The Phase Change

That gas giant deviates from its orbit,
Once or twice in an hour or a minute
On Earth, relatively, only the gas giants,
Or perhaps the failed stars knew.

Once, it has its secret orbit, that none in the universe saw,
It hopes, ponders, “Are we all the Roman Gods?”
“No, am I Jupiter? And that distant star from my sky, who is she?”
“Terra? Is it her name?” (I closed my eyes, no, I avoided any sight of light)

Though nothing is present, it’s true.
Just energies—fusion, fission, the emitted temperature.
Nothing in it where the electromagnetic waves can touch, and radiate,
To brandish its beauty and fright of fate.

It kept on deviating. The revolution to rectilinear motion.
Once, passed through the asteroids, the feeling of attraction intensified.
If it retreats, it expands. Scared it rips, it persisted.
Compression, condensation, suddenly it found itself beneath ambitions.

Liquid. Vast. Cold.
Flowing from the polar to the equator.
Sometimes, it crashes against the roughness of rocks.
Sometimes, it dives and glides through the sand

Once, it saw a different one; he jumped into god. (I closed my eyes and tried to catch him)
Suddenly, a whirlpool of emotions left it dazzled.
He cannot let him die, it thought. (Or I felt)
Suddenly, there was empathy and connection.

Another man jumped and there came pitch black.
“Who are you?”, the man asked.
“Are you God?”. It was stunned.
“Are you Terra?”, as clarity is a question to a question.

“You are dead. But I think I died too,” deepening the silence, deafening the two.
Dissociating further, epiphany broke the confusion.
“I died and became the sea,” it murmured
As if it’s been alive for years, it knew how it felt–to be.

“That answers it.” The man, satisfied, then left.
The two brushed troughs before suspending their crests in the air,
not long enough, before the waters meet later
while the man traverses through the icebergs in pairs.

Enlightenment was a literal light when the sun appeared.
A filtered kind of radiation touching it to disappear.
Infrared, visible, ultraviolet, and evaporation.
Water vapor mixed with the Atlantic Ocean’s.

It was a paradox as to what must be told.
It has made clear the path to reasons then lost what the hearts bestowed.
But never mind, because the man came back and said,
“We have yet to live all the lives beyond the world.”

Affinity

*snippet only | Image by Teltel Tagudando. NaCl Ionic Bonding

Chorus:

I cry and pray, dare not be easy
I lie to me, get over you so easy
Twenty fourth glance, through the mirror of your car
You’re sorry, then there’s a chance
All I got were scars of hopes like stars
Dying all as untrue
Are you just kind, arent’t you?
Rather not keep us untrue

Cool Girl

I bit my tongue,
I thought: zen. 
I stepped on a gum,
I thought: zen.
I spilled my drink on my white 
cashmere cardigan,
I thought: zen.
I think about it 
every now and then: zen.

He wouldn’t tolerate  my brows furrow.
My lips, I should seal it,
so no air—or perhaps fire—could escape from it.
My eyes should shape like those negative parabolas;
and my lips, must disguise as the bottom half 
of the circle I drew in first grade.
Where once the so-called set of all points 
is complete, there hovers in circle the male gaze.

Applause and adoration.
I always should fit the mold of that gaze.
My roots and my seeds, are unwelcome.
And when my petals hold something from 
the pollination of bees that sprawled over
—with tolerance—
I shall walk on the carpet of warmth.

He progresses with society, 
an opposition of traditional feudalism, 
of traditional patriarchy.
While the pollinated, they speak with wisdom
—loud, proud, pretentious albeit.
Perhaps, that is how they, the latter, fit the mold,
whilst, I, a gentle but with spikes:
When a fly from a turd comes close, I 
will pierce a hole in it. 

I am meek, but my meekness drifts over 
to discover and perceive.
I am delicate because I effortlessly share
with the soul of another.
I am effusive to disambiguate.

None of such fits his gaze.
That when the he makes the wrong turn,
I shall ignore.
And when he lacks,
I shall accept. 
And when he clinches the end of the rope,
I shall glorify. 

Tolerance and stature that tag him along.
Petals that complement his flamboyance. 
Leaves that ostentatiously form his vigor.
He is not an opposition nor a progressive;
a chauvinist of the contemporary
guising in the crossfire of stillness—
in a play of precautions.

Now that circles are laid all over, 
and I am, but with corners.
Mind me not, so wont I.
This is my zen.

The Art of Silhouettes

Featured Photo: Tagudando, Teltel. Luna y Laguna. 30 August 2022.

I would watch in silhouette
anchoring the façade of
unknowingness and innocence.

Devious and wary.
Claw at the skin of any
protuberance,
to take up the cudgels for
that one—ironically.

The blood, it is gone.
The traces, all gone.
But I have watched in silhouette.
I would like to profess.

No vindication!
I have seen all deceptions!

But would they believe the
apparent inexistence?

Then, I remember,
there is a dye.
I held the cup of lysochrome diazo.

Unfolding. Staring.
I have watched too many—
as a silhouette.

Beseechment

Featured photo: Tagudando, Teltel. A Catch. 2022

I wanted the serenity
and the vastness of the sea;
where over it,
the sun takes its first and last peek.
But why is it when I hit the road
I have to catch a cold?
Or catch the sun
so my skin erodes like powder from a gun.

I am that, of the polars—the north and the south.
Solitary and no one knows about my whereabouts.
With irons in the fire,
transcending through miles and miles
of staircase of reverence and satire.
But why is it in the face of conduction,
the higher beings cry their eyes out?
And drown the metals;
and kill the potential.

Am I too small for the ocean?
Am I too bland for the saltwater?
So it keeps coming through my perforated skin,
and fill me up until swollen?
When I move in capillary,
the seabed quakes in its own feet.
As if I left a mermaid beaten and dead.

My heart only yearns for the calm,
and the water that gives life.
I never wished for the heights and lights.
Give me depth and life.

Sometimes It’s Faith

Intuition. (c) Teltel Tagudando 2022

I better not open my eyes for answers.
For I have kept enough wine in the cellar.
To greet the fearful, who hovers over
the border where discontent cannot thrive
and unfazed love cannot repose.
Every time, when the gushing wind
and the beating heart are seemingly loud,
the blood flows faster than the usual.
So, I sip, or most of the time, knock back some.
After that, it makes me warm.
Still the flow is steadily fast, but certainly not futile.
It is as if I am an organ, and the fever is the membrane.

I need not open my eyes
To read lines
In between of congenial truth and lies
Enough, when the soft sound of pouring wine
Anchors my ears on the movements of the tongue
And its taste, it bounces away from mucosa to epidermis
It percolates through the skin down to my gut.
A feeling emanates every time
The reason I have gut feelings

I better not open my eyes for answers.
It is not some sort of walking blind
nor going along with melodies tone-deaf
It is neither gliding past air friction or resistance
It is taking care of the fire
—keeping its ignition not as ravaging as arson;
keeping it away from combustion
As it ceases (I’d die if it does)
and at the end of every burn are charred unidentifiable.

I need not open my eyes.
From behind convex lenses, I peek at every synopsis and ending.
But for what we have, I refuse to satiate my curiosity.
I refuse to seek answers.
Let the tongue untangle
Let the ears hear
Let the skin feel
At the intersection, ignorance meets trust.

If Only Father Knew

If only father knew you are vicious;
if only father knew you are prideful;
if only father knew you are insincere;
if only father knew you are ignorant.

He would have not let you saunter
inside Eden.
He would have not let the tree of life stand
in boldness in the middle.
He would have not let its fruit linger
in your mouth of broken glass.
He would have not let you arise
from molten rock, with temerity.

But you came first; thus, the children suffer from your sins.
So do you – the excruciating pain of bearing a child.
Twisting muscles. Gnashing of teeth.
So do you – the pain piercing through the soul.
Spitting fire. Lightning eyes. Thunder of heart.

But my father cherished you. He trusted you.
Whispered my name before departing for heaven.
“Cherish her.”
So did the genesis begin. So did it persist.
Now we are in the end.

If only father knew.
No child would have ever wept in helplessness.
No child would have ever been left in the
thriving crossfire between the star of David
and the star above a crescent.

Your lies! Your hypocrisy!
You are Carnegie.

I could have lived more. I could have loved more.
But eventually, my father will know,
for I am the revelation.

My topaz gates. My father arrives again.
Here come the revelations.