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Listening to U2 with the fat still on your lip—

作者: Ukiyoto Publishing
last update 最終更新日: 2021-07-12 11:17:18
 

that pale patience of yours, oh, I could drive myself

crazy from this observation of condominiums to Maine,

old and bony Maine. What’s that song you’re guessing?

I guess it’s empty passion no groovier than last night’s

cigs you’ve beautifully lighted for one more china sparks

at the counter of 7-Eleven. You know what happens

to fat when fingers stay out of love, out of their silvered

stillness? Traffic lights, they turn to the eyes of the law

in tripartite colours. It’s safe and subtle, isn’t it?

How clever the fat moves in princely prose, or

in scripted smoke splitting between your Kerouac

lungs. I suppose you’re a movie star, a gorgeous

hard rain, a motorcycle of flowering acquaintances.

 

The kitchen sink never dirtied, you never cooked,

peeled, dreamt. But you showed me your world.

Ashtrayed the day away. That dear fat on your lip,

I loved it and I wrestled with the night pretending

it’s already 2:30 AM; that no creature of the streets

would dare say it’s another Bono song you’re slanging.

Whether Where The Streets Have No Name or Stay

is slippered on your ears, the test of music is the gape

of a new fish at midnight. Every time I finger-spelled

the words of your breath’s lyrics, you’d say there’s no

perfect word, only car park symphonies

and the heavy pulse of the runaways.

 

And so I learn

the basics of yesterday, smelling

the fat on your lip, its music and magic astound me—

forever guessing the beat of our endless

smoking suburbia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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  • TUNNELS   Footnotes

    1A tourist destination in the province of Pampanga where air bases were built during the Americla colonial rule in the Philippines 2It is a volcano located on the island of Flores in Indonesia. 3Wild ducks in the native lexis of the people in Candaba, Pampanga in the Philippines. 4 A common place or town terminal where Philippine tricycles (or trikes) are used as service vehicles 5 A creature in Philippine mythology said to come out at night to suck the blood of victims from their shadows 6 A trite Filipino expression meaning “Are you sick of things?” 7 A Taglish or Tagalog English expression for “Let’s go!” 8An always crowded station on the Metro Rail Transit (MRT) in Manila, Philippines 9 All three towns of the province of Pampanga in Central Luzon in the Philippines

  • TUNNELS   Intro to end

    You see this humdrum townBacolor or Apalit or Macabebe9seeking colors & flood tide arias on the impulseof a rainy Saturday afternoonbeforethe machinery of undergarment civility because a harness will only be made for onefar away from the closetripraps & minuetsageing windows sigh in the airI have no plans & precedents—when in this charming confirmationyour handsome decision loungeson the very idea I suppose was your ideaof the blue histories of weather reportin a coma,wishfully contactingRogelio de la Rosa (makananu tana?),his name typed up slowly, fur is flying—lightness!—but you got everything nowround your mythic little fingerslife at the alterations shopoh what a terrible mess I’ve madeof this ending,ending of a poem.&

  • TUNNELS   a story about a bruise in light of Lacan’s le sinthome; or, because love rolls in the fifth eye of our homelessness

    I feel terribly whole tonight because of the nightrain& the proud No Fireworks sign out there on the street.I feel terribly dangerous I could let my right hand arm-wrestle the left hand of the clock before midnightsmokes up an illusion of the forgotten ledbetters &faux romantics. I could smash bricks w/ my silence& then screw & shout ‘till my bones crow to ask:do you remember your neighbor’s rabbit that fellin love w/ the rooster because it’s the Year of the Rabbit?what about rain trees, purple prose, the scattered zines& rhizomes? don’t they all speak of the symbolic symptom?feel free to say it out loud. panda-eyed, freezing cold,I know. I know the feeling, the stroke of the bokusekibrush, the memory on the wall like graffitied genitaliafrom the ceiling to the floor. I speak my mind free.i speak it free like when you spill secrets in a publicphone box, insisting that writers send ideas to priso

  • TUNNELS   The Poet Who Wrote Adam Snow

    for John AshberyThe literary life is never easy, you saw it firstin the convex mirror, its spreading tensionthe surface of claw-prints in silver. I then triedto learn how to read humour and surprisedisguised as a shadow pretending to havenever seen alchemy winnow through thistlesdown the dark alleys of your city parks. I,the wanderer learning how to drift pastshoe factories and never pay attentionto the still-chiming ways of lookingat a lamppost, would like to say, You arethe art of consciousness, the consciousnessof art! Uniform of the swirling things,you are: desk, papers, dried leaves, moneybills, memos, pills, tears, the image. Allsurround me like a magma of memoriesshutting down the last sex of wine from ash.

  • TUNNELS   tɹaɪsɪkəl

    Short distance routes for the love of the people’s plaza. In the land of guavas and legato-linked pabasas. Far gone since you left this town and its parish kisses traded for maple leaves.The green tufted Garcia garden behind the churchyard - not even the interstate 3AM tapsi can match. Seattle. Toronto. Burkina Faso. Look, we don’t have the places solet’s not talk about getting lost. Let’s talk about our national tɹaɪsɪkəl racing in our blood’s activity. It’s normal, you know. Like the Friday tiangge stalls floweringlike freckles in June, someone’s bleeding for what weare (not). Drop. So we have the future in the barangay basketball league. The way we spell “future” makes it easy for us to spell traysikel. Not tricycle. It’s traysikel, Bayani. For they’ve grown digital too, ask Uncle Pepe.

  • TUNNELS   The Rapid Room

    (after Requiem for a Dream)Feel the pain, the spiked effect of the year fastens like fantasy to the rapid room of human skin. Watch the junior tomato sun swiftly spinning forward the neon kitchen countertops, making big the dream to dance with cauliflowers while the text message remains unread, un-sniffing the curry powder from the freshest Woodstock of our lungs. See neon-painted plastic cups drift across the misshapen reality already inspiring the right chopper to celebrate the saturnalia of sharp objects, the happy flying Greek alphabets of such a beginning. It’s obvious to us two people, we never learn. Neither of us could understand, yet, the cost of all this may welcome another pain, another grotesque feeling, and then beyond the door into the abyss, we see us. In this rapid room we live. Our skin desires, dissolves. You believe in my troubled arithmetic. So we wrap our arms around each other, feeling the new pain every day, with calm paper boats sailing around this roo

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