Art for sale

Hi friends! I’ll be selling stuff (i.e., postcards and bookmarks) at ‪#‎BLTX‬ Cubao!  🙂

It would be super awesome if you guys could drop by & show support & love.

Postcard sizes range from ~4.1×5.8 inches to 5 x7 inches, price ranges from 60-100 each. The bookmarks are a steal at 10-20 pesos! 😀 Individual prices are in the images’ captions.
I only printed 6 copies per design – please leave a comment if you wanna pre-order or send an email over at Pick-up is at BLTX.

I’ll also be releasing my first poetry chapbook… stay tuned 🙂

a small press/DIY expo

Venue: Ilyong’s Project 4, Cubao
Date: Dec 4, Friday
Time: 6 pm to sawa


Events page:

Happening elsewhere simultaneously
BLTX Baguio Cafe Yagam
BLTX Davao Sales Bar Tekanplor


Innocence died screaming ♪

Because I was reading Eliot again.
In a minute there is time    
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.  

From The Comprehensive List of Lines Left Out:


I am from the refusals and misdirected musings of past loves. Burnt letters, poems too long, one photograph too many, notebooks filled with theorems and equations that flew further than their predicted trajectories.

in exchange for both my eyes. The continents went dancing
while we were out. Submarines were invented

We constructed ways to ease everything in – the world of the body built on knowable signs: blood smears lit with starry skies under the microscope, currant jelly stools, apple core lesions; bird’s beaks, footballs, ground glass lodged in your lungs, steeples reaching to the sky of your throat, stepladders rising from bowels – all answers hailed by the advent of radiation: a world bathed in black, white, and gray. The body’s topography mapped in entire by density and ingested dyes.

They said: Write. Make dying
beautiful. Someone else said: Stop.
As a reflex I let my fingers search the cold wrist
for a pulse, but felt only the pounding
of my own, feeble heart.

Revising some pieces. Here are some things I cut out, from various bits of text.

What you’ve been waiting for –

The alluring anachronism split into pure atoms, an arrangement you can almost taste, the arsonist asking for absolution;

Belched out ballads badly resonating with bulls in china shops and besieged belladonnas, balustrades broken into bits by blue balls of light;

The chosen moment that spelled perfection and catastrophe, clicking the correct button a centisecond too late, clasping your clammy hands on hers, taking a careless chance;

The damned; demons draped in delight and Double Dutch ice cream donning dragon-shaped diamonds;

Elephants, eggplants, epiphanies evading re-entry into Eden;

In the far future finding the fault lines following a flock of flightless fates; feigning fascination and friendship in funerals; fucking and feeling fervently free; Furies fired up on fairy dust, felt-tip pens, and fireworks;

The giant that gobbled gold and in its gastrointestinal tract generated gods and gentlemen alike;

“Hi, hello, how, and who are you doing?” harked the heart attack hailing from happiness;

Once inside, she felt all of his intent: imminent, impeccable, as if invincible to her ills – inviting;

“Just joking” jested the juvenile juggernaut;

Kicking the knickknack into the Kraken’s kitchen, kneading kings kindly, keeling for kisses and kills;

The lover lying listlessly listening to limericks and lies, licking her lips;

Midway, he made the moon melt mint and mellow, Mercury moping a mile off, mesoderm mistaking marrow for more; maimed and well-meant, maelstrom or minotaur- make your mind up, mother;

Never needing nobody; no names necessary;

Onwards: the only way out;

Pretenses paltry and promising; put it in Promises and Pink; procure these precious perversions, pretty please?

Quietly the quack doctor quickened; qualms, quills, and questions all quarelling;

Resisting respite and reason, she rose and reached for the risk ringed on his ribs

Strung-up strawberries straining for something to see; starlight secured inside sea-stained bottles; seeds speaking of Soon and Somehow;

The taste of trouble; those terrible tricks they trust;

Underwater, they undertook what was undue, unsaid;

“Very well,” voiced the violet violin vying for velvet violence; vicious vapors in vials; valkyries and vanishing points;

Wondering how to wander; waking wayward wights and wishing wells;

XXX seemed to express xenophobia; the sighing xylophone shrouded in xenon;

When yielding meant Yes, your yearning like a yawn or a yellow ball of yarn;

Zeal in a zoo.

When I am hungry and procrastinating, I curl into a useless pile of catalogs & the alphabet. Then I get exhausted & lie down. Real work only gets done some good 2 hours later when I am Super Charged on sugar. *rolls away*


“Say yes,” said the envelope given by a stranger in the coffee shop. I thought of someone I was convinced I loved until each time I see him & my mind begins to churn out questions I know I’ll never have the answer to. Like, what did my grandparents mean when they said to never make friends & consume your heartaches quietly. What did all those stories about the war really amount to? The estranged great-uncle who redeemed himself by killing a horde of men. Enemies. These days I am offered affection & friendship by strangers & my natural response is to shirk it off. Fight & flight only lead to fright. Suspicion is a song stuck on loop in my head. Nicole, who reads Freud across me, tells me to live a little. I say, how, why, so what & stop to look around me. The room is dim & cold & I can’t help but think of him, the one I gave gift after paltry gift, each acceptance something I was sure wasn’t love, & how he held all I offered like a toy, stretching everything into thinner & thinner pieces, wearing it all out with those long fingers & I keep waiting for something to break –


On a scale of one to god, how tired are you of giving yourself away?
On a scale of yellow to vincent van gogh, will this sadness last forever?


Follow your dreams, said sage advice, reblogged over 9,000 times in the stratosphere of human history, consciousness, etc.

But my dreams like staying with me, bound to the very being of me – volatile & prone to change – feet burning bright but safely bound to the ground where I stand, movement soft as the shadow sewn to my spine.


Most people mistake happiness with contentment.

NaPoWriMo 2013 Days 01 & 02

Day 01: prompt- get the first line from someone else’s poem.


If only bodies weren’t so beautiful- said the waves to the shore moments before sipping all sand and ships into its bowels of seaweed and sirens sharpening their pearl teeth on stone, a song of desire stirring in their throats, tongues ready for the feast- a taste of human flesh following all those years spent scavenging for morsels of meat on skeletons; seashells shivering from the water’s embrace, insides all dried up, bearing nothing but fruits of dust; palm trees pulled into the deep like paintbrushes flung across a painting that failed to fly; limbs fighting against currents, fingers curling into claws, makeshift anchors grasping at nothing but the light slithering through folds of liquid and coral and fish, illuminating all things beautiful before they breathe their last: bubbles blooming from the bottom of the sea.

Got the first line from Dean Young’s Red Glove Thrown in Rosebush.

Day 02: Lie.

The World According To Water

I was born minutes after sunlight, a century
before nitrogen knew its name, bare

seconds short of the arrival
of valence electrons, light-

years prior to the discovery of the skeleton. I knew
the sun was my only friend – a plate broken, affixed

to the sky’s face; its hair all kelp and algae
constructed from heat, caressing the pores

of my waves- all that warmth led me to bleed
fish and fossil alike. At a young age I learned to speak

less. I yearned to play with the ground that grew
pterodactyls on its elbows, mammoths

from its fingernails. In that age gods were but balls
of mud yet to be made holy, yet to take

shape. I longed for the land yet it responded to my song
by splitting itself into continents, masses that crumbled

at the slightest touch. It called upon lightning
to ward me off. Lifting my body, I struck

a bargain with the sky- granted it the ability to breathe life
into man in exchange for an extra organ, wielding

rain and hurricanes, cloistering the soil
with clouds aching to pour, flood

the firmament with its love. I howled
and banshees were born. Elsewhere,

the advent of mankind: all meat and calcium, a net
of nerves and arteries – an atlas

of smallness, susceptible to virions
and the common cold, lives

so short that death loomed
as though an angel. They invented boats, breezing

through my skin, charted stories that could dance
down to my deepest trenches, driving whales mad and mute,

built cities with arms arching towards the sky; bred bombs
from windowless rooms – seeds that singed

everything in sight, shrapnel
brighter than supernovas,

so warm, bleeding
all fish into fossils.


Forget summer.

Forget the scar incurred from saltwater and rocks. Blankets of moss. Fortress of shell and sand. Forget the siren; drown the song it wanted to teach you. Forget the dream of shipwrecks and coconuts split to the core. Everything breaks for a good reason. Forget the waves and their endless attempts at disrupting the firmament.

Forget those cities that welcomed you too easily, offering distance and the sound of a different name. Calloused soles, cobblestones, and air much too cold for lungs bred in the equator, forget how all of it urged you on. Forget the bargains, the boxes.

Forget the coins you failed to count, convert, et cetera. Forget how everyone seems to use a different currency these days: trading apology for a smile, a safety pin for lunch, pale reams of paper for a prediction of when rain would dance and which umbrella to bring, a peer at the future in exchange for a hammock and something to rest on. Forget the book, bagel, and boy you couldn’t possess because you were ten cents short. Forget the girl with her yellow shoes and swivel steps. Forget the dust-laden payphone. Calls of strangers who stopped you on the street for change. Something to spare.

Forget how beautiful everything seemed, how every butterfly mounted in a museum served as monument for awe, flight exempted from departure and arrival. Forget how many centuries all of this took. Dinosaur bones polished, excised from sleeping bodies of soil. All those fossilized songs aching within sediment within the unnamed districts of the earth’s crust. Enough sadness to drive continents away from each other. A list of spacecrafts sent out to orbit human ambition.

X marks the spot where we stand and Y stands for all the questions we piled up to get to this point.

How many mistakes and how many times do we need to get everything right? Forget time-travel.

Specimens of someone’s ancient script- another message among the many making it to this place and time, but the question remains: for whom?

Forget whose hand you were too afraid to hold. Forget that time you willingly followed the wrong directions. Forget loss, late nights spent longing, mornings waking up on the bathroom floor; all those missives misread, muddied by the weather, a wrong word. Forget absence. Forget the excuse about to exit your lips. Forget the length of the line you’ve been in for hours and how dearly you had to pay for this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Forgive the constellation of bobbing heads and flash photography. We are one and the same: believers of the next attraction; saints wielding tickets, subway guides, and knapsacks.

Forget question and choice.

A.) can be anywhere and anyone you want it to be.

B.) is where you last left it, still trying to find a way home, a few seconds short of weeping.

C.) is waiting where you shouldn’t go, dressed in wreckage and armed with a look in its eye determined to veer you off course.

D.) is trying its best to trick you into believing it’s the right one.

Forget what map you wished to give that passing tourist to your body. Forget the one who left you with nothing but wounds in its wake, a heart heavier than all the filled valises would ever weigh, another souvenir you couldn’t pass off to anyone else.

Forget the mirror, limbs of rust quietly ambling at its edges. Its eyes have grown dull and it lacks a tongue brave enough to utter what you needed to hear. Consider wearing another face: swerving that smile a bit to the left, turning crease of skin into charming crescent. Conversely, seeking the shed remains of a discarded face suits a few people.

Forget what you just saw.

The world brims with witnesses all waiting for a chance to paint their version of the story.

Bruises all aching to bloom: longing to be called something beautiful once more.

See the sky? Somewhere, the answer you’ve always wanted is waiting. Sitting under some shade. Sipping coffee on a rainy day. Maybe even surviving the first strike of lightning. Body ignited into waking. Something else. Someone else.


Make it new.

Draft of an “article”. 😉