The Salamander

Electro-Shock Therapy Porn and Other Bright Ideas has been republished in my literature blog, Shaman with a Gun. Go check it out, yeehah!

Full House has been republished in my literature blog, Shaman with a Gun. Go check it out, yeehah! 

          Sobriety Under the Rug has been republished in my literature blog, Shaman with a Gun. Go check it out, yeehah! 

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

Third World writers are a strange breed. We live somewhere between the blinding incandescence of the information superhighway and the stench of dogmeat. You’d think all this filth would desensitize us, but we seem to grow more nerve endings than skin as our angst coagulates in our bellies. Yes, angst. This is the world of hunger, after all. Step into my alien universe, folks. The freaks await.

Define irony. Little brown men strutting about with a white supremacist symbol on their banketa haute couture. It’s strange how you see our colored teenagers wearing the swastika.

Good boy says it’s all peachy. If the swastika has already been purged of its notoriety, perhaps the Buddhists can now reclaim a powerful mystical symbol that the Nazis corrupted. Besides, kids don’t really take Hitler’s swastika seriously. Then again, do you know of anyone who does nowadays? Unless, of course, you live in planet redneck. My point is that Filipino teenagers know as much about the Third Reich as they do about Isaac Asimov. Who is Isaac Asimov, you ask? Exactly my point. And so my literary pretensions rear its ugly head.

Bad boy says this is a tragedy. Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan, and all that.

Poor Adolf. The Third Reich is now a pop symbol of the jologs revolution. Now that is the ultimate defeat of the Aryan nation.

For the past year, I’ve been lost in the rut of trying to make it in mainstream television. I’ll admit it. I’ve sold out. These days, who hasn’t?

It wasn’t when Sanctum Unmasct closed down late last year. I disappeared from that scene months before I heard the rumor that it’s about to fold. I disappeared because I felt that my career as a television writer was not going anywhere.

The career bit worked out. Now I’m slowly making a name for myself as a TV writer. Still a small fish in a big pond, though; but the money’s paying the bills and I’m getting to travel a lot. Chasing after the angry dead has it’s perks.

But the hunger is back too. The hunger for the Word, for poetry in acid trip colors, the hunger for bohemia.

I heard an obscure rumour that Sanctum Unmasct is about to rise again. In a different place and a different name, perhaps, but I cannot let this pass me by. Will the two Oracles, Triccia and Aslie, now make themselves known again and tell me: where is bohemia this time and how do I sign up?

If there is a nation ripe for an upheaval, it is ours.

Too many of us know the shape of hunger. Too little of us care.

Listen:

The coffeeshop urbanite doesn’t see past the mist of hot cappuccino. Or perhaps he does see but his eyes have grown dispassionate from decadence.

The bohemian understands nothing beyond his self-indulgent art. Or perhaps he does understand but has grown fond of his ivory tower.

The student is weary of revolutions.

The politician… but his has always been the path of oppression.

And then there is the hungry man.He knows that hunger is the currency of our time. It opens his eyes. It makes him bold. It unfetters his mind to the possibilities of violence. He drinks nothing but his anger. He understands no art but his hatred. He has nothing to learn but has much to teach. He has no power but that of his fists.

Give me a revolver and I’ll reshape the universe in my image. Revolution begins in the eyes.

Some nights and ten thousand cigarettes ago, in a van and on the trail of the angry dead, I told Ronnie that his world was too safe. If he wanted to be a writer he cannot avoid the path of self-destruction. It’s inevitable. But Ronnie, prude that he is, sought the straight and narrow. I told him it’s always the nasty things that are worth writing about. Unless he wanted to write for the 700 Club.

Hey, man, give me a revolver and I’ll reshape the universe in my image.

To drive my point into his skull, I threw him this scenario:

Two roads lie before you. On one hand, the path will take you to a long and uneventful life. On the other, Iblis awaits by the rabbit hole with death and glory. The first road gives you mediocrity. The other ensures that your name is sung in the House of Man for a thousand years. It’s the path of power. Of Charles Manson’s family running helter-skelter into pop culture. Of the Berlin Wall crashing down with a howl like unto Jericho. Of Prometheus giving us fire. Of the fruit Satan promised will make us gods. Of the Devil’s music. Of rock and roll.

And so, Ronnie chose. Perhaps I misjudged the bastard. Perhaps he does want to waste his brain cells for the Christian right.