COMMERCIALS AND DOUGHNUTS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Inspiration begets inspiration.

I went to a newly-built mall and saw these ads in stores. One is for a locally-made high end denim wear; the other is for a famous luggage company.

There was a sofa in front of these adjacent stores. I sat beside a Caucasian-looking man who dozed off. Over bags or the distraught faces of those who had passed by this creative output---I could not keep tabs, definitely. Nothing shocks better than a curve down the alley of productivity; the luminous eyes of welled-up tears; instant recognition of the wall clocks and the rewind of bygone days, long spent, as if, on endless searches of pleasures and material meanderings.

I have done an exact replica of this when I cut out some pictures to speak for me when the abdominations begun, undermining my own sense of selfhood in exchange for these trespasses. Often times, I find myself backed up by odd people who are not familiar with my own territory of thinking.

They are definitely sensible, prudent, overtly smart and uncouth.

I was sitting here like a corn flower (wild flower to a kid who put this installation) and busied myself memorizing the frowns and eyebrows raised when this over-the-top, visceral defense crept in.

It was fun. Especially when they saw who I was sitting with, enjoying the full view.

Actually, I went there for a poetry reading facilitated by the renowned poet Krip Yuson.

I do not know what a doughnut stand and a coffee joint do in gathering like this. I saw the poet signing autographs in direct, hilarious competition with a breakfast staple/dessert/pastry. As everyone went overtly frenzy grabbing the dessert holes, Yuson was furiously signing books, mussing up his bag and talking to a short-haired woman about---perhaps, Borges.

The real poets were mouthing verses straight from Grade 2 learning center (this was laughable: If Mr. Remoto who had nabbed poetry credentials from Britain could speak like a soap opera penner, I would have reversed the whole world altogether) while big named stars performed verses like flying butterflies. They were overshadowed by their looks and well, previously commercial reputations.

It was equally grinnable (not a word) as they did an Ian McEwan reversal of roles (remembering the short story about heterosexuals getting discriminated instead of gays). The real poets fumbled; the non-poets spoke like verses themselves. Note to Seminal Gangster: I know how to connect that favorite water story to this huge, huge, huge live performance of the literati. It was silly and tickling, this..............."You know, Ian McEwan" as if I miss the whole point of critique.

It was especially cruel and enormously sweet that I have to find copies of Gunter Grass novels displayed prominently in a popular bookstore being read by your normal wanderers. This, while I was squatting in front of Yuson the poet looking, acting and speaking like a billion-buck movie star. The eloquence, the gestures, his ballsy and Hopperish grabbing of the mic by himself as the anchor disappeared unceremoniously. Instead of products, he was discussing his poetry session like a goddamn de Niro. It was eerie, sensational, scary and hilarious, displacing the habitues of numbed buyers. They must have wondered who the comedian on camera is.

My usual suspects---the plathing (not a word either) were having fits of dramatics themselves and there is just an intelligent vibe all around the place. The knowledgeable merely laughed, winked and were upfront in delivering the message: You have met the poseurs and we are the real thing. They were given leaflets and they simply refused them.

They do not belong to the tricycle bunch of rowdiness, that is for sure.

Of course, they are with me and they are for this would-be Little President.

This is an organized, overtly smart and creative bunch.

That is the reason they kick asses.