1st: I was very proud I passed the test. The test was about how strong and firm I was with my faith, political or racial or hologrammatic.2nd: The gift of democracy so essentially fluid, ergo, was time. I had to witness time suture history—or the narrative of forgetting in peacetime.3rd: How was the police—yes the polease!—calculating the algorithm of hurt when protesters were themselves curators of Lego-like ideas and wild algebra?4th: Kowloon was a place of blacker and blacker appeal to our fair M/Other. . 5th: She who stood astound by the palace walls read her // self, more than bodies melting in the rain, freezing in the sun.6th: The heroine who did this should become the anti-auteur. The second heroine in our mind would be the myth and metaphor of our freedom.7th: I didn’t believe I would allow myself to listen close to my mind—how imagination gurgled so loud repeating revolution like a Bacharachmasterpiece.8th: From Manila to Hong Kong to my ci

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 Man with [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

 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

 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.

(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, unworried as 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 around my 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 seasons never 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