Austere Rex Gamao is from Sagay City, Negros Occidental. His work has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Ilahas Literary Journal, Queer Southeast Asia: A Literary Journal of Transgressive Art, tractions: experiments in art writing, Transit: an Online Journal, Underblong, and Underwood Press. He was a fellow for the 14th Ateneo National Writers Workshop. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from De La Salle University.
Each plant blade bears an animal. All animals digested to sound Return, the mercy of water. The river next to the house does not acknowledge The spectacular corpse of the country. The accidental opening of— Knowing what a room looks like, The body pursues trespass.
I am by my window. Glass filled With shaking. No longer than any Violence. Do you understand a Factory when its workers fail As machinery? Anything can be A factory. A tree is a factory for Breath. I am a factory for decay. Not prone or sitting, I am Capable of remaining. Look at me. I see what color the outside is and My little failure worsens.
The crevices of the home explored in quarantine gives only humidity. The soft-bodied working from home electrifies the honeyed future. Horizon ruptures the present.
What vision calls?
Tyrants running everywhere. My god, don’t they get tired of their magnetism? Frequency of pain. Tune in to the radio. Farmers shot for quota. Shampoo commercial.
When I think future, I think of war sending out congratulatory e-mails confirming the missiles have plummeted in stocks, bunkers turned to kiosks. If I think future, the queer mind goes blank. The gay agenda posters litter the streets with propane misdemeanor. How’s my head? When I think future, I think of Covid-19 like I think of the Titanic. A wreckage with a movie, a list of names, of language pouring into itself and drowning. If I think future, the center of all things decides on a direction of an animal instance.
Each time the neighborhood Loses power we hear Modern shrieking, money Is a gender expression. You are gay because Your money doesn’t Open doors easily. Each time we lose Power, the land caves.
The roots of a building do Not wither for centuries even After the structure itself Comes to ruin. Eating One of these systems grants Diagrams of living. Form Fire as if it were cloth. My friends, we have many Abandonments. I am ready To report on the egos Of our crying killers: The rain takes On color, fattens the walls.
I would do anything to be a chair for produce. I would do anything to be a basket for apologetic intrusions. I would do anything to be a room for patience. I would do anything to be a response to hate crimes. I would do anything to be a salt-fenced boundary. I would do anything to be confident on all fours, a vessel for tender future.
The landscape moved in leaving its old residence in human debris. Once and for all, Maybe the familiar agony of the sky won’t alert authorities to farms Seeding discontent. We have undulated the foam to adapt to This new child growing green in the living room. Can the outside be too exuberant? No air Celebrates this restriction. Feel The body as more perishable. I wonder if time works Where we left it.
They thought
I couldn’t build
A house for what
I’ve envisioned what
Is lost. What is lost
The momentary flood
Of hope in the horizon.
Always seeking the body
That withstands waves
Of resentment and fear.
No cost to the present.
I call my old and new
Friends and tell them
The house is open.
