BLOWBALL

by Dr. Roger B. Rueda Let us speak of the government Job Order worker—the employee who works full-time, thinks full-time, sweats full-time...

  by Dr. Roger B. Rueda That season when the archipelago is punctured by both cash bonuses and conscience deficits falls on the Philippine...

by Roger B. Rueda Writing a poem is like pickling mango: first the fruit—green, hard-headed, feigning innocence. You cut into it with a mo...

by Roger B. Rueda, PhD If you have not yet been haunted by a poem, then you have not yet been properly alive. Alain Russ Dimzon’s “Ang Man...

  by Roger B. Rueda, PhD There is a poem haunting me this morning, like the ghost of a revolution that refuses to shut up. Its name is “An...

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda The street knows its own stench. Still, the preacher raises a disinfected hand, palms turned upward, fingers ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda they said the walls were sturdy—concrete poured from buckets of air, the engineers signed with pens that bled ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda I write from the body— not the one the mirror insists upon, but the one that remembers dreams in the knees and argu...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda There are barren places in the world, and barren places in the mind— regions gone pale with forgetting, where t...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda When I build a fire, I do it the way I’ve done most things— quietly, purposefully, without asking anyone’s permi...