These Urban Rites


If the soul selects her own society
Then tell me who shut the door on years
Shared, oblivious, estranged that was
Once so intimate, divorced reality

Some things that fly – are meant to be
Don’t you know, lover, formerly Beloved?
Where we two crept through winters
Hand in hand for a short while

Was it enough, tell me lost friends?
I have known some of the most lonely hours
Sensitive perhaps to primitive emotions
Of abandonment, alienation, dependency

On a clan, a tribe, a friend, a partner
Who was not truly there, the family unit
Is then, not what it used to be
Brothers, unsistered, father impersonal and past

Faith is a fine invention, for community
But what if the world was dangerously anonymous
What if the trusting woods were no more?
And friendship, as if spoken by a distant bird

Whose voice has been ripped from evolution’s side
We, who were once two butterflies at noon
In our starry youth, overcome with glee
The tides have turned and we’ve been beaten

By men who would be our competition,
What mystery pervades such a world
Where the street and brutality have new meaning
And poverty a disfigured face to those
Who once might have shown us kindness.

Created By a Touch of Doubt


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Today the air is clear of everything, for
It’s a brand new day
And I am everything and nobody

Just the way I like it, grand and serene
Anonymous yet friendly, my sense
Is honed to innovation and the future
There is nothing I crave from biology
Today I am older and younger

Than ever before, wiser and stronger
As if none of us had ever been here before
Today is the day of my realization

The singularity in me reaches its apex
Let me be the intelligence of my soil
Let epigenetics of my choices wash over me
In a hush, a quiver, and a whisper
Of all the people I have been

A sovereign ghost of a life, that cannot
Stay the same in such an inscrutable world
I’m blotched out beyond unblotching
And in sync with the universe beyond dying.

First Snow


There’s music in the first snow
Like the foam of Seas, it’s ethereal
Letters of rock and water to Woman
To Man, a sub-music of the blue
Skies and clouds and seas

It’s the gulls of the cosmic rain
Variations on what winter means
The death of ease, the struggle for comfort
Unless in darkness, you find yourself?
We stepped over icicles of white

We felt it in our breath, sang our songs
It is cold to be forever young
And inside we are still so young
Sun-bleached are we not, we remember
The feel of winter on our laps

A humidity in the back of our throats
The jaded hope that this too will pass
It’s a faith of nature’s cycles that’s for sure
There’s music in the first snow
And release, release from so many things.

The vivid things that never change



Lights out. Shades up.
The bloom in your heart is running
A weather to look at,
The sun peaking through your dreams
A cosmos to deliver your thirst
Boulevards closed. Souvenirs sunset.
It’s time for starts to earn your trust
Perceived by feeling, instead of sense
Allowed by intuition to run wild
The instinct that loves the dark
Lights out. Shades up.
A revolution of the years gone
The time left, its so slim now
The trees cannot wait till morning
The inherent opposites are coming to fruition
The bloom in your heart is dripping
A sudden world without time
Where you existed, immersed
From any future, simply ever-living and being.

Arcades of Cadence



The poem of the mind is a final act
An act of longing with the universe
The script was a language
And the talent was a heart

As simple as a rain drop or a snow flake
The architect was a feeling universe
The women of the time, the something else

That made us a theater and that
Brought golden souvenirs as subjects
Allows us to feel more than we could speak

The poems would suffice, for a
Life where the scene was always setting
Repeated in an light that was always evening
Sunsets that constructed a stage
That was always glowing, it was like

Words spoken to the thin rare luminous air
Of moonlight, morning mist and the face
Of a Beloved that wasn’t an audience but

An actor, maybe created by our own imagination
That was how we survived and revealed ourselves
To ourselves, and those were the feelings that

Were rightfully ours, the finding of a satisfaction
That all life feels, the poems passing through
Wheels of light to return above some mountain tops.


The brightness of arms

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The brightness of arms

What more is there to love
Than I have loved, that we have loved?
The lips of creation are bright

Time floods with senseless syllables
Images, identities, centuries full of
The lust of all approaching feeling
A haunted youth of this world’s
Agony of moisture, and trembling of suns

A blur of archives and smiles
Deaths and glories and forests burning
And this first clear pure canto

Of all we have ever felt, is it glittering now
A memory renacted, an augmented reality?
Earth is more than that, bathed in a body
Of oxygen and water, a blanket of snow
She’s the leaping of lakes and the dreaming of clouds

And the impersonal cities towering
Above the people, how they nameless walk
Naked into their fate, blind as circuits

What more is there to do
Than I have done, than we do by habit?
Burying ourselves in raising children
Escaping the world in our work.
We’ve called this living, but I am not sure

I am not sure we compose,
That we compose enough peace in peace time
And altruism in prosperity time

And art in dream time
And hope in harsh times.
I guess we’ll see, I guess on wings more subtle
Than mercy and compassion, I’ll find
Identity naked again, ahead of spirituality.




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Where is the hand, between

The future and the past

The mouth that spells vowels

Of another kind of mind?


The hand between the candle

And what was once a wall

Now it’s virtual, an illuminated

Wall between all lights


The man in a room with

An image of the world

It’s no longer what the world is

That woman is no longer there


She’s somebody and something else

Where is the hand, between

One moment and the next

When time accelerates exponentially


The speed of human change

Giving way to algorithms, seasons

Of another kind, and is it lonely there?

As lonely as it was once before?


It must be that the hand

Is another kind of intelligence

Permeating what was once dead space

Now space and time have new meaning

But will love grow larger

In this automated android world?


When Nature With Rubies & Stars Pelteth Me 

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When the night is almost done
And we have walked a life of years
Dark and light, with uniforms of snow
Steps through rain and dimples ready

To face the morning’s mist
When body is in her frightened hour
Do not be afraid, soul
Spirit that shines in smiling procession

For change bears her faithful witness
There is no fight in the Great Spirit
She’s just there, in peace and surrender
A vacancy of meditation’s ambush

On heights of piercing wild
Where stars are free above the winds
When the day has come
To look inside your self

And silence like an ocean rolls
I will hear the voice of Time
And she will fling her speech in prayer
And all beauty will unscrutinize

For nature is the bright majority
She guides the continual crowning
Of my steps, and takes me by the hand
A feminine onset of eternity
In my blood, and health in my shared oxygen.

Men And Women

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A little road not made by man
A little God made by them
A little country of men

I only sigh, nationalism is dead to me
We are not tribe or empire states
We are people on a planet

In a Universe full of people
A little road to the stars
A little racing into the future

A little goal of centuries
And sunshine that bows to everything
Giving life, as we will one day

Creation has so many forms
Gods do not assume their superiority
While men dream and toil

Women should rule
A little Goddess to heal the world.

Into the Stars

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Into the Stars

An everywhere of silver

An everywhere of love

That’s what life is, in essence

A unity of being and becoming

Until I becomes we

And we becomes us

With breath to track the land

And a heart to hold the sky

And morning lit with a bud

Of breaking sunlight in the eyes

An everywhere of gold

An everywhere of eyes

That’s what life is, the melody

Of a trillion echoes of lives

A unity of hope

Until diversity revolts

We are splinter colonies

Lifting our little girls to the stars.

The Second of November


It was in the white of the year
That Father left the Multiverse
But death was a sweet hour
OF faith and dazzled face

For Time and God to converge
Or that Ethereal zone to confide
No longer to be confined on Earth
And little self and tea for beggars

With sons and friends to hold
One’s life, and to hold the ears
Of memory and all that was left unsaid
Unknown, private for paradise

The soul should know what the body doubted
The heart remains silent to fend off grief
The dying need but little, dear !
The inner room is where it is said

We forget our name for Good
The self is but a collection of choices
Some temporary disease of identity
How trivial the flesh, the spirit
Lives eternally, in wood and words
In a hush of prayer that blankets everything.

This Juvenile World 

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I’m haunted in November again
In corridors of time’s fleeting
To be a ghost oneself, to oneself
In the lonesome places
Where age meets security

To be shut up in verse
Like an artist tied and captive
To the abolishment of normalcy
The lives others lead, I’ve been
Placed inside a closet of make-believe

And when I show my head
To the world, I feel absurd
Or else, the world appears absurd to me
But what if I abolished creativity
In separate drawers, art has a smaller possession

Than it once did in dreary youth
But I’m still Nobody, Who have you become?
We’re not a pair of invisible, we’re separated
By digital noise, channels as juvenile
As the potential of a word, the possibility of a voice
There’s nothing the world has,
That I want anymore, it’s a con and a game
With every blossom and on every bush
My route to evanescence is a Saturday hush.

Musts, Shoulds and Could’vebeens

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The solemn years have ended
In bliss of holidays extended
And parting with the world
Still unfair, with but a hope to dream

With tolling bell and taxes taken
It’s time for death, and nothing less
The centuries have not smiled like this
Since 1956, or else

Good news can be the common way
Our bones and teeth still have decayed
Time was not differ than what it is
You say that’s just life, I must have heard wrong

How heaven could be so sad?
And life so bottomless a well
Of mystery and anonymously clad
What’s on its way is going and gone

Time for eternity, never enough….
There are no “complete poems”
Only preferments and stations
That must dissolve, this purple state

Into a balance of modest clay and ash
The unblushing end is upon us here
So stay a while majesty and regret
That we might have loved, a little bit more

The sad world in her corrupt gown
With all the same stories and fallen angels like
The soldier, peasant, monk and squirrel:
We are just weary creatures here
Awareness of the end, is the beginning of the end.

Death Comes

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If I should die, leave me here
In books, buried poems, last thoughts
For we all have the commerce to continue
Life, it will do well without us
That’s just the gentleman of Spring

Evolution with a smile
If I should die, live on as before
For I cannot help what I missed
Oh dear, I hardly lived if but for you
The final summer was not so unlike
The seasons that came before

If I should die, I’ve lived on dread
The danger of not living up to the self
The self that conjured up an identity
And some pet works for a while
If I never have children, then do not judge me

Strange that each one’s loving
Comes to nothing in the end
Sweet hours have perished here
And a heart divided by time
With room enough to ask the universe
If she too felt the thrill of the unknown.

Meeting of Artists

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It was my soul, that unsuspected lay
The brilliant eyes of our meeting
In voluptuous spiritual clarity

Flattered by thy faithfulness to literature
The hidden merits of a lifetime
Of soul-searching, angelic choirs

And tears that probe the unseen
My yearning means nothing if
I resign the future to her promises

I hold part of the sanctuary
In my vision of delight in evolution
It was my soul, cast to eternity
Felt the golden skin of a future self
It was not me, it was genius incarnate

And she called me like a counsellor
To tell me of the triumph of love
In the embrace of a network
Where the internet is lost in sacred connection
Art would not lose itself but regain

The love withdrawn in declining time
That saves from soul and spirit’s tide
In a pure disseminated peaceful ray.

If Love Be

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Love is anterior to life
Or is it just the plume
The hummingbird’s regard
In a lonely pilgrimage?

Prayer are my paralyzing footsteps
Of this obscure fogged air
Perhaps there is no enchanted prize
At the end of the weary way

If there are limits to our dream
Then maybe it’s the world
Not our fault, just a symptom
Of the decay of the times

If love is just a supreme moment
In a ruddy effort to survive
Than what new value has the soul?
That finds goodwill, posterior to death.

Life is not a Duty; It’s a Will

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Sameness dulls the mind
And love shakes the heart
So do not be too cautious
This life is enough to sip

Do not hurry, but
Carry lovely garlands in your hair
And smile to break up the sameness
Burn with courage, to

Shatter the dullness
Remembering those things
We did in our youth….
Be young and stay beautiful

Give your heart to the world
Or live a miserable existence
We’re all inches from dying
Our genes are mutating at every instance

Instead of playing roles, play music
The music of risk and ventures
The art of losing and winning
In a speed of learning and changing

Life is too short to forget
What longing means, what reddening brows
What breasts that shoot like cupid
Whose heart is apple-plucked

Too soon must drop to the ground
But fruit is meant to be eaten and bountiful
Love is meant to be poignant and profound
Who takes joy in the wounds and errors

Finds life a garden of many delights
There is not enough courage to go around
To find a life worth the exercise of hunts
And strong muses to fill your life

With resonance, spirits, colors
How delicate and wanton the Graces
How easily we lose obedience to desire
As if a safe secure life was the goal.

The Sapphire Memories 

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I’ve cut my soul into divine strips
To deliver me into my own bliss
It is selfish to crave altars

Whose bright shaking leaves spell Autumn
I am a flowing here like honey
My heart is liquid and melts
To the touch of beings, the sight
Of worlds, I am a bit of everything

The festive joy that resides
After bodies, experience, simulations
The game of roses is nearly done


I am a flicker of a spirit
Drawn in incense and silence
Can you feel me there too?
And pour all that is left of me
Into golden midnight and moons

With the fragrance of nature’s delicacy
The vulnerability that never departs
And the safety of a trillion glittering forms

I am all of those and shine still on Earth
No matter the ruined paradise of cities
Old and wretched, and empires,
Keen to exploit the people, it’s always
Been the same, silver tunics, obedient daughters


It’s easy to make a vision with the ones you love
But the truth is never what it appears to be
To unloose the beauty of your eyes

Is to find the rapture of nature once again
There is no equal of that among the Gods
That which most excites the mind is divine
Abstract, like the fuel of the centuries
Whose voice is sweet yet so impersonal.

The Focus of my Little Prayers

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I started early, took my dog
And visited the sea of poems
There in the basement of dreams
I found the lilacs staring back at me
I was impressed by the melody

How the sea withdrew in felicity
There was no turning back, it was set
The moon waltzed above my head

And I like mortals swooned
On the page of my youth
Where slow-motion still loved
The quietness distilled
From silence of the dove

And the summer made me beautiful
Inside, to protect me from the dying
Change was enhanced in song

Through sequestered scattered afternoons
And I was as much, my own sun
As the light escapes across the white
Across the wet throngs of spring
To be a poet of all the things we might become

Enlarging loneliness, with an inner smile
Finding joy in emptiness, that’s what
I know best, and it’s how I’ve survived

These books of bronze and blaze
And haloes of another time
I’ve felt the wizard suns
From distant eyes and praised
It’s all I have to bring today

All I am is me, and it’s a meadow wide
And it’s a storm’s encircling pride
And in my heart there is no setting or rising
There just lives a poem, that cannot die.

The Last Offering

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I come, to the void of myself often
It is the soul of my solitude
It is where all the curtains are drawn

And I am in my own privacy, in touch
With something of the divine
I go there like an escape from the outside world

It is my heart of subjectivity
And I do not find it at all terrifying
It’s a splendour to own such a place

A piece of art, an order of nature
The soul built by spiritual suffering
A palace of mysticism who could understand?

What to an artist is their dream
To the cruel world how futile and juvenile
But we all require a soul to function

* * *

A spirit to push us through those terrible nights
Where the world is truly against us
And we are abandoned by friendship, love, profit

How many days of my life have I slept there
Alone, for that is the self-indulgence of
Risking and of striving illicitly, stubbornly

Against the peer pressure of such a conforming world
That cares for profit, reproduction, tradition
Perhaps we are not all made for that, I do not know?

But friends do leave and a dull pragmatism does
Set in, like the idea of responsibility for ordinary things
As when mates leave us for our idealism

I would have imagined it would be a virtue
But what if in all of this, the world is wrong?
And my soul is right, and I am doing what

I was meant to do all along, how shall I forgive myself then
For squandering my talent in subjectivity
And loving my own doom through it all

* * *

There is no room in this world for poets
So perhaps we shall do it as if in secret revolt
The revolution is always born inside

I need no solace from existence, only
My divine food, my guise of dream, my birthright
Of sacred psychology, that is why I write

It’s not a delusion nor in glowing pink afternoons
A mistake I made in being who I chose to be
It’s my exercise in the cosmos and empathy

It’s my last belonging to simplicity
It’s me mimicking all I thought was beautiful
To be grateful for a moment, together
With silence, whiteness, bareness, authentic authority.

If Nothing Lasts 

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Glittering with minds I come from the future
Hopeful with chariots of voice, I arrive from the past
We meet here smiling with deathless eyes
In the present, and that’s down the sky

We are children of trees and citizens
Of oxygen, we’ve breathed our genes
Into the stones, into the oceans
And I am the cry out to you; again

We all arrive at self-knowledge through love
And that’s when we love against all obstacles
Giving in spite of ourselves, our defects
They are immaterial, we are not engineered

We arrived here by long evolution
A journey that never stops giving gifts
I am not ungrateful to the tragedies
That have taught me humility and gratitude

I will go on like a hero fallen, like a lover, lost:
Be here, by me, stand by my side
If only for a few weeks, months – I cannot
Expect years, happiness comes like a lovely child

That will grow up and maybe
Never to return, all life is miracle, altars, that flicker
If only by chance for a little while
In that timing of suppliant will, I am the mutable

Grass, birds, clouds, families, relationships
That trickle back to the ocean that knows
No cares like mortals, no breaths with heart-beats
No cheeks that redden with the humiliations of a lifetime.
That’s not important, nothing lasts.

Among Rivers of Dark Purple

EJ Koh

If I should die, then let my poems live on
Or that they should die and I should
Be free, of the gurgle and of existence

That is so personal and yet so irrelevant
To the cosmos that sings of eternity’s theme
And golden birds of our dreams than burn

Against the sun that is Time’s will
Her signature that I should die
When it is her will, and I will write
Not unlike the sky to the horizon
Of sunsets and the commerce of the living

Where parts the parting skies of hours
Hours that float and rise and lift
The conduct of all pleasing scenes

* * *

All smiles, all beloveds that left
So then, how wonderful is Death
And dying to ourselves, and the spirituality

Of the waning moon that blushes over
The entire world, of heartbreak that lasts forever
Maybe, I’m numb now to the passing wonderful
The subjectivity that was once so intense
Is now a common flower, I won’t mediate

Anytime soon in cemeteries but I ponder
The seasons of my life, that drank in darkness
And could not find the light, whether in myself

Or reach the intimacy in others with
The skin of my soul, my life’s inauthenticity
Is the corpse of my doubt and cowardice

* * *

That never truly knew love, or had the courage
To wrestle danger with a smile or succumb
To the pressures of a common life, perhaps
I will die young, bohemian and a bit wild
Where I feel the breath of Armageddon

In the silence, can death hit me then like this?
When my heart already has some lack
Of oxygen, my heart-beats lack a sturdy foot
What of my brain that drips in lost memory
The better part of who I used to be.

Ecstasy Once Leapt, but Not in Me

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Ecstasy Once Leapt, but Not in Me

I felt a cleavage in my brain

For hope and faith and love again

That the Earth did not do good

Or my heart knew not how to summon

The friendship I so desired, but could not find

The slumbering pain of tragedy

Lingered like a shell next to the lost sea

Of if my human nature could survive

*                      *                      *

While I aged in years that

Only secrets could keep pacts

With immortality, I was bare

A bird, a sky, a planet’s lone summit

And the barren ethereal throng

Could not feel what I maybe once was

All the love of youth had fell

For nature’s curtain of harsh reality

That the Earth did not do evil

Perhaps it was just I that felt the

Sequence of the ravelled fate

Where destiny parted with thee.

The Death of Songs

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Eun Ji, the pen that must lift from the heart
Is the poet tired of the sensation of addiction
So we commit suicide to art, knowing it will set us free
Like adolescent love, that must one day too must pass

And the tragedy that became our comfort zone
We sublimated it into something else
Obsession for the ritual that represented
Our salvation from loneliness, though

It made us immortalize the lonely ache
O’ Eun Ji, it was me who watched thee on
The stage, I watched a thousand Korean dramas
Just to get a hint of who you might be

I grant I never saw a goddess go;
Nor found a literary mistress in the poetic snow
Seattle being too distant a dream to me
But roses are forever sometimes, like poems

That burn not with false compare, but mimic
In the twilight, the cheeks that we ours
Who swore in loneliness, that they found comradeship
And yet still, by heaven, I think you are as rare

As any poet I hoped to know, hoped to read
And if I ever had a love of the pen, or a muse
Or wished the music of the soul, of pain
Or whatever note the throat could soar
And swear that art was something more real.


Cosmology Practice

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There is a light in my little brain
A secret depth in my special soul
That does not measure but experiences
An inner realm of shinning immortality

It sees in nature the oneness of the worlds
And in unity, finds a boundless grace
Stars vast with gratitude’s taste
And eyes with vision for a greater inclusive love

There are deeds I’ve done from
My spirit’s blank humility, where I
To myself no longer do exist
And I become a meditation of the lonely years

Filled with giving, silence and purity
There I am somebody else, or another stage
I exist there not to profit, or to please
Or to procreate but to admire and cherish

To empathize and serve a cause I can believe in
To fulfill the universe in my own rhapsody
And to calculate my seeking in pure poetry.

The Earth Has No Lovers Left 


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In the garden of my mind
I hear strains of rare music
It’s not the pungent quotes of the young
It’s something else, like the

Philosophical banter of a true friend
And how unlikely an embrace it is
To listen to that silent music
It’s not like the stroke of birds or cats

Not like the worrisome tone of human beings
It’s evening set in her recurring majesty
That! Never truly gets old somehow
In the garden of her mind I find

The walls of beauty, revealing luxury
But I sit and ask myself how profound
Is it, what is she missing in her cocktail of
Yearning youth and burning ambition

I think she’s missing a spirit, a skirt of soul
I cannot judge, but I suspect she’s dancing
To the beat of the world’s drum, some hyper
Post-modern standard of perfection

It’s the famed and over-used contemporary tango
And it’s the voice that rings out on all sides
But that’s not the beauty I adhere to, nor
The values that secretly quench me

I’m more attracted to an altruism
The way a cat embodies the sun of morning
Stretched out and like a kitten again
Purrs their grey eyes into the distance

Where life is a meditation, and youth is just
One asana, in a long sequence of fire and prayer
There aren’t any lovers left who can save me
I’m on a one way course to divinity

There’s no taxi where I’m going
There’s no snare yet available quite like God
O’ and the universe, if I can’t have love
I’ll drink the Earth into her cosmic underwear.

The Unexpected Death of Idealism


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Oh, there’s reason for these sighs
And peace, from maturity
Inertia of no longer fighting
For ideals that are bigger than self

That’s the vague grey canvas of age
Talking, strangely through time
An apathy of our youthful heroism
I can wish now late, with words and spitefulness

But nothing empties dreams faster
Than poverty, student debts, a harsh economy
I said goodbye, to art, to fantasy, to women
But my heart keeps coming back

I pray to the soft ray by the window pane
And to my peach hibiscus that has blossomed
Unexpectedly, there’s a white peacock
In my dreams, that wakes me form my silence

I brood for a future me, and for a feminist hysteria
But there’s no raspberry jam, no honey and tea
I cannot forgive a world that doesn’t fight
For a better world, that’s not the legend of love

That I’m a part of, I want a higher cause
A championed course, and kids that believe
In more than profit and competition
Oh, there’s reason for these sighs

That come with a price of actually caring
About what’s happening to the world
A world that doesn’t beg for your love
It only evolves quicker without you

I’ve no cure for happiness, when
The majority has it worse than I do.


White Nights of Beijing

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China, do you hear whispers of the people?
I’ve written down the words
That a country doesn’t dare to speak
But the firewalls are large and heavy

And Hong Kong remains lethargic too
The umbrella revolution didn’t get far
Can students change the world?

Let the leaves rustle and the economy slow
The horn cries and the people do not move
It’s back to the drawing room, I hear
The factories are becoming robotized

You travel an entire day to bring
Your Mother a bouquet of flowers
She has never received one before like this

You came to Canada in idleness and prosperity
But now you realize the years pass silently
In the homeland, while you think of yourself
The people suffer, more miserable than you

I’ve not lit the candles but I know
Which way the wax runs, in times of
Masks worn in dark corners of Beijing

The air is no longer pure, sunsets gloom
With the light of the drunk sounds of
Brainwashing and patriotic outcries
This is not North Korea, but this is control

I speak those words, today, that come
Born of the spirit of history, I know
How the decades go, preserving tradition

Enhancing glory, bright bouquets that press
The people into the streets, without answers
A clavichord of feudalism staining
The times with guilt, that some make it

While the sea of people must go without
I will not belong to a world of inequality
I will not thrive until we can share it.


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P.S. A world of nations and patriotism is not a free world. One world, one future.

Notes from the Future Underground

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(Love letters to Asia)

I snow dive into you
Like the air of Autumn beating
Against your chest, the yearning

Of youth that is no longer young
Trapped in an aging body
My face knows no mercy!
I am the dove of white stitching
With a heart for a stranger’s smile

I’m an open lake of enigmas and
Surreal plaything of golden leaves
If you wish to, look into my eyes

There is nothing but guarded purity there
An endless array of ideals before sunset
I’ve cherished things and people
I will never meet, never see
But simply by knowing they exist

I am made more noble, more caring
About a world that shows only
It’s rough underbelly, it’s trials and stupidities

A civilization so vulnerable that believes
Capitalism will last forever
But I see the cracks in the system
The memory of corruption bare
And I will not agree to disagree, I will fight

For a revolution if need be, while I am young
Chilled and numb, I will not take
My place among the profiteers

Who joyless create a dead world
I drink to my soul, with the straws of eternity
And have distance foundations in my view
I strategize with machine learning paradigms
For more than flowers of written down words

I strive for an Autumn of convergence
That won’t be attainable until many years from now.


P.S. Instagram is blocked in China.