Something

On a mild, mid-summer's morning, awakening in the penthouse suite to a panoramic view of the morning calm, he feels a cold sweat begin to spread up his body and nip at the nape of his neck.

--------------------

"Sir, shall I take your order?"  Snapping out from the velvety fog of distraction he briefly glances at the menu cover, and rotely rattles off the same combination of dishes he always has:  A++ Hanwoo tartare to start followed by a sardine sashimi, light on the pepper.  Shaking his head softly as the waitress sprints back to the pass, he raises his arm, platinum watch scraping lovely against the wooden beads of his Buddhist bracelet, and begins to massage his temples, eyes closed tight.  Aside from his beating Swiss heart, the world fades from view and again he falls into that warm gray sphere of nothingness.  The clatter of the first course being laid out snaps him back to reality; and then he sees her.

한강 개나리

Those spring spots of yellow,
Do well to soothe this fellow.

Heart heavy and eyes the same,
No one but myself to blame.

Sorry will never do for you,
To cover over all I couldn't do.

But this know over and above,
Always, forever we'll share our love.

Surprises

With your baleful cries,
tears fill my eyes.
Where i go is no surprise....

Prelude to Spring in Seoul

April 20, 2013

So I just saw this. No, peeped would be a more apt past participle verb to employ in this instance. From my prime seating on the blue 408 bus - usually taken as a back-up plan to the express 1005-1 since it comes in fucking 20 plus minute intervals (thereby negating any express benefits unless the hand of fate decides to intervene on those rarest of rare occasions) - I spot them. Although a good 70~85 meters away, my blue-greens focus squarely upon the towering twin peaks.

For those readers who may not know, in Seoul, while not exceedingly rare - as say weed - exsquisite breasts demand attention of the highest order. How can I say this? Dear reader, these breasts were not locked down. By that I want to say that the fortunate transporter of said breasts did not constrict them in order to "blend in" with the local habitat. Unlike so many amply endowed transportors (and they are, like a valet of a stretch limo, merely carrying those marvelous expressions of perfection around from 'a' to 'b' for all to see; but I digress) who treat their otherworldly sisters not unlike how former generations of Chinese did in regards to women's feet - fucking disfiguring the shit out of them - this wise woman announced them to the world in their full glory.

A well worn, washed-out purple, high thread count cotton shirt, with the following words inscribed on the upper portion in what I believe to be Akzidenz Grotesk font: "NOT SILICONE."

All caps. Nuff said.

Together From Afar

Walking, alone
I see you.

Glancing, maybe
you see me.

But do you?
Can I?

Alone, walking
thinking of you.

Maybe, glancing
from afar; you too...

Subway Nights

Her lingering scent swirls around me striking my senses, 

as the patter of her descending steps upon granite slabs 

grows fainter and fainter fore. 

She's dissolved into the night, 

and so too have I;  

or have I...

阴影

I love them,
I hate them;
they remind me,
of you.
Of the good,
so good;
and the bad,
so bad.
I want them gone,
right now,
but they remain,
and so do you.

Thoughts on a Bus

Love is like a cobweb; beautiful for its seemingly indiscriminate union of unique geometrical shapes, figures and strength derived thusly from; at the same time a nightmare when no longer viewed in the light of day. In the dusk of a former love's memory gazing, nearly hypnotized by the pink and orange effluvia projected upon the near eve sky by that hollow glow of what was, sinking beneath the horizon, one runs the risk of becoming entangled within that forgotten web behind. Fight as they may, it is soon realized that all effort to free oneself from this web be futile; the more one struggles the more impossible it becomes to extricate oneself from the grasp of this mental cobweb.  

Out of my time spent partaking in life, it is indeed a rarity to find a soul who enjoys, beyond the mere nominal acquiescence, the cleaning up after oneself or another; it always remains a chore. However, tidying up to keep a clear home leads to healthier physical potentiality. As spring cleaning serves to rid the house of the accrued death and cobwebs accumulated over winter in preparation for the season of rebirth in the physical world, the same is necessary in that other, regrettably often too neglected world we also participate in. In this dialectic world of the subjective self and objective surroundings, the exterior receives most of the attention; leading often to deleterious results for both. The cult of change that society has become the exemplar devotee to, that man and woman have without so much of a feigned struggle, chose to accept over the past century; a change that affects the very life blood of humanities political economy in the classical sense, is but the negative principal of the forgotten positive ideal. We've removed ourselves from the seasons of nature into the narrowly sterile, neatly quartered monetary confines where wares for the abstract concept of what we used to know as seasonal changes are peddled. The fight for this change is what people live towards in this day and age. 

Focus on this sterilized form of exterior change, having removed us from the bosom of mother nature has also diverted attention away from our Jungian selves. The ego being the conspicuous element of adolescent development that projects itself outward to rely on style or the opinions of others for support. As a natural, but not absolute antithesis, the self being the container of the hitherto weaker parts of the personality relegated to our unconscious, serves at first as a means to protect our fragile ego development from failure. On the whole, however, it is not supposed to be suppressed forever, and in keeping with Hegalian dialectic, it ultimately purposes to create, or more appropriately endeavor to create a synthesis or in Jungian terms a 'Gegensatzvereinigung' with the ego. 

It, refering to the self, is to be perceived at first with recognition and a purposeful striving towards strengthening those weaker elements of the personality to make a fuller, richer self. Thusly, since life itself is but the objective backdrop of what our subjective self projects out upon it, a necessarily richer and more diverse world will be able to cultivate itself and spring forth organically, rising out of the compost of all humanities subjective selves. That is, to move away from what Freud termed the 'death instinct' or that of relying upon lifeless material things and dead cosmic superstitions to compensate for our disconnection from that richest conception of unified existence; that of the inseparable nature between a mother and child in its first two or three years. So then, having recognized and internalized the self and our previous death instinct there arises an attempt to recreate a new system of life; that of moving back towards, not the infantile, but a new mature and enlightened 'life instinct'; utilizing the crystallization of both human and natural history is what we need to strive for. (UNDER CONSTRUCTION) 

A life instinct whose only hope of rediscovery for the majority, I fear, is within that sterile egoistic state that men and women have cocooned themselves within. Despite the consciously oriented attempts of humanity until now to create a sterile, lifeless canvas for life to be rationally organized and directed upon, the most conspicuous element of the former organic life, full of potentiality towards reorienting our lives in exactly a more organic direction is love; specifically the lost, forgotten, only to be re-discovered within the unconscious dusk of love's cobwebs. The pain of being trapped within, makes us look within, towards our own self, and it can only be through a re-connection of that boundless depth and diversity of life that resides in all of us that we can even maintain the most infinitesimal hope for a better objective life for all. 

3년 6개월 만에

3년 6개월 만에

멍든 다리로 떠났어요 그 암울한 여름밤에
가슴도 마찬가지었겠지요
많이 힘들었어요 많이 기다렸어요

3년 6개월 만에

붓고 미움으로 빨개진 눈에서
눈물 마치 장맛비가 넘친 한강처럼 흘러내리면서
그 코너 돌아가고 영원히 사리지기 전에 너는 날 되돌아봤어요

3년 6개월이라는 오랜 시간 만에

Novemeber Dusk

A man walks solitarily along 5th Ave. passing the Museum of Natural History; his bearing aimed at the rusted memory of this town.  The brisk fall wind ruffles his red and black lumber-jack flannel collar protruding slightly outside a grease stained olive colored canvas jacket.  Hands stuffed deep in faded, well worn light blue jeans he looks up to his left at the washed out 7 story brick apartment-esque building and continues on...

While you and I float atop my warm tannish down comforter.  Light fluffy rustic melodics meander out from the speakers cones enveloping our souls.  Outside the eye of my new college room, reds golds and more browns are fluttering waves obfuscating the museum behind.  Blink.  My hand carreses your blushed tender cheek.  Blink.  I feel your fingers run through my velvety locks.  We stare into one anothers eyes; this is the closest we will ever be, and I know it...Blink.

Descending down a narrow tree lined dirt path behind the university, dead leaves crunching underfoot he heads toward the clouds evanescently frothing out of a factory.  Nearby a bridge, it's 1970's sickly yellow paint scarred with dark cold iron veins forged by death; he stands beneath.  Staring out at the horizon, warm majestic red and golden hues fill his periphery.  A tear suddenly forms, wavering, then while convalescing in the corner of his eye, the sound of steel grinding enamel overtakes his soul.

There was love

There was love this day. This day last year there was love.

The light evening May breeze wisps by us as we run across the crosswalk, headlights highlighting our bemused grins and mischievous eye lock. A green bottle of soju in my hand, that plus a coke in hers, laughs leaving our lips about that joke. Her friends trailing behind, next to, and in front of us; we are at the center.

We are at that point. You can feel it. It isn't about what we say now, only the looks on our faces, our equally inclined postures towards one another and those laughs with a hand coming up to shield what hasn't been shared yet. Just call it sex. We head to the green central quad in the center of campus, walking, just living up an incline.

On the hill sips grow longer in duration, the time faster. In our reverie a call is received and we're off to a tent meeting more friends; dope as always. Laughs we share, but the countdown has begun. The wind has swept the 'tree dust' up and our time away. In that sway-sway walk-walk against time, our interlocked fingers do the talking for our minds.

This day last year there was love. There is love this day.

an age ago

~Foreign

~Luxury

-whoosh-

damn, domestic, Ford.

Next to the white paint chippin' fence towers a 19th century barn stable. In front we're sittin' on a grassy with few weeds, shaded incline. Our bikes leaning against the fence, we recline on our arms, occasionally throwing longing glances into one another's sadness tinged eyes after long moments of staring at the dirt beneath us, picturesque farmland sprawling out ahead of our periphery, or round the bend as the rumble or purr of a vehicle approaches.

She's the most beautiful girl I've ever met. Her freckled porcelain hands clasp the de-leafed stem of a fern; precious fingers slowly whittle the stem down as the velvet gloved wind of August rustles both our sweat tinged locks.

Autumn is rapidly approaching and our time together is being swept away just as quickly. We both know it.

This is our last day together.