Might of the Kind

By Joebert Palma Jr.

Ravaging like omnipotent waves, here, the stark Darkness
              creeps, stalks, and feeds on the fragile cliff that we are.
A synchronous dance, a way to Death, a treacherous kiss,
              we gladly take it in, but tomorrow’s not far.

We bathe in a crimson lake that doesn’t stain our togas,
              for this lake is ethereal, our dry skin divine.
Send all the unknown faces in windowless bodegas.
              Call the Animals. Witness the might of the Kind.

Allow the Shadow to cover this land, to flood this plane
              of people with no faces who hid in their cage.
Sing their songs, remember their names, but bury their children, and
              the offspring of their children—fruit of the sage.

Let the benevolence of the murk hide their battle scars,
              to silence their mouths before they unleash their cry.
Slit the throat of Kumander Liwayway, to end her wars,
              so as to impale her womb so she wouldn’t try.

Here, in the stillness of the air, out in the cold open,
              we plow this barren earth where they used to run free,
                            to plant these Seeds that will eventually feed our children,
                                          whose youth invigorates their need for mutiny.

Yet here, in the stillness of the cold air in the open,
              their shut eyes awaken from a now distant dream.
Liwayway bore her own children, taught them how she lived then,
              how she fought Life for life. Life trembled when she came.

But the earth is still soaked with the blood of the lost faces,
              fueling all the grieving with a peaceful rage.
They marched and marched until no one cared to track the traces for
              it is in resonance can they only break their Cage.

The stark Darkness is still vast and owning, still ravaging.
              Its ebony talons are masking the blind trail.
Liwayway’s children marched and marched and then came the Morning.
              Darkness screeched and curled. Its spite won’t leave this vale.



By Andrea D. Lim

for H


Our arms that shared the chilling language
of letting out before letting go lock our present selves
to the presses of each other’s heads onto our chests
minutes after midnight in front of a studio room mirror, under
the dim yellow light. This is a forgiving Sunday hour
for faint shadows shaping the human only late encounters
can trace away.


I am the first to dare gaze at the ground where
the edge of our conflicting want, the feet attest, has the feel of crossroads.
The surface finally suffice. My eyes shift direction to our reflections,
the disheveled bed hair, skin-deep reaches and plunges, two bodies taking a place
through giving in to its chance for the temporal haul
of an endless whole.


You are on the receiving end, looking above
my head. You take the time to discover more inches,
to be the one to see for ourselves that you are now
higher than me. I used to be taller than you
when we were closer to our inner child
and had the time for open-ended narratives.
Now you are proud of your ruling, grinning
thoughtfully for history’s sake, for what comes
more during comebacks.

I tilt my head to your side, just enough to arrive
with a slanted face. In for all, I was shaking—it must have been
the coldness of inner pitch-black space, the weak refusal
from being filled this way, or the emptiness
that must be contained.


So you just take place, you holding on to your ways
of freeing me from the fixation with crashing at checkout time.

The bags are packed before you came, still. I may not yet be
tucked on the window side of the bus but my growth,
rooted between knowing better and minding the current, dawns
on the crevices of my heart. It does not shy away
at the height of honest desire.


And so you win, still. The heart tends to an aged love, but you,
you have outgrown me.



Ode to the World’s Oldest Lullaby

By Marc Jeff Lañada

What do I make of all the blue waves that inhabit my memory,
   Waves ridging, crashing, then cut briefly by my dorsal eyes?
    Without human touch, a perpetual instrument was made,
     Wanders across latitudes and beyond the territories of sight:
    World, as it first was, again, rediscovered. Forget the sparrow
   Whistling at dawn, the choir of honking cars, the morning radio;
 Where sand meets the infinite foam lives a melody, weaved of
Words my tongue cannot choreograph. The performance begins,
Whether dawn or dusk is pooling in the ocean, and stays there.
  What do I make of all the blue waves that inhabit my memory,
    Waves ridging, crashing, then cut briefly by my dorsal eyes?

Cautionary Tale

By Jermaine Dela Cruz

She was
or so they thought.
Woods fired, engines chugged,
they sailed her West in fair majestic pride
unknowing of a tragic ending, a harrowing recollections.
In a blink of an eye, she collided with a tip of the ice, a thousand lives and more swallowed by angry tides,
cries of mercy resonating, woes fading into the familiar shuttered countenance one by one.
Debris floating back and forth, a horrifying spectacle of bodies buoyant, breathless,
as salty waters sing a lullaby consoling souls from a sudden departure.
The ship of dreams, the unsinkable, in all her vainglory
a grand exit on her first and final journey, but not
before a farewell kiss pressed on her lips—
She, in a trance, breath withdrawn,
her limbs weak and weary.
Slowly she plunged
but not before
looking back
one last

Fairy Tale

By Roi Marc P. Labasan
Spoken Word

Hey, I’m really sorry to tell you this, but you will never be the fairest, you will never eat a cursed apple, and you will never ever be kissed by some random bastard prince for you to cheat death.

You will never fall into an eternal sleep after you hurt yourself with a spindle. You will never have a prince armed with “the sword of truth” and “shield of virtue” to fight a dragon for you. And a kiss will never ever awake you from an eternal coma. If you’re dying, go get a doctor, not a creepy prince.

You will never have a fairy godmother to dress you up, provide you elegant things from a garden, and make a golden carriage from a pumpkin. You will never be sought by a prince after leaving a glass slipper because of your clumsiness, and you will never ever be queen after you attend some shitty ball and dance with a prince named Charming.

You will never be a mermaid princess bestowed with legs by some crazy female octopus. You’ll never meet a guy named Eric who will battle that octopus for you, and you will never ever fall in love in just three days, for god’s sake!

You will never meet a beast with living “things” as his servants. You’ll never be saved by the huntsman ordered to kill you. You will never ever marry an evil hairy creature who hates Christmas, and accept a rose as a gift from him. A monster will always be a monster.

Lastly, you will never be a girl with magical blond hair and be locked up in a tower; you’ll never meet a good thief nowadays and will never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever have a happily ever after.

When your death is near, you’ll realize that humans don’t even fear death after all. For the real fear of us humans is to realize that after all the years of existence, we have never really lived. So wake up and quit your fucked-up fantasies because life is not a goddamn Disney fairy tale.

When the Old Paints the Youth

By Julius Marc Taborete

wakes up at dawn to sweep
the brown multitudes of the Fall.

Youth plants the fertile soil, reaping
the withered land and pours
spite of rise on gray expanse.

Youth is the pollen of our prime—
disperses through the sky,
never pulled back from ancestral gravity.

spews parts of our best days;
swooping the flesh of fading ritual
in a feast of the age of rising sun.

does not heed the silence
of vestige; in scaffolding of the melody
of the Sun and Stars.

is just our history,
a mirage in distortion of reality; an induction
to the surreal slums of life. Ancestors,
as they would say,

is the gift of nature but age
is the work of art.” Hues of

cascade from the canvas of tradition,
depleting the fountain
of the past.

has not stepped on the shadows
of 1972; the freedom we once
now has the brimful of the

As mirrors reflect the wrinkle
of time, old is still new. Has

been the roots of The fallen bough?
Ah! The dawn has come
and so as the

comes to sweep the last
leaf to plant a
new tree.

Tinted Nails

By Allan Ace Dignadice


Woke up early
to go

to fall in line
to look for
a name

that should be mine
with hundreds of
people that

I don’t recognize
unfamiliar faces
for the first time

I sat
I pondered

and caught a glimpse
of a sacred ballot

I sat
I pondered

I remembered
the bills
that now are in
my pocket

a kilogram of rice
that will help
my family

my children
to get through
the week

I sat
I wrote his name

I sinned
I don’t—

I didn’t care

if he wins
if they suffer

at least not me
not my family

all we get in
the end is
a couple of bills

just tinted nails