of arm movements rowing from the morning wake as fish stands
sell their wares of mussles and oyster alike. People
sitting and waiting in the exhausting heat with glazed
eyes waiting for the sun to pass. Hole teared shirts
and caloused hands and feet and ribbed ribcages kneel
down to watch the passers by. Molten sun scorched
leather aged skin smile tartar stained teeth singing
another tune to gin and water passed around the table.
Nicely pressed shirts and gleaming jewerly eat
silently and remotely from young eyes pressed among
the window, hungry. Billboards radiate new promises
and glossy expressions guaranteeing new worlds to
experience. Sharp glass cemented walls cage
fortresses outlining the landscape and foreign
currencies. Poor neighbors hold hands and sing songs
of festive memories and basketball hoops scoring high
numbers in videoke. Long obscure gazes watch my step
questioning my motives, my background. I smile back
offering prayers of peace. Once they have your
respect and trust they open their house to you, rings
in my head. Small foot by foot displays hand repaired
watches and worn out shoes. Different shades of rice
handed by many hands planted and backache heated
groans. Beautiful colors shine off polished jeepney
and tricycle chrome prides. Pounding sweeps of
gushing water's paddle for roaring seconds of
waterfall sounds. Years of colonial cultural
influence and garbage, affect and neglect resonates in
the ground. Appropiated human rights abandoned and
constricted by greedy politician hands. The promise
of spiritual freedom acidifies the scarred soul and
blinds the eye from human basic needs, food, water and
shelter. Corruption takes hold as they kneel in front
of the Virgin Mary, confused. As one strato signifies
another quo. The bridge widens into a great chasm. I
am here, you are there. And I want to cry. Nervous
tickling stares touch my back and I feel them, aware
and conscious of my bubble, my marble. I look upon
the crowd and feel the hate of my color, my rich
foreign history tearing their land, their culture,
their lives. And I weep. My understanding of my
place in their society makes me feel sad, and try to
understand their hatred. I am conscious as I
constrict myself, my trust, feeling confused. I have
no blame. Only patience in the eye of the storm. And
I question the fathom of being human and the storm of
being human and the suffering of being human of which
this crazy world we live in.