世

Representation is not defined directly by imitation: even if one gets rid of notions of the 'real', of the 'vraisemblance', [1], of the 'copy', there will still be representation for so long as a subject (author, reader, spectator, or voyeur) casts his gaze towards a horizon on which he cuts out the base of a triangle, his eye (or his mind) forming the apex.

There was never any gold here. But there are many claims that the local villagers shoved any pieces they found up their nostrils and that is why every morning at 10 am everyone receives a bloody nose. 

It has become such a custom that children walk door to door exchanging blood-smeared tissues for good luck. For a short period of time, word was let loose that those with bloody noses in Neastland were sure to be storing gold in their noses. 

Bandits from surrounded areas of Neastland began snatching civilians at 10 am, splitting their faces open with a butterfly knife, starting with their noses. What was curious to Quince was the hysteria. Would people draw upon such violence had the townspeople carried gold merely in their pockets, or lodged into private spaces of their homes? What was the allure that moved people towards bodily mutilation? He asked mostly because his friend, Sidro, who was also his rival, was attacked just earlier this week.

Really, Quince and Sidro were lovers. Though they never acknowledged such a relation simultaneously, each had their moments inflamed by the thoughts of each other. One night Quince posed a question to Sidro “When did you realize that you were no longer a child?” 

For a night, Sidro laid awake paralyzed by the question. First, he thought that maybe his first pubic hair marked the moment of great change. Then, irritated, he wondered how Quince was to assume that Sidro no longer was a child. He had not set any of these definitions for himself and such a question positioned Sidro into ways that, if he were to answer, would also validate the implications of the question.

      everywhere

sorry, i thought these walls were built

so that we may stay soft

now you’re telling me

you’re in the business of building walls

i’m in such enterprises as well

but i’m just the scavenger

working on the furnace floor

in some societies of the past

icons were called

goddesses and gods

here, we have made each other into

clickbait and cogs

the background curtains of sound,

cascade across the horizon

penetrated with shitty dreams and

solutions

         empires

in the making

erected over our heads

forklifts

and the musky aroma of

expensive insurance plans

here in this age

where money corrupts like cancer

don’t trouble over too much

the sinking feeling

this future,

is now, played out

only different aesthetic realities

an ad will know more about you than a friend

and i’m sure by then,

Where there was once before

someone else

something else

You endured through a collection of times retold

Today, I have a single fear to trouble:

The Maintenance of Memories

They distort under every circumstance

Memories,

the constant corruptible

how they come with unwavering clarity

to share or deny you

to call but mistake you

memories are the mind’s many masks

that allows for you to stand

triumphant

through trivial circumstances

or to keep you to friendships

that manage to carry a part of you 

on a two-way channel

A memory, then, 

A rewriting of a transient place in time

Still afflicted to the landscape of the mind

neighbors

of old habits and future imaginings

possessed with symbols

and smells

They come to Gnaw at the soft parts

Coming and going like a lover

with the ecstasy to please you

A brief taste

I told myself that this year was the year of self-confrontation. I’ve done a lot of it and my friends have all helped me cultivate the skill of listening and understanding. 

This year I met my friend for the first time whom I have known for over a decade now via the internet. He asked me if anyone has ever really seen me. Just this one question punctured a hole into a vacuum. The weight of the world either collapsed or exploded. 

The question begged me to first answer if I myself have ever really seen anyone else for who they were. To which I had no easy answer for. It seems more reasonable that I see what I want to see in others and never really try to let people escape these habits of convenience in my eyes and thus in my actions in relation to them. 

This realization was a coup d'état to my mechanics. For instance, a realization like this should have made me feel ashamed or disappointed in myself. But I actually was given a taste of the potential I can have with my friendships in the future. Not often do people see each other for who they are. Ironically, the closer someone is sometimes the further you are from knowing anything about them. We cultivate our behaviors to justify the structures of our worlds rather than to observe and engage to try to understand how things come together. 

It’s been two months since that question was posed to me. A question which still to this day plays with my mind all the time. I ask myself how often when I am upset or judgemental about someone do I actually try to understand them and how much of my reaction is to place them into categories to improve my immediate functions. 

Now I find myself living ideas in my head and this is new to me. Not that I haven't daydreamed before but I used to repress my deeper anxiety of not fulfilling the potential of life and so imagining what is or is not possible was a limited pursuit. I now confront that I may never live through these visions and that's ok.

The other night as I was falling asleep I was flying through the city of Los Angeles. First free-falling with me succumbing to the weight of everything and then as I let go of my fear, I began to control my movements. Huge sweeping movements gave me a direct feeling in my chest.

and so...

I wear my fear right here with me

close to a too close memory

On days I ask to grow up

so the tears may fall a different day

just not today

i have things expected of me

and  so...

explaining is a dramatic reach

so....

maybe another day...

while the moon is almost-wholly

painting an image of the sun

night settles, curtains meet again

another rehearsal day 

& no audience

somehow we invented a world

and we think...

we see everything

on the train

i carry a conscience destined

to demand more from myself

but i am broke in more ways than one

i am young

with death settling in like the night

where each uncertainty comes through