joe quesada thought he knew
what he was talking about
with his “marvel superheroes”

but he never knew my niece

phoebe

last saturday
i got a blow on the head
and she kissed
the pain away

i believed in miracles

the other day
when she cried “darna!”
from her little lips
i envisioned our house
bombed into smithereens!

and dear nosy sisters,
i’ll tell you this now,
in that cry
she showed me
what our mother must’ve
known since we were born

faith like a child

this alone
was worth the powers of
all the marvel superheroes
combined

and mind you
she’s just turning
four!

tomorrow =)

happy birthday phoebe

with love
from tagee

what a shame it is
that his death
is the metaphor
in my song

what a mockery
i’ve made

singing about
his last dying breath
to lift you up

how insensitive of me

but
you see
i felt that you
needed company

not being your
prince charming
or your alter ego

i could not offer
much

all i’ve got
are these silly
tunes

i try to drive an eight-seater SUV
buy a box of donuts for five
and invest in a franchise that
could support two families

when there is only me
caught in this cycle of
make, break and repair

just to consume the empty hours
fulfill a broken dream or
mend the sulking gaps as if
to fill in the cracks in myself

gaydars aren’t
working today
come back next week
moulin rouge’s on HBO

what makes a man gay?
i never know
and tomorrow’s lotto numbers
too

did he play with barbie
as a child?
who felt he’s always been
different?
was it boy george
or maybe his sisters?
they might be lesbians
after all

i love those metrosexuals
in pink tees and italian shoes
their 50$ face cream
and hairstyle really work
only they’re horny most
of the time

leave me alone, will you?
i still have to figure out
if that’s exciting, liberating,
confusing or
scary

i don’t mean to call you
gay, george
here, paint your fingernails
pink
it’s the latest on GQ

at the MRT
quezon ave station:
a frail baby boy
freezing in the cold
with a jollibee cup
clasped in his hand

somewhere in laguna:
my niece popping
bubble wraps against
the dirty peach wall
plaques bumping
at each burst

elsewhere:
raining cats and dogs
a hopeless romantic
slumped onto the couch
reading harry potter and
the half-blood prince

and around:
me, writing a report
for a meeting that will
be canceled on
the day Abante headlines
“GLORIA KINATAY”