suicide by hitmen

Colombian priests hired hit men to kill themselves

Two priests in Colombia hired hit men to kill themselves after discovering they had contracted aids, a court has heard.


Reverend Rafael Reatiga asked his parishioners to pray for him and gave the choirmaster a list of songs for his funeral shortly before he was found shot to death together with another Roman Catholic priest, a Colombian prosecutor said on Tuesday.

Authorities initially suspected robbery when Reatiga’s body was found along with that of Rev Richard Piffano, 37, in a car in southern Bogota on Jan. 27, 2011.

But on Tuesday prosecutor Ana Patricia Larrota said investigators had determined that it was suicide by hit men in the year-old case: the two priests having hired gunmen to kill themselves after Rev Reatiga discovered he had aids.

gil puyat

Suave is your curly hair pushed back
The glasses in your eyes glistening
The jaws that define your virility
The ticklish coarseness
Of your three-day-old stubble
The pearl of sweat trickling
Patiently down your neck
Dotting your forehead
As the midday heat scorch upon
The ruckus of the workforce

Suave is your soft side-glance
Your faint
Smile

run up to 2012

From Thought Catalog. My own thoughts interspersed.

Before you status update, Tweet, (Tumblr) or Instagram, pause and say to yourself, “is it entirely necessary that I share this morsel of thought with my entire social network?”and if the answer is not, “yes, I absolutely must,” then step away from the Internet. I don't have Twitter or Instagram, and will never have one in light years to come. My problem with this 140-worded (Is it 140? See I'm not sure.) platform is it decimates your entire thought process to one-liners, which could be the needed germs for a long post. Add to that, the closest of my friends do not have Twitter and we thrive on—still—emails. Tumblr has already made me succumbed to microblogging, which is not altogether vile, but there is a need, on a personal level, to shake that off. Instagram? Never mind.

nicotine love

It pains me to see how my life
Passes by
Burned to ashes
Slowly by threads and dried leaves
As the lips of a man
Suck my bottom
To take a breath
And puff a smoke to relax
His tensed fingers.

I nearly reached half
When comes a man in Ivy League
Enduring a spectacle
To the left
Took out a menthol.

Without word,
Without notice
A deep inhale—
Three seconds to four
The menthol touched my cinder,
my lip of wanton desire.

His lips of patience drought
Burned.
As I pass fire
Into his lifeless roll
Happy to be consumed
And to share a love divine.

And as I burn I see him
Release the shards of mint
To the visitor's lip
Turning to ashes
As I too turn without vain.

Down the corner
We burn
From our masters' hand
Who said nothing but smiles
From their eyes emanating
Like our flicker burning.

For love like mine
Is worth the wait.
Without question nor force
Despite the long delay
And the heaves and ho's
In perfect time
In a hopeless place.


Note: I don't smoke. I just find the metaphor fitting.

playback

The greatest explorer on this earth never takes voyages as long as those of the man who descends to the depth of his heart. (Julien Green)

I find my friends' wishlist utter funny because not one of them forgave "everlasting love" in their Christmas wants. Of course, it's quite a challenge for them because they're women and their ovaries have expiration dates. Some of them have already settled in secured relationships but the selected few—who are either in need of strangulation for the kind of blah relationships they are in or in need of plugging a cork on the mouths for the sighing and whining they always belt out—have never let a month without a bawl on Facebook about their star-crossed romances. If not having their boyfriends, my friends are already on the run in finding one. And I, well, I guess the park is too nice to hit a breakneck speed like that.

I've always thought that life is miserable without a partner. My folks have mentioned that life can get a little too sullen when you're aging and finding your space too spacious for yourself and a pooch. But just about that, I think space will work fine for me. Apart from circulating air that's good for the lungs, I needed a lot of "me-time" to think things over. I'm a sober thinker, that's an admission.

Pictures of some of my batchmates already fathers, some classmates cuddling their bundles of joy, sure do the world is creeping up from my back like a chill from Siberia, whispering to my ear that I'm not far from getting old and the twenties is the perfect time to at least go out there and search for your eternal penguin. But that's not just working for me.

And for that, despite the slew of lovelorn hopeless romantics surrouding me or the fairytales that almost all wanted, somehow, I think that even with the wintry chill that everyone uses to prop up an argument to have that someone to cuddle with—people have this knack of using your insecurity against you, eh?—I keep my cool with it.

ibsen's words

Rob the average man of his life-illusion, and you rob him of his happiness at the same stroke.

A video of a syringe withdrawing blood from an arm flashes on the TV screen. Somewhere at the back of my head, the finger of reality suddenly jumpstarted my switchboard. Then the video went on to resonate the voice of a man who testified that he has been doing "that" every three months since he's "jowa" is "positive." My instinct was right.

I checked what was on GMA News TV and as if by fate's design, the trailer for "Positibo" was showing. At the get go, it tugged my heartstrings. Without still knowing what the commercial was, I thought it is something proximate to me.

And so the sneek peek went on, the whole preview ended, and the ominous voice blasted from our speakers, "Positibo. Sabado ng 8:40 ng gabi sa Front Row. GMA News TV. Channel 11."

Tssss, that was all I said.

My mom, who was busying herself with a virtual deck of Spider Solitaire, glanced at the TV while the commercial was going on. If not for her curiosity and due respect, I would have flipped the channel midway through the trailer to Nickelodeon.

the pod

It’s a small world
Of familiar faces
That band of brothers
Whose briefs might’ve swaped
Already, among others,
When they sallied forth
Toward the tract
Of protrusions and depressions
One moment, or altogether
In some tiresome night
Or backdoor rendezvous
As rituals command
Hip thrusts and dislodging
During the chances of intervals
Veiled by the cloak of virtue

Never mind the saint
The chaste funambulist
Or the scarred
Who disfigured the mirror
And whence cavemen catch breath
Still afford to exclaim:
“Cheese!”
When a dry day ends
Turned them to bored lackeys
Among their company
So small, yet cramped
That virility slithers
Silent but intense
Along the cords
Of their names
And sinister secrets