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What is Phenomenology?
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TUNNELS August 14, 2017
When I greet the daypeacefully, you stabthe day with a knife—a knife that stays,looks like you,a pith in the coreof tireless beginnings.Remembering…I bleed for youred alphabets of time.I bleed, like an ancienttear in the eyeof the strangest wall,the impregnable fogin our midst.
TUNNELS Splintering
Through the hedges darkly buffeted by the feral state of gravity,of the unspeakable, its melancholy birds preening under the suncaught in the breath of a revelation: summer lying, you.We cannot suspect the horses running to be like the pastharnessed still to what’s not fading away; crisp hellos are a theoryof disembodied music, gospel at times, your blues most of the time.Let me hold the perfect hand, white, blinding, lifted highto make me touch the melody in a forest once you saidwas giving you death, the time my eyes were full of skies.Seasons arrive in no known glimpses of flowers, of fallingleaves, of snow splintering into muted signs. A living clock tells.The river runs past you and me, flowing into forked destinies.Now the mocking presence of the forgotten: how could younot know that part of your existence was built on large ruins?Oracular was I to echo your bone to your bones: Xanadu.In the context o
TUNNELS Operation Optimism: Twin Futures
Escapism Run, run like the light that never goes out, the bulliedcharm of the matador pain-projector, also called the cousinof the law in uniform, flashing suspicion on the escapees, escapistsbreaking from and within the corners rattled by barbs,shackles, ex-lives, cuffs, left-handed lies.Whiskers there, paw signals everywheresharp eye contactthe language verifiedby the generoussources from the crime scene. The yearof the cat feedson artificial intelligence,the cat clashes with the K9 chiefs, sothe year of the Old Possum dispatchesno racial star, no un-Cheshire unit, no whatsoever in forensic translation.EqualityOperation optimism is highly tranquil. Moreinformant tips drop hystericallylike a Feng Shui forecast about life under surveillance. Scream, scream for the subjectthat meows compassion, allegedly sellingluck in the B-side,that is about 30 gramsweighedtradedbut never used.As ‘used’ is a word like curious Gus
TUNNELS Postscript to Pronouns
For one: I saw a book, ash-colored; on the sideof its skin lived the initials A.I.riven by blanknessand a fatal crave darker than dark.It read Ako and Ikaw. My eyeshungered, wishing for anothercourt in the sky, or another throatto house another world in another time.Second:I should be in jail. I have been cripplingsyntax to its spindly few. SpellingI pummeled to misspell Astrosphinxas statuesque as May I sing with me? Words whiplashed on fire icejeepneying with Saint Lazarus—the emperor of English over grasslilt parsing poison into ice creampoetry and screaming grammar noir.The narrative of tradition, beer-fellowedby cultural madness to digressand mull over a foamof savory crab fat alongsideour pickled come-what-mays. For this,‘Ikaw’ and ‘Ako’ separately are You and Mein Filipino, that by accident tryto understand Taglish as nomadologywears thin of its spatial possessions,rhymes, or like those rent checksno prettier than your beinga residential state s
TUNNELS Heartbeat
(Alright make it official you heard it in a speculative membrane-bus!)Watching fast cars from the edge-row seat of a bus, my mind safe-assigns a regular thought I thought was running pristinely naked, or an odor of a girl I thought was the effect of an 8AM lesson on Pierre Gourou slowly kicking in, embracing the trees from around my vision which I thought was tropical time carrying code-specific heat back to my lovely province. This back seat of a speculative membrane-bus now turning loco, calling out all aesthetes and commuters of the Manila mundi to reunite! And ringing—my mind’s chasing the hour like a whiplash too quick to move. Love this shy avocado hope on board—of all round trips I couldn’t finish: tickets there turning to peanuts, roasted peanuts scattering around a wheel to never make this poor brain tired of thinking aahh thoughtlike an Atom-U freight memoryringinglike a heart. Or: a deadbeat’s heartbeat.
TUNNELS Democracy Jr.
1st: I was very proud I passed the test. The test was about how strong and firm I was with my faith, political or racial or hologrammatic.2nd: The gift of democracy so essentially fluid, ergo, was time. I had to witness time suture history—or the narrative of forgetting in peacetime.3rd: How was the police—yes the polease!—calculating the algorithm of hurt when protesters were themselves curators of Lego-like ideas and wild algebra?4th: Kowloon was a place of blacker and blacker appeal to our fair M/Other. . 5th: She who stood astound by the palace walls read her // self, more than bodies melting in the rain, freezing in the sun.6th: The heroine who did this should become the anti-auteur. The second heroine in our mind would be the myth and metaphor of our freedom.7th: I didn’t believe I would allow myself to listen close to my mind—how imagination gurgled so loud repeating revolution like a Bacharachmasterpiece.8th: From Manila to Hong Kong to my ci
TUNNELS Short Story, as Borobudur
I’ve found a reason to live. Yellow skybright shores. The theory sleeps between religion’sporcelain ghosts & inner Sastra,& your seeminglyneurotic connection to the plotsabotaged by the night’s iridescent fingers.Hands of your characters’ hair area wisp in this solitude’s picaresque,keeping shiny the stupas, beautiful as sciencethough the birth of the hero can never beprehistoric Java, claiming the lost narrativeof memory. Brittle aura of bonesover the unsettling tear & this isto complicate the scenesfrom a horoscopic point of view.I’ve found the signs in a jar: heart lotuses,synecdoche. Flowers of the intricate past,I’ve brought them up to the altarwith or without a conclusive epiphany,a conflict so indistinct as a starmilked for its nirvana, for the riddlingtales it tells right from the beginning,middle & end. The setting seems very patient.So what is chronologically cotton-boundmay not be novel, physically circl
TUNNELS The Ice Cream Man is feeling the flavour, narcolepsy
he sells not, it seems, as the week’s bestseller sleeps in like a strange touch of odd memory, shifting the day’s dream minerals into a controversial hybrid of taro and guacamole. To scoopout some more island recipe from the greying whole, the interface of muted shreds and bits, is,after boyfriends and girlfriends fail to acknowledge sublime art suspended in street after howling street, the swirling sociology of tropical malaise.The Ice Cream Manwith [his] underrated purposiveness of disembodied aesthetics, hops in, emerges, rethinks the condition of language, of signs and symbols that confront the steady disinterestedness toward matcha. What is it that forces taste to be critically sabotaged by teleology? Yet what is being promised by the Coney Island theory is parity premised on subsistence. As if aura, as if this beast of contestation: is the decision to choose ice cream sandwich over standalone waffle cones a celebratory case of favouring the sublime, the liminal, the appli
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