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Democracy Jr.
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TUNNELS Short Story, as Borobudur
I’ve found a reason to live. Yellow skybright shores. The theory sleeps between religion’sporcelain ghosts & inner Sastra,& your seeminglyneurotic connection to the plotsabotaged by the night’s iridescent fingers.Hands of your characters’ hair area wisp in this solitude’s picaresque,keeping shiny the stupas, beautiful as sciencethough the birth of the hero can never beprehistoric Java, claiming the lost narrativeof memory. Brittle aura of bonesover the unsettling tear & this isto complicate the scenesfrom a horoscopic point of view.I’ve found the signs in a jar: heart lotuses,synecdoche. Flowers of the intricate past,I’ve brought them up to the altarwith or without a conclusive epiphany,a conflict so indistinct as a starmilked for its nirvana, for the riddlingtales it tells right from the beginning,middle & end. The setting seems very patient.So what is chronologically cotton-boundmay not be novel, physically circl
TUNNELS The Ice Cream Man is feeling the flavour, narcolepsy
he sells not, it seems, as the week’s bestseller sleeps in like a strange touch of odd memory, shifting the day’s dream minerals into a controversial hybrid of taro and guacamole. To scoopout some more island recipe from the greying whole, the interface of muted shreds and bits, is,after boyfriends and girlfriends fail to acknowledge sublime art suspended in street after howling street, the swirling sociology of tropical malaise.The Ice Cream Manwith [his] underrated purposiveness of disembodied aesthetics, hops in, emerges, rethinks the condition of language, of signs and symbols that confront the steady disinterestedness toward matcha. What is it that forces taste to be critically sabotaged by teleology? Yet what is being promised by the Coney Island theory is parity premised on subsistence. As if aura, as if this beast of contestation: is the decision to choose ice cream sandwich over standalone waffle cones a celebratory case of favouring the sublime, the liminal, the appli
TUNNELS A thought, or, a fatal error
has the gentleman standing in the doorway, making useof the pinkie stuck still in his nose to once and for allcancel the fourth and last postal service. What iswrong about the delivery today? A thought, or, the actof sun-gazing over the glittery green, waitingfor the aureate making of numerals, a further lucidity.Or a line he cares so much about. So muchrepetition, so much nectarine the insects writheinstead inside the mail box. A thought,never mind the bluish pain of thinkingas such is the bride of September afternoon,or, ideas driving the good news back into wreck again.Ink, or, the hand’s decision to turn the key in the ignition.Who is coming? When a thought arrives, is delivered,the art of return is returned, the mossy silvereyesthrough the shrubbery repeat the panic, the fatal vomitcreeping in, leaving him with two choices on his palm.A thought, or, a fatal error?The line placid, splitting. The Lopez porch swinghasn’t m
TUNNELS Self-Portrait as Open Flesh of an Undetermined Panic
Most of the panic remains virginal in the backyard, mostly quince-coloured, growinglike a flower sitting on an acre of phrases, mostly gerund, echoingthe voiced Gustav Klimt canvas that speculates on a mottled shadow.The figure of it is the sharp side of human,the freckled face of suspicionentering the green steel fences of our house, near the grassthat beds the pain, the pity, the first personwith a complex set of subjunctive mood. At about ten in the morning,before lunch is served, short of parenthetical immensitiesabout the recent case of a dog, the doomed offering beneath the orange sun,the children surround the areawhere there is a smell drawing a familiar incident.It’s a funny fruit torn from the sight’s memorial Edenrecalling a life in the hay, once mistakenlybegging for bones, sometimes barking at the neighbour’selection campaign ads-plastered tree,shaking out what’s coming in less, drily unnameable.However, in the interest of ungrammat
TUNNELS I, from the et cetera farm
Dear autochthon:We slurp in the Parental Guidance colour of television, this orbit of the lost and found circling the living room with oxygen. Full of class and chrome. I write to you to request subsidy to cover my travel fare from my country to your always royal palatine palace, the hollow spaces of which the bright future of mental othering. Call it a telepathic zone. Call it a rapid polychrome. Of what? Perhaps only time could reimburse with instances of cultural selfing letting the sun set on its inner skin.I know how well respected you are in wishful thinking, your many achievements confronting different time zones and pushing agnotology away from the mouth of trauma, are phenomenal. Or maybe not, just a soft blow. Moreover, it is imperative on my part to thank you in advance for this opportunity to type up words I pilfered from last night’s dream. I know my research project will be a reality with your approval. In case you have suggestions, you can reach me by
TUNNELS Escape from time
I flow from this book you gavein the last of the under fifteenminutes. Me over my head,like a shocked readerof those backward zeroesprinted in the purchase receipt:in love with the lola magicover the bridge I couldn’t pull out,play nor call a trick to makesome obese scene consumea page, swallow a space-giving mystery before youcould ever figure it out.Hardly a night passes I drownin the disobedient waters of now,for I punctuate once, twiceand almost repeatedlyso there’ll be enough seekingand hiding between you—who fascinate the futureand the order of falling objects—and the narrative whose plotcontradicts the lust and laxityof everything crepuscular.There’s a kind of time feelingthe same, I don’t know what kind,that greets 5th Avenue Streetwith a stability in waysand means you find incredible,just as long queuesat bus terminalsare certain to re-contain motion,such a line beginningagain and again.
TUNNELS Where is
(after Sara Howe’s Crossing from Guangdong)I don’t see meeting minutesas constantly risking [ik-sahyt-muhnt]but as Ferlinghetti linesspreadeagled in lambentHong Kong districts mourningover our pedestrian livesonce a rice Coney Islandnow a model city too busyw/ parks & painteddreams & melancholiesbikiniedbeliefs long adored for their common language of binaries: easternphilosophy what a lesson to swallow what coconut meat tobut chewit’s not bubble gum for sure my dear joeit’s Peking duck wesuck & spitthen suck again & again like Cantonese in IPA countryswallowing phonemes in all its sweetnessoften you think of Disneylandmore often the state economyshowbiz etceteras commercial spaces newspapered ideascars & telephonesthe quantum case of you & meor mainland king kong TVhowever at my most riverine momentI believein my motherfor saying that crossing bordersfinds you not a fruitin the half-light b
TUNNELS Dynasty
(after Bei Dao’s Black Map)Back in the room, Beijing is the new pairof shoes close to the smell of anise in spring;shoes father wears when he was lostin the black continents of bedtime narrativeshoping the sheets remain fine, unworriedas taxi fares only his childhood can charge.Memory barks no-yuan minutesof the meeting, no semi-charmed heart,no Shanghai of forgotten dream cinema.All I want is to swirl aroundmy father’s personal winterso I can explore the night’s fatherlymadness, its dust echoing sweetness,and come home. In another time I knowI‘ve come home to watch the seasonsnever understanding why several shadesof father stand still on the pavementlooking for maps and lost time. Heshuffles afterward with the shoesI think are ready to fund him farewells.Rare eddies of him left my Beijingcrumble in stochastic reminiscences—no bestial beat pounding on the walls,no searchlight from out the windowlo
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