Ronaldo Jose Morelos
Born January 1962, Manila



life

death

whatever


CONTENTS

Writer's Tale

Reserve

Testimony of a Dying Man

Two by Seventeen Syllables

A Manifesto

Hypertext Love Poem #52167



Writer's Tale

A writer wanted to write a tale.
But the writer had to live that tale first
before any writing could be done.
The tale consisted of a path.
The path consisted of a variety of
grounds and conditions, and an unknown
number of obstacles, in a series with no
particular logic. At the end of the path,
the writer knew, there would be a garden.
Where fruit trees bore offerings to creation.
Where clear water flowed over rocks
unmoved in centuries.
Where giant ancient trees housed noble spirits.
Where, perhaps, happiness could be found
each day, and labour was generously rewarded.
To get to this place, the writer must first guide
the protagonist of the tale through
struggles, gambles, defeats, victories,
the range of emotions and all necessary
preparations for what is to come.
But WHAT is that?
The writer thought that the tests
and exercises were meant to take the protagonist
to the place where the lessons learnt
would then be applied, for the good of all.
Was it not that type of journey, perhaps?
Perhaps the journey had no end.
Perhaps the garden only opened up to a new path.
Unlike but alike the previous one.
What then? Can there be any resolution?
Can there be any point to a build-up
and a climax? When all that awaits
the protagonist is more struggle.
More defeats and victories.
More uncertainty.
What sense is there to the search
for happiness? When happiness is
but another gate unto another path.
Another series of obstacles.
Another game where one could come out
winner or loser.
Why?
The writer guessed that these questions were only
relevant in that they were the first stages
of the journey. The stage that comes
before decision. And the stages that come after doubt.
That writer thought that there was a choice
that had to be made. To either live the tale
or create it in some other form so that
it could be told, shared in that way.
The writer wanted to do both.

RJMorelos 1994


Reserve

A supreme court ruling

gave us a clue

that all was not well.

So we ran.

So we held unto

the torch

that burns through many.

And we fired unto the promised land.

Freehold land.

Crown land.

Our land.

What is the difference?

A legal title

on my soul.

RJMorelos 1996


Testimony of a Dying Man

A room, bare except for a table, a small fridge and a video camera set up ready to record. A man enters wiping his face and hands with a towel, bracing himself. He removes a handgun from a hidden holster in his lower back and places it on the table. He removes a small plastic bag from his pocket, a credit card and a cash note from another pocket. He takes out some white powder from the bag, spills it on the surface of the table and forms it into a line with the credit card. He rolls the note tight, puts it in one nostril and leans down to take a clean, swift snort. For a moment he is still, then he gets up from the table, looks into the eyepiece of the camera, adjusts the zoom a fraction, then walks over to the fridge to take out a bottle of vodka from the freezer and a glass from the top of the fridge. He goes back to the table, on the way he switches the video camera on record, its red light comes on to confirm its business. He sits back in his chair, pours a drink and snaps it down clean and neat. He stares into the camera.

He coughs and laughs in a deathly fashion.

The man has finished talking. Eventually the tape finishes. The camera switches itself off.

There is a pounding at the door. One, two, three, then four. The door bursts open. Four armed men storm in, striking a pose and ready to fire. The man smiles, and puts his hand to his gun to pick it up.

In another apartment, in another building, in another street, a couple sleep. The sound of gunfire, many shots, far away, then silence. The man has woken up, the women is just beginning to wake.

The woman sleeps. The man's eyes are open, listening, waiting. They close. He sleeps.

RJMorelos 1994


Two by Seventeen Syllables


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Memory runs away

The candle burns

Grandmother sits by my side


Centre for Policy

Research into war

Recent controversies

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RJMorelos 1996


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I BELIEVE
I AM A
NEO-HUMANIST
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a
symbol
of
my
adoration

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I was watching this flamenco dancer last night
doing her stuff
and I thought
how could I get
you to do that

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I could smell your perfume scent on her
and then I realized it was you
it was
you all along
proud and strong and full of compassion
and passion

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I do not know how much more of this I can take
every day every night every day every night every
time like the last time
was
the first time

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Where do
you go?
When the sun goes down?

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leave me as if nothing mattered
because I would do the same for
you
cry me tears you cry we
coulda been the hottest thing
since supernova
and the big bang theory

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you and me
go naked
anytime

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in
any genre.

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I want you
but I cannot have
you

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I need
you
like I need oxygen

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I want you
badly
I want
you

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I like you
let's play
hide and seek
touch the sky
chess or chequers
hop skip and
jump

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I trust you
a lot

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catch me

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I am near you
all day long
I am near
you

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RJMorelos 1992




Ronaldo Jose Morelos<BR>
Born 11 January 1962, Manila



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