Gino P. Paradela

My work primarily deals with the concept of alienation in the urban landscape. I enjoy exploring the artificial construct of “cityness” and what it means to be “citified”. My goal is to deconstruct the distinction between transcendent vs. immanent. It is a sublime experience for me when I am able to write about the profaned sacred, and the sacred profane. For me, poetry is about capturing a moment in peak ecstasy, translating it into words so that it may also be experienced by others.

Solvent Seers

“The cost of sanity in this society is a certain level of alienation.” —Terence Mckenna

they cover their noses with transparent plastic, inhaling the fumes of industrial solvent.

some eight, some nine, some eleven, some twelve— prophesying

the new Pythia of the slum-streets, the incarnations of Nostradamus into teacup seers

and they litter the streets and honor the gutters with their imitation rap songs, their haunting hums. they are the fruit flies of the middle-aged metropolis.

and they flirt with danger for they cross the steel car currents with ease:

initiating their bodies into the mysteries of the dying and the rising

and they do not mind the iron clanging onto their skins for they were born children of iron.

what messages from the gods do you bring as you bellow in ecstatic rap songs on the sacred monday, and on the sacred tuesday, and on the sacred wednesday— the week has not yet ended.

what do the oracles whisper to your young ears as you inhale your synthetic fumes?

what whispers? what worlds? what words have you heard behind the beating concrete heart? the spirit of the metropolitan Amazon?

what secrets do the plastic bags reveal to us (what, indeed?)?

Bar Girl

by the door, she sits. calling old men to come

inside her bar. she sells a lap dance for five hundred. she can be tabled, for three hundred a drink.

she’ll rub you against her genitals, thighs-on-jeans for five hundred more. she’ll even let you sniff her hair.

when her shift is over, you can pay her to bed. and she will do anything

if the price is right. she can stop sitting by the door,

all for the child who needs rice.

By the Harbor Where Anchors Fall

i like to stare at ships while they dock by the harbor, where their anchors fall and rise

i have known the beauty of reunions but at night, when only the sea remains after the ships embark, there is nothing for the eyes to see but the light of a lone voyage, no sound but the haunting of the dead long forgotten, put to sea since the beginning of oceans, now passed by the waves made familiar by the wind, and tumbles them into the once majestic form. tries

to make sense again. i see the many heartbreaks left by people left behind. my head plays imagined exchanges— the many whispers spoken in between sobbing lovers. the coral stones have heard all the prayers, the sea knows too much of saltiness. this i have known

when the ships sail out to sea.

Eucharist

as a young boy i have seen the miracle of mass. the priest raises the bread and the cup—and the sparks of holiness fly up and up and up

this morning, i was in the yard watching my dogs do their business, leaving their nuggets on the grass, and as they fell from their bottoms i noticed the same sparks flying from the priest’s bread and the wine

so i, the priest of the earth, faithful to my calling lifted the chunks of brown to the heavens intoning

and all was put to right.

These must go back home.

These must go back home.

HOC EST ENIM CORPUS MEUM

Life (A Monologue)

(curtain opens)

(lights on)

Mother comes on stage wearing a batik duster.

MOTHER: Where have you been? It’s late! How much weight have you gained? Who’s this woman? Is this another one? What happened to the last one? Oh, she got pregnant? Do not tell your father. What are we going to do about it? When are you getting married? Does your budget fit? You did not have enough plates for the guests! Do you have any idea how much the milk costs? Congratulations on your first son! Where are you going to send him? She’s pregnant again? What is her shoe size? You better start saving for a house. Your father got sick. Do you have some money to spare for the hospital? Your father would have been proud to see you. I am on my way to senility. It’s late! How much weight have you gained? Who is this woman? Where have you been?

(lights off)

The Abattoir in Ermita Street

in fear, their bowels drop open— i learned this in biology.

when you enter, it is said that the air stings with urine and crap. the men shove the creatures when the gates are opened.

their eyes moisten, and their bodies bruise, and they shake as if knowing what will happen

next. the men come with their knives, aprons donned with medallions of blood— then crying, and bleating, and screaming when they are held.

it is said that they whine, scream, and kick before the knives make them give up their necks for silence.

and they die.

putrefied clumps of red drip. a daily ceremony, a sacrifice to be packaged neatly in polystyrene to be shelved among the vegetables at some supermarket.

and in the blank, lifeless eyes (school has left this out) i see the tears sucked by a fat-bodied fly.

Variables

the teacher told us something i could not understand. i scribbled it down anyway. she said something about correlatives and differentials. things i know i could never possibly make out. inside the classroom, we sat as she talked, glasses thick, reading from her notes. the air conditioner hums a song— Here was something I could understand

i closed my eyes and listened to the hum. for some reason it brought me back to when my mother said something to me inside her body—

something i could never possibly understand but did. i thought about the chicken noodle soup that burned my fingers, about the first time i stepped on a small kitten accidentally, about the first time i made love nervously.

i opened my eyes and we were now talking about research participants—

i scribbled them down anyway as i listened to the hum.

Twelve Minutes on Magallanes Street

a woman waits by the roadside for her friend to come out from the makeshift beauty parlor. a pimp peddles his wares and bares them: skimpyclothed, red-lipped, high-heeled.

from the parked jeepney, the gamblers wait for the police to pass by before they resume playing. smokers hold their breaths— it is illegal to puff smoke openly now. says the news.

a passing hearse plays soft music. paid women follow and wail. no one appears to know the dead but people come anyway. for the coffee.

potholes in the street are filled. the sounds of the drill mix with the afternoon smoke. the election draws near and poster-faces start to grace the wooden electric poles and whitewashed walls.

a beggar stands beside a nursing student. opening his palms, badgering: taking what is freely given. a stray dog sniffs at the nearest hydrant. the water has dried up. as dusk draws, the fire sirens howl. the cars part in panic. the world stops and stares at the clock.

a chinese merchant closes his storefront for supper. the road starts to fill, quietly, as the small corner in the chapel for the virgin.

a wife removes her sandals. her husband shall arrive soon - the rice is steamed and the vegetables are boiled.

she waits barefoot on the sidewalk. standing on holy ground.