Friday, May 17, 2013

messages from the deep

Weeks back, I woke to a strange dream. Well, not necessarily. I roused from sleep since my bladder commanded me to flush out its content. All that I had transported to the real world was the dream.

It’s debatable. Anyone drinking efavirenz will surely recognize that vivid dreams run rampant as it is a side effect. But does efavirenz direct the dreams we manufacture in the dead of the night? I beg to differ. This dream isn't that vivid as well. It carries though metaphysical symbols that I know I have to unravel to take the meaning out of its sugarcoated layer.

I’m lying in bed in a dark, bluish room. (As in the nature of dreams, scenes could be very outlandish.) The room isn't painted blue. We've all experienced those fiery red sunsets once in a while, right? Right. It’s like that. But, the rays of the sun falling on the room are blue and a heavy curtain seems to block off much of the sunlight, that it’s both dark and bluish.

I’m in the bed but I’m wide awake. To my right, I see my hand maneuvering and arranging old, worn-out, dilapidated toys, whose paint has already peeled off due to age. I'm sitting them beside each other as one would do when he’s done playing his toys. The scene kept on repeating: the same toys, the same set, but the toys become more and more brand new as one repetition rewinds and plays again.

Then, the john called. I wanted to write down on a sheet of paper “toys” to remind myself about it but I was still groggy. Then again, the scene is so striking I knew I could recall it again even if the Sandman is still dragging me back to his lair.

I took to Google what it could be and it returned a result, and I quote:

To see or play with broken toys in your dream suggest that you are trying to make the best out of a negative situation.  (Source:

What luck! I never thought that my subconscious could point me to definitive point of my life. For starters, living with HIV isn't something that's all fancy. But I guess, with the droppings of heaven, divine interventions, and untiring prayers lifted to Padre Pio, I guess I'm being told to push on and turn the tables in my favor in spite of this—let’s give it to them as they won't understand us—damned life.

Moons back, I dreamt of someone cutting my hair. Again, I relied on Google (what authority!) to shed light on the otherwise metaphorical message. I quote once more:

If you dream your hair is being cut by someone else it is likely you are only now formulating what it is you need to do, what actions need to be taken, and you are still in the process of coming to terms with the change that needs to be made. (Source:

I'll be stingy with details. For now, the waiting is yet to be over, but the light is coming in no matter how heavy the curtain is.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

joseon's son

Sweat trickles across
your forehead
and the map at your back
reached the borders
of your sinewy column.

One step, two paces,
gray shirt, Sir.
Your powdery scent wafts.
Your eyeglasses—
Inebriating stranger.

To the Korean guy inside the gym who is physically alluring in 5-3-6-4-7 metered lines. I've had this on draft since January, I think, a month before I stopped gym. There is a bigger, more purposeful road ahead. Poetry will not be abandoned though; he's my lifelong inamorato, the third of the ménage à trois.

untitled #0505

This is a new feat. Deep in the middle of the night, during the ticking of wee hours, I wrote a decent poetry even if efavirenz is raping my nervous system. I feel drunk. I feel woozy. I feel high; but the words flow like tap.

No, not like tap. I still have to search for them. But searching for the words does not take long as I can feel them rough on my fingertips. With eyes closed, the words palpitate and jump into syllabicated thoughts. Syllabicated thoughts stacked into one verse. A verse rested on another. Until the thought came full circle, interwoven.

Efavirenz is screwing my head better than alcohol does. Well, I don't drink too much alcohol in the first place. I've never thought that that chrome-colored pill would commandeer Lady Muse and order her to sit in front of me as I write. I have to stop. I am talking gibberish. This is midnight madness.

P.S. Kids, don't try this at home.

Thinking about it the morning after, I think if you should try it, kids, do it in the comforts of your home.