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ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

A DIALOGUE ON SILENCE: (Conversations with Stick Series #9)

That there is a cicada killer, Stick.
A Gaddafi doppelganger, eh wot?
Before tea, this would be insolence
from my peripatetic avian expert,
and I haven’t had my gargled swig
to take that from my errant friend.
Sipped your Earl Grey yet? Lipton?
Take Camomile tea. No, Darjeeling
is more like it for this Intel I’ve got:
The Libyan marmoset eats cicadas
to break his fast. He needs that to
cleanse his bowels before the kill
at Tripoli, before he feasts on limbs
of marmot to march to the city’s edge.
What does it matter that rhythmic
chirping sounds would cease here
when she steers the bright craft
of her body toward the sun refracting
sunlight while she feasts on gossamer
wings flapping for a coup d’grace
to stifle the sundown song, to end it all,
much like mothers plead for murder
a la mode before the battle howitzers
crush their chanting lads and lasses,
eaten like the silenced cicadas by wild
men blowing their sons’ brains in Libya.
Shut up, Stick. Where is the Intel here?
A case of preempting Muammar himself,
retorted my now irascible companion,
before he continues his global cicada kill.
Apr├Ęs Gaddafi, milord, the silence of the lamb.
—Albert B. Casuga

Prompt: Back and forth over the yard still in shadow, a cicada killer steers the bright craft of her body, illuminated by the sun.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 06-10-11

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