"Caffeine-laced or Jaäger-driven"

"Caffeine-laced or Jäger-driven"

These set of poems is a set of exploration of thought, hesitation, and the burden of expression, caught between the sharp clarity of caffeine-fueled introspection and the uninhibited honesty of Jägermeister-driven confessions. The poems reflect the struggle of articulating emotions—whether through poetry, sketches, or music—only to face misunderstanding, dismissal, or silence. 

  

Blending the reflective resignation of jisei with the melancholic melody of maqām, the collection captures the tension between wanting to be heard and fearing the consequences of speaking. The recurring motifs of unspoken words, creative vulnerability, and the contrast between overthinking and reckless candor create an atmosphere of quiet conflict. 

At its core, these poems is a meditation on the weight of words—those spoken too soon, those misread, and those left unsaid—caught in the fragile space between clarity and intoxication, between confession and regret.

Fading Ink, Unheard Melodies

The ink fades before the brush can rest,
words wither in silence, unborn verses swept to the tide.
Autumn winds carry their sorrow, yet no branch protests—
some truths should remain unsaid, 

like footprints swallowed by the rising sea.

O river, keeper of stories untold,
where do the lost whispers go?
Do they slip between the reeds
or slumber beneath the moon’s silver hush?

The tune plays in the key of dusk,
a melody stitched with the gold of longing,
low notes cradling exile’s breath,
rising like incense from an unseen flame.

I have watched the sun die a thousand deaths,
its light bleeding upon the sea’s black shroud,
only to return, unwelcome, untouched—
as if night’s silence had never swallowed it whole.

I have traced my name upon glass,
watched it vanish with the breath of the wind.
So too, shall I vanish, and what shall remain?
Only the scent of ink, a memory without a voice.

I have walked the paths of sand and stone,
where echoes of old prayers curl around abandoned shrines,
where names are mere whispers on the tongues of ghosts—
but silence lingers longer than any spoken vow.

My tongue, a prisoner of wisdom’s fear,
halts before the final confession,
for silence, too, is a prayer—
a secret carved in the bones of time.

If I spoke, would the stars tremble?
Would the mountains forget their names?
Would love itself unravel, thread by thread,
until nothing remained but dust and echo?

The call to prayer drifts over distant hills,
yet I do not rise, I do not bow,
for the holiest of words are those left unsung,
scattered among the dunes like lost verses of the wind.

So let the final stroke be unseen,
let my story end in the hush of an unfinished line.
For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—
some rather end sketched, where ink is but a shadow of the soul.

Did I say wrong?

Did I say wrong?

Did the weight of my breath crack the stillness,

or did silence, too, betray me?

A feather drifts upon the river’s back—

the current swallows, but the sky does not mourn.

Sometimes, fear outweighs the truth of words.

A blade held too long rusts in the hand,

yet the wound it might have carved

still lingers in the spaces between—

a cut without a scar, a wound without blood.

The tune hums in the hollow of my ribs,

a melody threading through my bones,

rising and falling like prayers unsaid,

like ink that dries before it meets the page.

There was a moment—a breath, a pause—

where truth stood waiting at my lips,

but I swallowed it whole,

and in the silence,

I wondered if honesty was ever mine to speak.

The sparrow does not ask why the wind calls it home,

nor does the river question the thirst it quenches.

Yet I, frail as dust, hesitate before the hour’s edge,

knowing that a word spoken too late

is as silent as one never spoken at all.

Let the night carry what I could not say.

Let the ink remain unspilled.

For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—

some rather end sketched,

half-formed in the hush of an unfinished song.

Over Coffee, Over Liquor, What’s Next?

Over coffee, I spoke in half-truths,
words swirling like steam,
vanishing before they could burn the tongue.
Morning light spilled across the table—
a fleeting mercy, a silent witness.

Over liquor, my lips loosened,
yet the night swallowed my confessions whole.
The glass, warm in my trembling grasp,
knew more of me than I dared to say.

What’s next?
Another dawn? Another dusk?
Another moment stretched between silence and song?
The melodies hums low in my chest,
a tune steeped in regret,
rising, only to fade.

The ink has dried, the letters remain unwritten.
Would they have changed anything?
Would they have stilled the trembling hands,
or only carved the weight deeper?

I have measured life in sips and gulps,
bitter or burning, but never enough—
always seeking, never finding,
until the cup runs empty,
until the bottle holds only air.

So what’s next?
A whisper? A sigh?
A name left unsaid? A road left untaken?
Let the final note linger unheard,
let the last word remain unsung.

For sometimes, there are truths
not meant to be spoken—
some rather end sketched,
half-faded, beneath the weight of silence.

“Why Me?”

She may have heard my words, found them strange,

misread their rhythm, though carefully arranged.

Be it a poem, a sketch, a well-tuned song,

she cast them aside, as if weirdness doesn’t belong.

I spoke in ink, in strokes, in notes—

offered my thoughts like a bird in flight,

yet she turned away, dismissing the weight,

as if my voice was a shadow of the night.

Sometimes I’d rather say sorry, just to dismiss the worry,

just to silence the sighs and the questions that tarry.

Not because I faltered, nor lacked my place,

but because my words felt wasted in space.

Sketch, poem, the fire that churns on,

from my mind, caffeine-fueled or a Jägermeister strong.

Spilled thoughts, scattered lines,

burning through me, yet fading in time.

And so, I hesitate—

not because my words lack fire,

but because her silence extinguishes them

before they ever touch the pyre.

I’m sorry if I spoke, if I dared to say,

rather than be dismissed until the break of day.

Better silence than scorn, better absence than hate,

unless she asked me, “Why me?”

Of all in this goddamned place.

Would she ask, would she care,

or let my echoes vanish into thin air?

For sometimes, there are words not meant to be said—

some rather end sketched, unseen, unsaid,

fading beneath the weight of silence instead.

Their masks have fallen- when fake news churners stand exposed

Their masks have fallen- when fake news churners stand exposed

For years, the architects of deception ruled the digital sphere with impunity. They fashioned themselves as truth-tellers, as champions of the people, as warriors against the so-called “biased media.” They manufactured their lies, spread them like a plague, and drowned the truth beneath a flood of distortion. They were useful instruments of a regime that thrived on falsehoods, the civilian foot soldiers of psychological warfare.

Now, dragged before the House of Representatives- facing the Tri Committee lead by heads representing matters on Public Order and Safety, on Information and Communications Technology, and on Public Information, their masquerade has crumbled. The solons—unyielding, relentless—exposed them in broad daylight. Their lies, their distortions, their fabrications were laid bare. With trembling voices and downcast eyes, they issued their meager apologies, hoping for absolution.

Facing the music

The influencers had initially declined to participate, asserting that the inquiry infringed upon their right to free speech. In their petition to the Supreme Court weeks past, they argued that the congressional investigation was both unconstitutional and unjustly singled out individuals who expressed political views in support of former President Rodrigo Duterte.

But to see vloggers like Krizette Laureta Chu and Mary Jane "MJ" Quiambao-Reyes, once fierce defenders of the Duterte regime, wept before the tri-committee, claiming their outrageous falsehoods were merely “opinions.” A pitiful spectacle! What they once spewed with confidence, they now disown with cowardice. Where was their bravado when they slandered the dead, when they twisted reality to shield their master?

Others spoke of regulation. Richard Mata, a so-called health vlogger, suggested a “neutral body” to oversee vloggers, an idea akin to the Kapisanan ng mga Brodkaster ng Pilipinas (KBP). How rich! They speak now of ethics and accountability, yet they never followed any such principles when they gleefully joined the machinery of deceit.

Nevertheless, these vloggers, particularly Cruz-Angeles and Chu, defended their online content, maintaining that their posts remained within the bounds of free speech. Similarly, Lopez and Mata asserted that their platforms were intended as spaces for political discourse, not as vehicles for spreading misinformation.

However, their assertions do not negate the troubling reality of their actions straying far from their purported purpose. “If lies dominate the feed, even well-intentioned citizens may find themselves misled, manipulated, or misinformed,” Rep. Jude Acidre warned, expressing deep concern over the widespread presence of false information on social media. He pointed out that blatant lies and fake news now overshadow the truth in the social media feeds of many Filipinos.

Acidre also highlighted the psychological consequences of repeated falsehoods, stating, “Modern psychologists call it the ‘illusion of truth’ effect: when people hear something over and over again—whether it’s true or not—they begin to believe it.”

But among them were those who would not dare appear—those too arrogant, too exposed to even face their reckoning. Sass Rogando Sasot, one of the most virulent propagandists of the past administration, chose to flee rather than answer for her crimes against truth. She dismissed the hearings as a “kangaroo court.” What else could she say? Confronted with the weight of her own fabrications, what defense remained but to slither away and hurl insults from a distance?

Why changing the tune? Cry after facing evidence?

Under the unrelenting scrutiny of the solons, their bravado crumbled into pathetic whimpers. 

When amongst the solons in the Tri Committee, Manila 6th District Representative Benny Abante struck at the heart of their lies, exposing them for what they truly are—agents of deception, peddlers of misinformation, with Chu and Quiambao-Reyes as examples. 

Krizette Laureta Chu, once a loud and proud defender of the past administration, was forced to admit that she had no proof when questioned about her post claiming that police and military personnel were resigning en masse following the hypothetical arrest of former President Rodrigo Duterte by the International Criminal Court (ICC). She had based her claims on nothing but whispers from the cesspool of social media.

Abante then pressed further. What about her claim that lawmakers were sending their children to Europe for schooling? Who were these lawmakers? Where was her evidence? Chu had none. Confronted with her own lies, she was left stammering. The legislator, feeling insulted, demanded an apology. And Chu promptly complied—like a frightened child caught in the act.

But the spectacle was not over. Abante turned his focus to vlogger MJ Quiambao-Reyes, who had claimed that reports of deaths in Duterte’s drug war were a “massive hoax.” The lawmaker did not let this disgraceful falsehood stand. He reminded her that the Commission on Human Rights (CHR) and the House Quad Committee had records proving the extent of the killings—records that no amount of vlogger spin could erase.

The weight of the truth crushed her. Reyes broke down in tears. Like Chu, she, too, was forced to apologize. But were these apologies sincere? No—they were the sobs of cornered liars, not of remorseful souls. 

Not surprised that with the grilling people like Sasot, Celiz, and Badoy didn't join in and downplay the entire proceedings as a "kangaroo court". 

The Civilianization of Psychological Warfare

What the house inquiry exposes was not just individual deception but an example of what may call a civilianization of psychological warfare- a deliberate and systematic effort to manufacture reality. These so-called "influencers" were not innocent actors caught in the chaos of social media; they served as one of the contributors, if not vanguards of a disinformation campaign, working to blur the lines between truth and fiction, turning into viral content. 

Make no mistake—these individuals were not mere “content creators.” They were combatants in a war of the mind, waging psychological operations against their own people. For years they attacked mainstream media outlets, journalists, human rights defenders, and dismissed the victims of state violence as fabricated statistics. They turned lies into national narratives, justifying the past administration's rule by flooding the digital space with distortions and denials. Their mission was clear: to turn the state’s crimes into virtue, to make truth indistinguishable from lies, to condition the masses into submission. They attacked journalists, demonized dissenters, and wove grand myths to justify the bloodstained legacy of their patron.

Now, when they stand exposed, faced with evidence, they scramble to redefine themselves. They beg for understanding, claiming ignorance, pretending they, too, were misled. Lies! They knew exactly what they were doing. Every slander they uttered, every falsehood they shared, was a deliberate weapon—and they wielded it without remorse.

Should they be forgiven for the lies? Tears will not save them

But now the tide has turned. Their dominion is collapsing, their influence eroding. No more shall they reign unchallenged. No more shall they twist the narrative without resistance. They weep, they beg, they run—but their time has come.

Tears will not wash away their crimes. Apologies will not undo the damage they have done. Their defense of the past administration was never about truth, only about power—copium for those who cannot accept that the world has moved forward without them.

But history will remember them not as truth-tellers, not as brave warriors, but as conspirators in the greatest deceit of our time. Their names shall be written in shame, and their cowardice shall be their epitaph.

The masquerade is over. The people see them for what they truly are. And there shall be no redemption. 

The Culinary Capital Debate: A National Identity Beyond Titles

The Culinary Capital Debate: A National Identity Beyond Titles

The recent veto of the bill to declare Pampanga the Culinary Capital of the Philippines has sparked a much-needed debate about the true essence of Filipino cuisine. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. rejected the bill, not because he sought to diminish Pampanga’s culinary heritage, but to prevent the dangerous precedent of reducing the nation’s diverse food culture to a singular regional identity. In this case, his decision may have been exactly what the country needed. 

One might ask: does a nation’s food truly depend on one region? The declaration of Pampanga as the “Culinary Capital” creates the impression that the foundation of Filipino cuisine lies solely in this province. But what does that mean for the rest of the country? What about the culinary traditions of Ilocos, the Tagalog region, the Visayas, or Mindanao, each of which offers a unique contribution to the richness of Filipino food culture? Just as China’s cuisine, renowned worldwide for its vast diversity, cannot be defined by the standards of one province, Filipino cuisine should not be reduced to one region’s flavor. 

China’s culinary heritage features eight prominent regional traditions, including Sichuan, Cantonese, and Shandong, each with its own distinct flavors, ingredients, and cooking methods. A declaration that only one of these traditions represents the “culinary capital” of the country would ignore the richness of the others. In the same way, Filipino cuisine is a patchwork of diverse regional dishes—from the sinigang of the Tagalog region to the laing of Bicol and the seafood feasts of Mindanao. Every province has its own unique contribution, and each should be celebrated equally. 

This debate also mirrors another ongoing discussion in Filipino food culture: the question of the “best” adobo. There is no definitive answer because each household, each region, has its own version of the dish. Some prefer it sour, others sweet; some enjoy it with coconut milk, others without. There is no universal standard, and that is what makes Filipino cuisine so unique and personal. Imposing a single version of any dish or even declaring one region as the pinnacle of Filipino food disregards this diversity. 

The issue with declaring a culinary capital is not just the lack of historical context or a comprehensive study to back it up; it is the potential for it to undermine the contributions of other regions. Elevating Pampanga above all other provinces risks overshadowing the uniqueness of other culinary traditions. It could create unnecessary competition, exclusion, and division within the country. Filipino food is not a contest; it is a shared experience, and no one region should claim superiority over the others. 

Perhaps the most important question to ask is: Does the designation of a culinary capital even matter? In a country as diverse as the Philippines, one region cannot possibly represent all that Filipino cuisine encompasses. Food culture is a collective experience that spans across the nation, and there is no need to pit one region against another for a title. 

More crucially, such titles do not address the real problems that many Filipinos face, such as hunger and poverty. No amount of culinary recognition will solve the pressing issues of food insecurity in the country. Rather than focusing on competitive titles, energy and resources should be channeled into sustainable policies that address these fundamental issues, supporting local food systems and uplifting communities. As Chef Jam Melchor wisely stated, the focus should be on ensuring a “stronger, more sustainable future for Filipino food.” 

Filipino cuisine is not about titles or accolades; it is about shared history, innovation, and regional pride. The real strength of Filipino food lies in its diversity, and it is this diversity that should be celebrated. The government should focus on policies that promote sustainability, support local farmers and chefs, and elevate Filipino food in a way that acknowledges and respects all regions equally. 

While the veto may have been a setback for Pampanga’s claim, it ultimately serves as an opportunity for the country to reassess its approach to Filipino cuisine. Rather than pursuing empty titles, the Philippines should focus on preserving and celebrating its culinary heritage in a way that honors all regions. After all, Filipino food is not defined by one province—it is a tapestry woven from every corner of the archipelago. 

"When Faith Must Not Be Used as a Tool by some Interests"

"When Faith Must Not Be Used as a Tool by some Interests"

In the encyclical Mit Brennender Sorge, Pope Pius XI warned against the dangers of distorting religion to serve political ends. Though written in response to the totalitarianism of the 1930s, its warning remains relevant today:

 “He who distorts religious truth to serve his own interests corrupts the faith and abuses the trust of the people.” 

This is precisely the danger people face when seeing the Holy Mass being misrepresented as a rallying point for the political rehabilitation of former President Rodrigo Duterte. Recently, the Archdiocese of Cagayan de Oro had to issue a formal clarification in response to claims that the Cathedral was holding a special daily Mass for Duterte’s health and return to the Philippines. This assertion was false, but it raises a deeper question: how did the Eucharist—a sacrament of unity, mercy, and divine love—become associated with a figure who once called God “stupid” and waged a war on human dignity? 

Faith Cannot Be Used as a Political Shield 

Duterte has a long history of antagonism toward the Church. He has mocked priests, bishops, and even the very idea of God. He publicly called God “stupid,” insulted the Virgin Mary, and dismissed Catholic doctrines as foolishness. He even incited violence against clergy members, once telling his followers that they should “rob and kill” bishops. 

Yet, today, people see his supporters invoking the Church’s name, using Mass attendance as a political spectacle. While the Holy Mass is indeed for all, it is not an instrument for political propaganda. The Lord Himself made it clear:

 “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7). 

It is not a stage for political rehabilitation. It is not a rally ground for those seeking to evade accountability. 

The Mass is the central act of worship in the Catholic faith. It is where the faithful encounter the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. To use it as a tool for political manipulation is to profane what is sacred. St. Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 11:27: 

“Whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.” 

False Devotion is Not Repentance 

Some may argue that those who now seek the Church’s blessings are merely returning to the faith. But true repentance requires humility, not public displays of religiosity for political survival. The prodigal son did not demand that his father’s house celebrate him while he still wallowed in his pride—he returned in genuine humility (Luke 15:18-19). 

Genuine reconciliation with the Church does not begin with public relations stunts. It begins with an acknowledgment of past wrongs and a sincere effort to make amends. Duterte’s administration is responsible for thousands of deaths in a bloody drug war that often targeted the poor while sparing the powerful. Until there is real accountability for these actions, the attempt to drape his image in the Church’s sacred garments remains an insult to the Gospel itself. 

Pope Pius XI’s Mit Brennender Sorge also warned against leaders who co-opt religious language while violating its deepest moral imperatives: 

“None but superficial minds can stumble into error on the score of the difference between genuine religious faith and the counterfeit coinage of religious semblance. He who seeks to separate faith from morality abuses religion.”

 A person who once dismissed the faith as useless cannot suddenly claim its protection when convenient. Faith is not a tool to be picked up when needed and discarded when it no longer serves one’s interests. 

The Church Stands for Truth, Not Power 

The Church has always been clear: she prays for all, but she does not endorse wrongdoing. As the encyclical Veritas in Caritate rightly emphasizes, the Church is a mother to all but will not allow herself to be used as a political shield. She stands with the oppressed, the victims of violence, and those who seek justice. 

Canon Law (Canon 1368) warns against inciting hatred against the Church, and Duterte’s history of threats against priests falls squarely into this category. His supporters’ sudden appeals to Catholic faith are not signs of spiritual awakening but calculated attempts to rewrite history. The Church must not fall for this deception. 

Jesus warned about those who say “Lord, Lord” while refusing to follow His teachings: 

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 7:21). 

Duterte and his followers may now seek the Church’s presence, but without genuine conversion, their actions remain hollow. The Church cannot be blind to the danger of lending moral credibility to someone whose rule was marked by cruelty, corruption, and contempt for the very faith he now seeks to invoke. 

A Call for True Discernment 

As the Lenten season reminds us, true faith demands self-examination. The faithful must ask themselves: "Are we being manipulated? Are we allowing the sacred to be reduced to a political tool? Are we upholding the integrity of our faith, or are the people complicit in its distortion?"

bet those who justify will still banner the words peace and reconciliation without addressing the need for justice. Otherwise people, including those from the clergy treat faith as a spiritual matter and disregard the social teaching as a matter of charity. 

The Mass belongs to no political figure. It belongs to Christ. Those who seek to exploit it for their own ends must remember that faith is not a shield from judgment—it is a call to accountability. Let this moment serve as a call for greater discernment among the faithful. Who truly upholds the values of the Gospel? Who seeks the good of the people rather than their own interests? Who treats human life with reverence rather than as a disposable commodity? These are the questions one must ask, and the answers will guide toward a future of genuine peace and reconciliation. 

May the words of St. Augustine guide those with concern:

“Peace should be your goal; war should only be a necessity.” 

And may his wisdom inspire toward true reconciliation and harmony. 

May the Church remain steadfast in her mission to proclaim truth, reject falsehood, and ensure that the sacred remains untarnished by the ambitions of this world. 

Veil of Friendship

Veil of Friendship

Perhaps, we are all

but strangers behind veils spun

of laughter and trust—

ghosts who wear each other’s names

until silence calls us home.

Did you know my heart,

or only the echoes cast

by my borrowed smile?

A river flows between us,

but we mistook it for land.

Tell me, O fleeting moon,

when the dawn takes back the stars,

will my name remain?

Or am I but drifting mist,

a sigh lost to breathless seas?

I have worn faces,

borrowed from love and longing,

from joy and sorrow—

a traveler draped in moments,

never still, never my own.

I have left nothing—

only footprints on soft sand,

a song half-sung low,

scattered words in dying light,

a shadow folding inward.

The wind takes my breath,

and in the hush of dusk’s prayer,

I hear the old songs.

Who was I before this face?

Who will I be after dawn?

No name will follow,

no tether of old embraces,

no step retraces—

only the hush of still seas,

only the sky’s endless breath.

O sky, take my weight,

let me rise as falling leaves

dancing without name.

No more veils, no more voices—

only wind, only silence.

So I walk weightless,

a ripple upon the stream,

a leaf in the wind,

falling toward the unseen shore,

where all names fade into one. 

"Notes and Rhymes left at Ralphs"

"Notes and Rhymes left at Ralphs"

This post is a collection of poems inspired by moments shared at Ralph’s Wines and Liquors, a place where conversations flow as freely as the drinks. The verses capture fleeting thoughts, heartfelt confessions, and poetic musings scribbled down between sips of wine and clinking glasses. Each poem reflects the ambiance of the space—its dim-lit intimacy, the camaraderie of strangers, and the unfiltered emotions that surface in the warmth of a well-poured drink. Whether contemplative, melancholic, or celebratory, these poems are remnants of nights spent in deep thought and lighthearted revelry, immortalizing the spirit of Ralph’s in ink.

Take Me to Ralph’s

In this time of trouble, take me to Ralph’s,
Where bottles gleam under fluorescent halts.
Wine, beer, and liquor lined up in rows,
Each with a story that only it knows.
Laughter spills near the warm asphalt,
Strangers and friends with glasses exalt.

Various brands from famous lands,
Whispering promises with outstretched hands.
French Bordeaux, rich and aged,
Or a smoky Scotch, bold and engaged.
Japanese Suntory, smooth as silk,
Or Italian Prosecco, light as milk.
Enticing labels, a buyer’s dream,
Expensive tastes in a golden gleam.

A few thousand for a Merlot’s grace,
Several more for Hennessy’s embrace.
Would it be foolish, would it be wise,
To spend for the comfort of midnight sighs?
To chase away this lonesome view,
In the depths of amber, in sips I pursue.

Some would say San Miguel is enough,
That Ginebra is divine, strong and tough.
A drink for the bold, the brave at heart,
A toast to beginnings, to ends, to starts.
A mug of Sapporo, crisp and light,
Will do for me on this weary night.

Take me to Ralph’s where the bottles gleam,
Where echoes of laughter fill my dream.
Where liquid gold in glasses sways,
And bittersweet thoughts melt away.
For in this time of trouble, just for a while,
Let me forget and drink with a smile. 

What If She Were Here?

How wishful I am that she were here for a glass,

Red or white, or even green—bittersweet for a lass.

A toast beneath the Makati night,

City lights flickering, burning bright.

As neon reflections dance on the street,

I wonder if here, our hands would meet.

A bottle uncorked, the stories flow,

Whispers of vineyards from lands I don’t know.

Möet for laughter, Carlo Rossi so sweet,

Henriot whispers where lovers once meet.

Jägermeister, bold and wild,

Suntory smooth, aged and styled.

Chivas Regal, golden and deep,

Jameson warming where secrets keep.

Singleton swirling, amber in hue,

Each sip a memory—one lost, one new.

Pardon my musings, alone at this table,

Trapped in a moment, both fragile and stable.

A mug of Sapporo, crisp and true,

Drowning echoes of a past we once knew.

The weight of a bottle, the scent of the air,

Would she have held it, with elegance rare?

Would she have smiled, with mischief or grace,

Letting the night paint dreams on her face?

Glasses clinking, laughter untamed,

Music alive, yet I feel unnamed.

For among these brands, these bottles and hues,

I find myself lost in thoughts of you.

If only you were here to drink and delight,

To wander with me through this Makati night.

If She Doesn’t Like Coffee

If she doesn’t like coffee, then what will suffice?
Perhaps a deep red merlot in the glow of dim lights,
Or a glass of cabernet sauvignon, rich, bold, and divine,
To wash down the troubles that weigh on her mind.
A mug of Sapporo, golden and true,
Letting the bubbles chase sorrow anew.
For in times of crisis, when moments feel hollow,
We drink to our lives, be it joy or sorrow.

She likes the way to hold a bottle, fingers tracing its shape,
A moment of silence, a slow sip to take.
Is it for comfort, for solace, for fun?
Or just for the weight of the glass in the sun?
A quiet distraction, a habit unspoken,
A drink half-forgotten, a thought left unbroken.

If she doesn’t like coffee, then maybe instead
A mug filled with warmth, where cocoa is spread.
With marshmallows floating, melting so slow,
A comfort she holds when the cold winds blow.
Or perhaps a fine tea, a delicate art,
Earl Grey with bergamot, awakening the heart.
Oolong, so fragrant, with whispers of leaves,
Or chamomile’s softness, like silk in the breeze.

Yet I wonder aloud, as I gaze at the frame,
A picture of her with a mug in her name.
What secret it holds, dark liquid inside,
Is it coffee or something she’s chosen to hide?
Not water, not cocoa, not tea, yet it lingers,
A mystery cradled between her small fingers.
If she doesn’t like coffee, then what could it be?
A drink of her choosing—uncharted, unseen.

A Sip of Margarita

A sip of summer,

salted rim against my lips,

bitter, sweet, and bright—

a moment held on my tongue,

melting before I can breathe.

O fleeting sunset,

will the sea remember me

when my glass runs dry?

Or am I just passing foam,

a wave swallowed by the tide?

Laughter drifts away,

ghosts clink glasses in the dusk,

shadows on the sand.

Did I drink or was I drunk,

was I here or was I gone?

Lime lingers, fading—

like voices, like warm embraces,

like names on the shore.

No more thirst, no more longing,

only wind, only silence.

So I take my leave,

one last sip of golden light,

one last grain of salt,

falling toward the endless sea,

where all tides return as one.

Duterte’s Antics in the ICC: Is He Worth Salvageable?

Duterte’s Antics in the ICC: Is He Worth Salvageable?

For years, Rodrigo Duterte thrived on bravado. His image as the tough-talking, no-nonsense leader who could bend institutions to his will was central to his political brand. But now, facing the International Criminal Court (ICC), stripped of power and privilege, we see a different Duterte—one that appears frail, hesitant, and fearful. 

It is a stark contrast to the man who once boasted about ordering killings, cursed world leaders, and swore he would never be held accountable by an international body. His sudden frailty, his legal team’s desperate maneuvers, and the insistence that his transfer to ICC custody was akin to kidnapping all suggest an attempt to elicit sympathy. But the question remains: is this performance convincing? And more importantly, is it salvageable? 

Theatrics for a Domestic Audience 

Duterte’s legal team, led by former spokesperson Harry Roque, is making a predictable argument: that the Philippines’ withdrawal from the Rome Statute in 2019 nullifies the ICC’s jurisdiction. But the law is clear—under Article 127(2) of the Rome Statute, crimes committed while the Philippines was still a member (from 2011 to 2019) remain within the court’s purview. 

Legal experts know this. Duterte’s defenders know this. Even Duterte likely knows this. Yet, his allies persist, not necessarily because they believe they can win in court, but because they are appealing to a domestic audience. 

Duterte’s performances—his trembling hands, weak voice, and uncharacteristic silence—are not aimed at the ICC judges. European prosecutors do not care for theatrics; they care about evidence and procedure. The real audience is back home in the Philippines, where his supporters still cling to the myth of “Tatay Digong,” the fearless warrior against crime and corruption. 

Kyle Parada puts it succinctly: “Let’s get one thing clear, those theatrics weren’t for the ICC. It wasn’t for the ‘whites’ who care nothing about the country’s politics and have already made their judgment. No, Medialdea’s manifestation and the old man’s performance were for a more domestic audience.” 

The Myth of Fearlessness, Exposed 

For years, Duterte’s defenders have painted him as a man who fears nothing. He would, they claimed, slap ICC judges if they dared come after him. He would, they insisted, rather die than surrender. Yet, when the moment of reckoning arrived, Duterte did not slap anyone. He did not hurl expletives at the court. Instead, he looked visibly shaken, muttering in a feeble voice. 

As Carlo P. Carlon put it: “For the first time, we saw ‘Tatay Digs’ looking scared. His voice was trembling, and it seemed like his tongue shrank. The courage disappeared. I thought he would slap and kick the judges. But he just showed typical bully behavior—he backed down when faced with someone stronger.” 

“What you need to realize, DDS, is that the myth of your brave and fearless ‘Tatay’ is just that—a myth. His tough act was just a front, and he is actually a coward.” 

What we are witnessing is not just the fall of Duterte’s legal defense but the collapse of his entire public persona. The tough-guy image that once commanded fear and admiration is disintegrating before our eyes. Florin Hilbay captures it best: “With Rody’s deflated self in full display, the world witnessed the real person behind the persona.” 

The Limits of Political Theater 

Of course, we have seen this strategy before. From Ferdinand Marcos in his dying days to Joseph Estrada’s hospital visits during his plunder trial, Philippine politicians have long used physical weakness as a shield against accountability. The playbook is old: appear frail, claim mistreatment, and hope that public sentiment turns in your favor. 

But this time, it may not work. The ICC is not a local court susceptible to political pressure. It does not operate based on media narratives or popular opinion. Unlike Senate hearings or domestic trials where Duterte could grandstand, the ICC functions on rigorous legal processes that are immune to sentimental appeals. 

Moreover, as Iloilo Representative Janette Garin pointed out, Duterte’s allies are spreading misleading claims about his supposed mistreatment in custody. 

“I was really surprised when I saw the news yesterday, when the former executive secretary said that Duterte was not being given medicine or food, that he was very weak and needed to be brought to a hospital… and that he was allegedly missing,” Garin said. 

Having worked with the Dutch government, Garin dismissed these allegations outright. “I know that the ICC is a straightforward institution. When it comes to matters like health, they are very considerate.” 

She also suggested that Medialdea’s statements might be a deliberate ploy to stir public emotions. “It’s either one of two things,” she said. “Maybe he is not thinking straight because of his emotions… or it could be intentional, to ignite the emotions of the people.” 

Duterte’s Next Move: A Final Gambit? 

Duterte’s options are dwindling. The legal arguments against ICC jurisdiction have been exhausted. The claim that he is being mistreated has been debunked. His apparent frailty, while effective for short-term sympathy, will not halt the proceedings. 

So what is left? 

His final gambit is to turn this into a political battle rather than a legal one. By framing his ICC ordeal as a foreign attack on Philippine sovereignty, his camp hopes to rally nationalist sentiment. We can expect more appeals to emotion, more conspiracy theories, and more attempts to paint him as a victim. 

But at this point, Duterte is no longer in control. The court’s process will continue regardless of his theatrics. As Ninotchka Rosca bluntly put it: “He’s done for. Get used to it.” 

The question now is not whether Duterte can escape accountability—he likely cannot. The real question is whether his final performance will be enough to secure a political future for his children and allies. 

For Duterte himself, the show may be over. But for his supporters, the script is still being written. The real test is whether the Filipino people will buy into yet another performance.