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TUNNELS Shoegaze + Suburbia
Slowly there’s a scene that celebrates itself, holds high office of shame, shoplifts gracefrom grocery stores and tomorrow’s tin can mess.It’s a scene standing in pride, unfazed by the murmuringstrong-styled neighbourhoodbelievedto be energized out of concentrated flowerpots.The suburb sprawl is a basement of employmenthopes, like Monday walks looking for dream popand bizarre poetry recitalsalong the pavement.Looking for friends who musically trepanned themselveswith shadows of 1994? Insecure shoes oftenobscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likensheads to garage tires you’ve spared for coolhousehold principles. I bet you look down,look down so hard to catch the open lightunfurling, like a beef falafel surprisingschoolchildren from Bandra, MumbaiI earn a living by re-counting poetic linesand make them smell of cardamom.Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement.To live comfortably
TUNNELS Pattaya, after which is stereographic plurality
Based on what I saw today in the reflectionof tall trees on the river, there’s a Barthesian notionof swirling things trying to drink the water,their spreading tension the surface of claw-printsand misty roars in silver. I tried to identify themin their uniform art of consciousness—namely:floating markets, shipbuilders, dreams and deltas,river ports of morrow, fish-spark confessions,a falling tear. All of these worth surrounding theonly mirror held by the invisible hand of water.This mirror in the heart of the river reflecteda figure of the literary life with strange curvedhorns on its head. It was not at first easy to look at.I saw it and admittedly got confused with its mis-understood image. But every time it moved thingsstopped swirling. A moment of silence shone.And slowly there was a sight painted with pleasure,a riverine hospitality from Okkervil to Thailand.
TUNNELS kilometer Hong Kong
in response to the ongoing anti-extradition bill protestsa day like this, or the train between us won’t stop - this life is too long, dear tourist - & you know this morning I have to pay the rent too – as you insist that demonstrations at Victoria Park crowan ashfall of a feathered controversy - scarred by heavy clouds – as poetry as a lesson in leaving seems like years – & everyday umbrella seems like months of our days, days of our monthsalways like thissure it’s like thisyou know there might be another Worldwide Plaza - buzzing non compos mentis from your postcolonial Central - & that i’ll never know what new noise gently crumbles our married Clock Tower lungs – our karmic hearts in Kowloononce upon a ferry seaalways like thiswe used to seechaos intensify in the streets – waltz of smoke rioting upon youth – alla tumult of fire eating fire – time’s commissioned by risk as rains of pleasin fals
TUNNELS Afterbloom
Under a tree shade, I satobserving the lines leafedlimning the page, their greenfix crashing into the shoe-dappled patchof sun and earth. Until a leaf—suddenly—falls to the votive callof six o’ clock, no morefootballing and frisbeeingin sight; it’s unaccidentally“Le Manteau de Pascal,” butaccidentally Jorie Graham.
TUNNELS Automatic for the People
Shoppers, take this time to please your companions. Right, left, right—obviously they take your attention via clockwork sales talk. A drop of discoloration is being processed when you talk to them—lover, robber, gender, industrially colorblind—magical are their actions to repeat the blooms of magnolia on marginalia, high-price of intentionsunder duress. If all good shoppers are careful enoughto be attracted to the sheen of the lights, or to somethingstrange like Mambrino’s Golden Helmet, I would liketo think that life in a crowded place is clueless about the appeal of mass nouns to the art of small things like undeclared birthdays and acupuncture points. Inside the fitting room, there’s a hunk of love, all spruced-up with a groovysense of purpose; this I’m referring to all typesof clothing as professionals, feeling the way we feel right now, are available on site to serve you,always. But what is fake measurement if everything at this moment
TUNNELS Mito
What glimmers in the treeseyes so sweaty as minutesbefore midnight howlsthe transona burst of twelvethe myth lives with usthe myth is shakenthe myth called mito—so strong the village folksfrom out the coldscream, sputtered outas the sigbin5 claimsits wild phantasm of humangyrating metaphors, of signsrobust with backwardrhymes splitting farinto the distancewhere a text is sighted(that refried ectoplasmcalled by Filipinosa kamalig) read blurrily: catastrophe sigbin—nomonstre sacre crampedby molecular science.
TUNNELS What is Phenomenology?
Things forgotten suddenly met me when Iwas asked that time the question my memorycouldn’t wield a cut grass, a mercury dimeI only held on for was dear life in general—something more present than schoolchildren& the charts they count are no moreno less my simple kind: silence felled& human signs felt & this feeling screamedwhen I wanted to speak about the worldwe live in & how those prescriptive mathswould have kissed happiness in passing,though my views may be wrong, they mayeven be non-academic since the essence of it allis to patiently wait & watch the lilies grow& remember how to laugh once againon the side of the bridge drinking the everydayfrom an empty Coke can & while curfew callscould be so alliterative, I guess repetition& all sources of knowledge could potentiallyturn us white, as though July birds scatteringinto the r
TUNNELS August 14, 2017
When I greet the daypeacefully, you stabthe day with a knife—a knife that stays,looks like you,a pith in the coreof tireless beginnings.Remembering…I bleed for youred alphabets of time.I bleed, like an ancienttear in the eyeof the strangest wall,the impregnable fogin our midst.
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