B.B.P. HOSMILLO


B.B.P. Hosmillo is a Southeast Asianist queer poet. He received research fellowships
and scholarships from the Japan Foundation, Asia Research Institute-National
University of Singapore, and the Republic of Indonesia. His poetry has appeared or is
forthcoming in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Kritika Kultura, OCHO: A Journal for
Queer Arts
, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Far Enough East Journal, Mascara
Literary Review
, Sundog Lit, Alice Blue Review, and many others.






from The Migrant Pursuer

I

I, Sol Cheng Alejandrino, admit that there was no ticket booth in the terminal when I was told I had to depart. But I was lovingly there, sent off to climb combat stairs.

: : : : : : : :

For there's something remarkable in begging. Listen—a beggar misses not even the simplest word, or taut breath from his uninterruptible script even though my friend replaces the car's window with a middle finger.

: : : : : : : :

This line outside is the New Year continuum of a klatch of people who want to recreate their historical selves. I'm not asking any of them why or for how long. I'm afraid to have the same answer. I'm waiting—number 175 (and number 132 if the man who started flirting with me when I tore, with my hand and mouth, a wildlife magazine page to fan myself with would give me his).

: : : : : : : :

My friend's mother asked me before taking her cancer pill, that is—before getting cowled by an afternoon nap what does your mother know about your being here?

: : : : : : : :

To them I'm handing out English books, the source of their world's obstacles. You should read, my translator speaks in common language. Maybe they don't know how to say thank you, I'm thinking. Everybody, what do you want to read today? pretending I'm not ashamed for giving them something. One of them says How does hell look like from where you came from? I want that story. His eyes are yellowish and my translator refuses to interpret it, but I understand what he's asking—hell, that great core of every adjunct unformed beings had always been anywhere near me like a swindled business partner in a bus stop or outside a port's unisex public toilet looking for somebody to replace a fraud with.

: : : : : : : :

Except I first dated my lover in a motorcycle. If I told you it was a fast ride because we were very hungry, would you have seen speed? Except today, we’re here again admiring each other.

: : : : : : : :

In the news, a typhoon. The country is in a state of emergency, the reporter says calmly. Then a 2-second flash of the 11-digit contact number and the name of a representative if in case somebody knows where the first missing person can be located: unreached—93, Kristopher.

: : : : : : : :

Until the sun sinks again. Until the tide folds slowly, humbly that I would have a good space to dance. Until the white sand, powdery like the soft ax of the worshipped that grinds teeth fills the loose margin of my 100% cotton underwear, and made in China.

: : : : : : : :

In my dream about a house, there's nothing inside. A sign, strong orange like the lining of clouds in sunset, written on an obfuscated comic page plastered on the front door: Come, O Holy Spirit. And on the space where one should be if he wants to knock, a mother cat is delivering kittens: one is trying to meow near her, but not close to her and another is stuck in her rubber band vagina—its head and first two legs inside, its tail and back feet outside. It had to end like that—the middle ground of birth pangs, and it's beautiful.

II

I, Sol Cheng Alejandrino, connect my flight, unrestrained like the open eyes of a man who died and held the night, to what they failed to do.

: : : : : : : :

For in a cafe, a smooth man is making art on coffee, transforming cream into a leaf, the captured pause in the process of withering. It should look tasteful. Then, a woman of exceedingly big physique like every woman in any sensational old maid story approaches the coffee artist and asks him to write I Miss You on her nearly half-emptied cappuccino as if there's another thing she forgot she could make herself satisfied with. It takes less than a minute to give her what she wants. But will it taste better? Then, she returns to her seat, still concave as if her heaviness is permanent—not the imprint of everything that has left. And she drinks the second-made coffee with affirmation, she doesn't have to but she does. And does it taste better? Does it have the twist this time? Does it make her want another one?

: : : : : : : :

An unveiled lady collapsed in the counter. The news came to us as rapid as the look I get from men who want to ask my real name—that is the name to call me in heaven where everyone has enormous wings and kind lips, including those men who don't have anything good to say. The assessment is that she doesn't have enough amount of money to pay for a new country. What's enough, according to bystanders and fixers, is her courage—out of the willing to be vicious—to marry a foreigner.

: : : : : : : :

I remember the flaws I see without having to make them available myself: egg albumen, anaconda blood, coconut juice, insecticide—all left by a deceased father with a handwritten note on each of them This is yours. This is yours. This is yours. This is yours.

: : : : : : : :

A fifteen-year old says I, a pause as I'm asking everyone to listen, came here since I've lost my parents. And without getting charged by constant interruption, he continues But I sleep with my father every night. With a bed in my mind, I put danger close to a boy who knows truly, out of all tangential lives, the intricate law of childhood—to gain erection and non-erection within erection for some benevolence because there's no pretension in shock. Perhaps this is why the defining mission of fathering is panic, that electric claw of memory because we want to get out of the house we cannot reserve an odd taste for a dream, because we invent a friend when we cannot not talk about how few of our affinities, and the most important when observed were refused. So how does hell look like from where you came from? He asks again, and from the tone of his voice that ends in heavy silence he could tell what I should, he doesn't have to, but he is waiting.

: : : : : : : :

Except my lover enters the room like a bull. I can't say I'm the matador; I don't have the principal role here. Except my lover tells ride on me oh beautiful, fresh fright nonstop.

: : : : : : : :

I remember my parents' house had something that made it believable: it's on Google map.

: : : : : : : :

Until I'm erased in the findings. Until I succeed in opening an oyster and convincing you I'm the pearl it cries for. Until everything abnormal and lustrous becomes not for sale. Until I'm not what you're killing my body for. Until my last growth. Until my last expense of being used.

: : : : : : : :

I'd like to spend another night in a zoo. How do animals threat each other? Is it anything similar to how we make promises? Listen to me. God brings your feet to worship and God knows how to save.

III

I can be Soledad. I can be what I don't have to be.

: : : : : : : :

For a transgender enters a national bank. Nobody knows she used to be a man. What the teller says is that she is still a man. If you would talk to her, would you like her to explain some particularities of the historical self instead of knowing whether or not she's up for an experiment—you inside an alien's spaceship?

: : : : : : : :

On a paper the size of a regular cigarette box, we are not to write our gender but we are to choose: two misunderstood boxes for one lifetime tick.

: : : : : : : :

Before dinner, my friend's mother listed all the names of the people who died that year she had the chance to speak to—22 all in all, including the mirrors her husband framed for her and for her son.

: : : : : : : :

A teenager is gone. Somebody tells my translator that he's getting rare flowers from another village, a crime zone next to us. Does he know anybody there? I ask.

: : : : : : : :

Except beauty, no matter how foreign, understands us so much like hell that knows all our damages: the best way to see a gay man's anal canal, the coin wish that never floats in a well. Except my lover has a rope, it's long, it's thick, it's invisible, and with telescopic eyes he tells me Hang in there! Hang in there!

: : : : : : : :

A black full screen signals the video on Skype, which also signals that my parents couldn't buy the match web camera. Let's just talk. Do you hear me? I'm asking my dead-looking laptop, there's some people there, some people who have yet to see the impoverished dark light, enough that it configures my face.

: : : : : : : :

Until the island knows the name I'm calling it with. Until I can say I can leave this better than I must stay with everyone.

: : : : : : : :

A security guard snatched an elephant in a bar. A little boy sketched a fork on his palm and gave it to a lion with his heart. A bird not with a message in its feet but a pot of soil returned to its cage and begun planting the apple seeds underneath its tongue. I told you how much I love you so you wore a bear's costume and went to a hunter's open field. These are the dreams I want to see you act out for me to interpret in a charade. If our time runs out of games, play this with me.



Back to Front.