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Latest blog posts

[Lotus Seedpod Men]

In water-caltrop raiment clad, with belt of floating-heart,
you dwell in faerie wonderlands.
Such lush jade-green, your perfumed hue –
tho’ wind may cease, its fragrance yet expands.
Egrets’ reflections grace the pond no more,
only the autumn wind’s soughing, a soughing so glum.
Alone, but for the rush flower, you bear the nocturne wake
and await the heavy dew that with the morn with come.
With greasy make-up swept away,
true character takes form!
Red garments loud, stripped off, display
strength of a subtler norm!
Live up to what Lianxi said:
stand up “pure, straight and tall”.
Follow not the withered leaves
in chilly ponds to fall!

-Lu Xun, 1900

Published: August 24, 2006 | Comments: 1

elegies on space

on the edge of the world
between the glass light
“terrible, terrible,”
he says, while fishing with
a pole, in plain sight of the
beast who lives
on the edge of the world

*

the men who sing, the man who sleeps
between the covers of night and day,
who recounts the days in flights and rakes
the earth with only his wake

*

troubled mimes, incessant chimes, / the irony of the moon outside of time.

I sit among the rubble of / a tree unfleshed, bare and brown, / and recite the memory of the jungle / with a crown on my head, / ensnared to the ground

*

a sweet lullaby, loosely played / upon a lyre of ruined waves, / dead against the pale stone shore, / they lie alone, drawn without care, / fraught upon a dream of dearth, / wishing upon a reddish hearth

*

sliver, silver, memories of ice, / casting down their truancy of price, / we cast our crowns into the sky, / understanding nothing except the lies: / they speak to us in tones as soft / as heart-felt moons left alone too soon

*

cascades, torrential waterscrapes, / flooding among the valleys of noon, / madness descending, upon a calm lake, / the boat in the middle, the fisherman with his pole: / “oh dearie dear, my fearlie fear, come to me, / upon this midnight clear, sincerely yours, / the Mariner,” / he says upon his boat of gold, / although it is not gold he is so bold, / and as he sinks into the drown / he fits a knot into his scowl, / and cries to the clouds in a loud, loud voice: / “I am not dead nor ever was, / fear me world, if you canst know how!”

*

where are the ravens? / where are the crows? / where are the birds that roost in my toes? / can you not see them? / can you not see? / are your eyes so blind as you smell rosemary? / I carry on flightily, / singing on mightily, / rarely unaware of my trespass fortnightily, / yet scarce do I know / of that terrible hole, / in which lies the greatest of lies, / that all men are liars, / and I am the bride

*

my heroes sleep in castles not found, / hidden in the depths of time unsound, / they pound and pound the terrible town / and wake the memories under the ground, / but here I lay, my bones on the earth, / my mind in the clouds, / my heart filled with mirth, / and wakefully I dream of time’s better seen, / of heroes in castles, / asleep on the green

fnis(i)?

Published: August 9, 2006 | Comments: 5

Snapfish

Pearls, I grasp,
sitting on a pale-flesh beach.
The sun is a lion,
talons reaching into the clouds.
I feel below the sand;
there is a hint of sadness there.
Memory, she says to me,
is but a hope for dead dreamers.
She is the sun;
golden, fragrant, world weary.
My love for you wanes with the moon,
she says to me, her voice a silk cord,
bound in wild and delicious colors.

The waves rush toward us.

Published: July 20, 2006 | Comments: 4

Paper on Jovian Strings

More’s the more,
rain falling through the cracks,
serendipity calling through the
eyes of a transparent fallacy.

He stands there, his unblinking stare arrayed against a circuit board of trees; the little people mimic each other, crying for help. They wring their hands, tears fall from their cheeks, bombs blow off inside their heads; smoke pours out of their eyes.

Reality is a sway,
rain falling through the cracks,
the darkness beneath the streets
moving in slow motion,
those intrepid gypsies like moths
before a paper lampshade.

Published: July 19, 2006 | Comments: 0