The
dark windows of Manila streets
are
covered in clouds of noise.
The
women, white masked from recognition,
from
the grim dirt and stink,
move
along as western as possible in this
third
world - where even new buildings
look
unkempt and ancient.
There
seems to be no paint here,
nothing
but the gray,
the
dark gray, the soiled gray,
the
gray of years, the gray of apathy,
the
gray of poverty.
You
can slice the air with your hand,
take
a piece of it home in a bag.
The
soot, the black that builds on skin and in lungs.
Imagine
worse then L.A.
L.A.
is polite and well kept by comparison,
this
is dark and heavy, on walls, on unformed lives;
lives
ruled by ritual, designed to make all things bearable.
A
worship of heat, and gossip.
Here
where children play amid the waste of a nation.
II
A
small boy comes to the car to beg,
perhaps
he is 6 or 7.