Untitled

The train proceeded slowly, against a background of brick and white buildings and neons on stand-by. I held my mind somewhere between vanishing in my daydreams and observing the reality in front of me. It seems that vanishing and observing are complementary, your mind needs both. It's part of constructing a personalized version of reality, some form of osmosis between your consciousness and the stimulants in the world around it. Thus, I really do not know whether the buildings were -actually- brick and white; it could be true, but it could also be locational confusion. I also do not know if the attached sensory memory -fresh air- is actually fresh spring air (from a heavily polluted city), or fresh air-conditioning. I did juxtapose the imagery of Neons and mini-LCD displays with voice-over onto the picture. These things existed for sure, so I feel no remorse implanting them. It gives me a sense of concreteness, some form of evidence.

I cannot remember the purpose of my journey, or the names of specific train stations. It's all blank. I can only remember, vividly, my impressions on human beings. The air inside the cubicle was saturated with urban train staples: self-conscious abandon,hollow gazes that still register, wary curiosity,and all the oxymorons one would expect from a species whose strict evolutionary economics have turned irremediably dualistic.

I'm looking at the LCD screen, following the trajectory of stations. I don't really care about the destination or else I would have remembered it. I'm sensing time, with an internal clock, counting time intervals between stations. I don't think I care about time itself, I just care about minimizing its unbearable weight. It feels like it's enriched with nitrogen, nitroxides, mercury, multi-carbon, and other heavy chemicals that assault my organism. I'm sensing a certain joy combined with void: the joy and lightness of being in density, in the monotony of changing stimulants, and the void of their intensity. The joy of being a complete stranger, a gaijin, an outsider, an extrinsic entity, an alien, all these words suddenly seem nice. I came back home to belong and suddenly all I daydream about is detachment...

Fresh Poetry: Shepherd

It was the early hours of morning
A lonely shepherd and a herd of docile beasts

He could hear the yawns of the grass
and the travel of semi-ice molecules in air
He could inhale transitory ice,
Grab it from its trajectory,
Through his lips and onto his canines
It’s fine
It’s pure, docile entertainment

On that specific morning
Well really in any other morning
Silence was an excuse
A kind of way of doing
Of herding
A well preserved and transmitted craft

Forget the herd
There was this fleeting molecule of air
Transparent, but still he knew it was mischievous
It traveled in its own nonsensical dance
And he followed it
Partially, attentively, with resignation
A recent sense of non-being
Without being annihilated

Anyway there will always be molecules of air
And they will swirl, along with detached grass in the winds
That carry them altogether
In one significant batch…