Tumbang Preso

  I don’t know what is the last book that Adrienne Rich wrote and I wonder if she died because she stopped writing books? To this time I st...

    I do not write loneliness. I do not write poems. Not with the directness of the sun in a desert. Not with their sc...

Thanks to cable TV, the internet, overseas work and the growing affordability of travel, gayness in the Philippines is being reconstruc...

I have not even read my second book for this year. Susan Sontag waits. And Willa Cather’s Song of the Lark. And The Second Plowing. And a ...

There would be days when I feel heathen, friendless, like Cain driven out of Eden to the edge of the earth, eschewed from the company of me...

Of course I feel schizophrenic. My body here my heart there. Always craving, craving hungering for a life you cannot call forth and hol...

I feel out of place. Don't you? I blame it on the gentrification of the struggle. But then my friends the real activists will say, Wh...