Prosaic #1 in A Minor or Let Us Take A Break From Blabbing About Politics

I am broke but I managed to treat her to a classy resto where people are snob and they always pretend to overlook the magnificence of my hair. I’ll tell you first about my hair. The last time I have it cut, I was in 3rd year high school. Count. I must be taking masteral studies or, who knows, maybe law, should I went on with political science. Instead I took the road to misery, pursued a lifelong career in professional bumming. I guess that helped you picture where my hair reaches now. One final clue: it has grown more than half my height. No, don’t ask about my height. That’ll be too much. Did you know that I can solve the Rubik’s cube faster than you can tie your shoes? You bet. I date girls who believe that height isn’t so much a factor, and basketball, along with other sports is but a stupid invention. But I do not deny the fact that basketball players get laid the most (ask Wilt Chamberlain) and poets, well, among the least. Having only three free-throw points in my entire sex life where others dunk their ways in, I am a living testimony to that. What I mean with free-throw points is some unchallenged goals, some paid lays. But I paid the bills in a classy resto does not mean I paid the girl so I can have her banged after the date. That’s exactly the justification from Malacanang about the controversial cash gifts handed out to local politicians: it wasn’t any bribe, it was all charity. Similarly, I wasn’t after a piece of her ass, I just find it fitting to thank her for being patient with me. And it was her birthday too. Okay, let me be honest about this. I am dying to have someone beside me. Preferably a girl who doesn’t smoke, who doesn’t drink more than occasionally, who appreciates art, who can endure Ginsberg, Hitchcock and Prokofiev, who shares my disgust with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and her cohorts in Bastusang Pambansa (otherwise known as the Lower House), who is not afraid of growing old and getting uglier each day, who is not aware of her own beauty, who can love me even though I am not that loveable. The good news is, she seems to be all that. And she likes my works, she even pointed out, “the careful balancing of the scents and stenches of social realism in your verses makes them hypnotic, and more often explosive” as we finished our plates and some of the people suddenly turned their heads when we started our lengthy conversation about Sylvia Plath, the recently held barangay elections, terrorism, sleep and death. She was such a joy. The next time I’ll take her out for a date it’ll be under the naked sky, beneath the fullness of the moon. I will read to her some of my erotic works and she will love me, and she will kiss me, and she will bring back the humanity I have lost in the streets in my continuing crusade against the institutions. Dreaming, you can say I’m dreaming. When I think about something as beautiful as her on a wedding gown or in the nude lying on my bed, I can’t help but reflect about my hair. How far have I gone? And I realized that all I have become is a glittering failure undeserving a shared life with a cultured, accomplished, artistic, beautiful human being like her. But whenever I read poetry, I always see some hope.