A poem for people I never knew, but watched as flies tickled their noses and bellies

Why were you there on November 23?

To the young girl of twenty four or twenty five:

The hem of your bright green panties peeps

on top of your yellow jeans

as men in black t-shirts pull you up,

desperately but carefully

as if you might tear too soon.

They are afraid their hearts will tear, too,

if you do.

But would you speak, please?

Who were you and why were you here?

Didn't you have a boyfriend waiting in the city?

Weren't you suppose to be wondering when he'd propose?

To the power lady at thirty five or forty-two:

Ma'am, your golden watch stayed still at the hour

when your rolled-up basic white long-sleeved shirt

ceased to be white.

Its buttons now burst open.

Same with the fly of your black, serious-looking jeans.

For sure, you looked a lot crisper the morning before,

while, perhaps, you turned on the TV to the local channel

as you prepared sinangag and eggs

for your husband and children.

But who were you, ma'am? And why were you here?

A can of sardines in the cupboard

was what probably your girl opened

for her father and brothers' dinner last night.

To the big fat lady who looks thirty five-ish:

It's a shame that your size 40 pants tattered

at the touch of shovels and hands,

and failed to cover your white, flawless butt

as men grasped you wherever they could.

Had you even dreamed of this scene?

Perhaps you did, just a weekend ago,

while you rolled in bed

reading a Tagalog romance novel

waiting for your maid to call you to dinner.

But who were you and why were you here?

You probably have nephews and nieces

who are waiting for you to send them their tuition fees.

To the sixty-something gentleman:

Sir, your kasimanwas felt shamed

to have to meet you in these circumstances.

They only have to look at the further receded hairline

on your clammy head,

and your famous name easily slid out of their mouths.

Words had spilled out of your mouth so easily back then-

which was probably only two days ago,

when you sat in a soundproof studio

on top of a tower somewhere in the city,

grasping the microphone with your powerful hands.

Now your hands are still powerful, grasping air with resolute stillness.

We know who you were, but why,

your estranged, now deranged, wife asks, why were you here?

There's a new scoop, and you could have been the one airing it.

Instead, that newly hired reporter would be the one,

and he'd look uneasy, sitting in your place.

To the good looking twenty-nine or thirty-two year old guy:

Damn!

If you still could, you could have sued them

for humiliating you this way--

your surfboard abs are no more

thanks to the bacteria that gave off gases inside you,

making your stomach balloon.

And now your Levis and your silk boxers has come off,

but thank God he gave you an enormous gift.

Your wife and your girlfriend will surely miss it,

especially since your editor has sent you to this place last week,

and you haven't phoned either of them.

You actually could have.

Your Blackberry is still in your pocket.

But you forgot about it when you started pissing in your pants.

Like that old man, we have an idea who you are.

But why, oh, ladies man of the papers, why were you here?

Why were you all here?

Did God tell you to go here?

Did He send you here?

What for?

Was it for you to hear the chorused voices of friends and strangers and gunfire?

Or to breathe the metallic smell of blood?

Or was it to feel the cold caress of a backhoe?

We could maybe feel better

if God brought you here to feel the warm embrace of the earth.

*Sometimes you have to see to feel. But when what you see is too much, it numbs the senses. The illegal DVD I have recently watched is a CSI episode's opening part multiplied several times. If it was not real, if it was a movie, it would be boring. But then, this is real. The sight of distorted corpses with their distended bellies and bleeding noses and burst heads and bulging eyes and flaked-off skin numbs me, yes. But think: These people used to have lives. They used to spend time with their families, go to work, attend a meeting, go to school, check their Friendster and Facebook, forward text quotes.Now they are no more. Thanks to those assholes that rule the place as if they are gods. May God bless these poor people's souls. And may He not show mercy to the souls of their murderers.