In memory of

Perhaps, on this day, with the sun, the earth and words breaking over the pavement like thoughts, I will say to you, hello. Within the memory of early mornings, the air fresh and slightly cold, at least there is a language, a gift, an open hand that fills with broken thoughts and breathlessly empty space.

**

He stood on his terrace looking into the courtyard twenty three stories below, not seeing the children playing, not feeling the sun nor the cerulean sky. He jumped at four o’clock in the afternoon from his terrace to the pavement, utterly still, ushering in eternal solitude.

It was a simple day; the past terminates in this moment. It was spring. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. It was Monday, the first day of the week, a beginning, an end.

**

You enter pain. Let it drop swiftly into your body like a stone that falls from today’s clear cerulean sky; recall what it means to live in a moment that has been surrendered to time.

Your foot falls asleep; familiar numbness tingles imperceptibly beneath skin.

What is universal, but the passage of time, the inevitability of hunger, of entrances and exits, shadow and light—

Disparate words and thoughts fall like stones and rest inside your quiet bones. What did you say? Why did you sigh? What do you remember?

You are silent. There are too many words and not enough voices, too many melodies nestled inside your cupped palm, broad, callused and waiting.

he ran away and hid himself inside a clock.

Quick, hide
inside the clock.
Two fingers
coil around
cog stops
time still.

The room stills.
You hide
behind stopped
time, the clock’s
face like your own—round
and flat, it falls into your fingers.

Index and third fingers
bend, straighten, still.
Your body twists around
to see the other side, hands hide
your face—the clock’s.
You cannot stop

this moment of stopped
time –coiled fingers
disintegrate clocks.
Seconds slip still:
midnight’s round
edges hide

inside your hidebound
skin. You have not stopped
counting the next round
of seconds, minutes, and fingers
that will not stay still.
Keep clocking

the instant. At thirteen o’clock
your shadow hides
inside a stilled
cog, stopped
by your fingertips
red and round.

Two round
faces: the clock
filled with too many fingers
on too many hands that hide
the hours, minutes and seconds stopped
lulled into stillness.

The stilled round-faced clock
Spreads your fingers, hides inside your skin. You stop.

writing from memory

You walk briskly with sleep embedded in your skin; wait for light to change at the intersection. You stumble across the street. Someone whispers a song into your ear, sound shaping your limbs.

Far away

Your eyes are closed listening for silence at Times Square. You wait for a clear path to open, for concrete to break into clear panels of glass that promise to hold your resolute weight.

A new way

To tell you a secret, whispered into fading light that falls into your shadow. I’ll trade you squares for circles, leave my shadow in your keeping.

Another day.

Will you remember this scattered warmth that explodes into April flurries? Fat flakes follow the wind’s path, find themselves flattened in a finite pool of water on the stained window pane.

I can’t say

How your body fell into a shadow and disappeared. Beneath this light, your skin is quiet, your veins deep blue.

chuan bawang

I had my first Sichuan meal in New York the other day; I’ve only had it when I was in Beijing, ironically. But I love it – the fragrance of the orange-colored chili oil that coats the food results in a slow, languid burn inside your mouth. Sichuan food has an intense and complex richness to it that rises in layers of flavor; from the introduction to some intial taste, whether it be salty, sour, or sweet, the end result is the heat that grows more pronounced with each bite. The flavors cut into each other, blending beautifully, as a tinge of sweetness mitigates rich saltiness; a touch of slow heat smooths out acid tartness. Then there’s texture: clear vermicelli noodles are like silk against firm flaky pieces of sliced fish that match the crunchy salted and pickled mustard greens inside a clear sour broth. A plate piled with thinly sliced pork simply melts in your mouth. The meat’s edges are still generously laced with a strip of fat, and smothered in a dark smoky sauce—salty, tinged with a smattering of sweetness and chili oil drizzled over the top, and finally garnished with chopped cilantro.

Blissed out.