her mama's arms! How's that for talent?

If you ask him how he does it, I don't think he could give you an answer. It's not a magic trick or shortcut he learned from any book. It's a talent he was born with, this inclination to tinker and ability to figure things out. Maybe one day someone should try and figure him out.

The 4:45

We share this ride each evening, on the way from work. The bus smells of sweat and weary cologne and melted makeup. Of coffee-break coffee and sometimes cigarettes. People sit and stare without seeing. Dozing off, tuning out, and spacing. Minding personal spaces, wishing that last empty seat beside them will remain that way. It never does. But there's always the iPod, or the iPhone, or the iBook. Keeping those iWalls up.