The Growth Hackers


 

 

To have freedom Is not enough

In the half-sun where the future occurs

Faster and more brilliantly forever forward

I to innovation, must agree

 

That my life isn’t mine, it belongs

To the world, to a future I help build

To answers in my deepest questions

I resist the apocalypse of selfishness

 

Which is breeding, belonging and complacency

I do not accept comforts of organic repetition

There are enough billions of lives here

I give my life to something else

 

To have dream is not enough

We must be entrepreneurs, thinkers, philosophers

And create the light that changes

Our own apocalypse of meaning

 

Existence is then to be a coder

To self-learn so hard, we become

Another person, every decade, every moment.

Letters to Xiao Wei


 

Owl

 

 

Xiao Wei, it’s not unlike the gods to

Celebrate us without any idols

My organs dance to the design of time

 

My lips are streaked with silence

My heart is stained with flowers

My hopes are soft voices left unwhispered

 

My faith is a tenuous flame that gleams

Darkest in the adversity of the night

Xiao Wei, my spirit is hidden beneath

 

The miracles of our everyday duties

That pause and collapse like a winding universe

Whose goal is nothing, so how shall we

 

Feel the change, when spring arrives ~

When morning sends me a blanket of light

To roam, across your face, across hours

 

Where I must not desire too much

The ancient genes of ancestors

I can only linger with humility

 

I am not part of the loveliest, but

You are, I can see it in your strength

In the tilt of your hips to the stars

 

In the palpitant passion of your ray

In the seasonal angle for your inner sun

I feel it like a necklace of seashells

 

In the weight of your tired smile

In the fragrance of your voice

That rings like an emblem of consecration

 

For which I do not know the significance

I am only a bystander that happened

To look into your shinning parlour of fantastic peace

 

I know you by your gruelling song of radiance

By your fire of quality, your industry of creation.

Xiao Wei, stay close, entice me again with your wisdom.

Arcades of Cadence


 

Cadence.jpg

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.

arcadesofcadence

Transhumanica


 

 

Screen Shot 11-22-15 at 01.33 PM

 

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?

 

On Saying what you feel freely


Screen Shot 05-11-15 at 12.34 AM

Let’s not try to define ‘Poetry’

I have been self-indulgent
With the most transient of art-forms
Not music, but poetry
Embracing imagery so light and immediate
As to be considered a kind of jazz

On the beat of the unfinished work
Of moons, on the anonymous audience
That is everywhere and nowhere
Let me ready you some of my
Poetry, it’s just the sign of the whispers

That took me to another level
The comedy of being myself and learning
To be other than what I once was
Most people ignore poetry
Because it doesn’t live in their chords

They don’t have inner guitars
In the heart-chakra, that fit
Upon the little words they use
In the days, in-between their thoughts
I think poetry always lives

In-between people, in the energy
That they release when they
Come into contact with each other
Nobody ever tells us what to read
Poetry’s always dead you know

Reading it is like getting ready to die
And looking at all we have done
And said in retrospect, like a ritual
Of how we summarize meaning.

Unmentionables


Screen Shot 05-09-15 at 07.59 AM

Unmentionables

Come slowly, into my life
Like a tail wind of all the charm
I always wished for, but never found
The church of my faith is dim

I could submit so easily to the right person
Reaching late for a flower
Round my heart that hums
And lost in balms I’d be

A secret for you to savour, dear
Lost I am lit for this
Counting stars and nectars
In solitude, but not alone

I would be united
In every drop of blood
With something of life’s mystery
Eros to harrow in my looks

Wild winds to sweet my fears away
Uprooted yesterdays, I’d be
Vengeance of all the thrift
You saved in your years

Of places you never went
And intimacy you always craved.

Definition of Manhood


42


Don’t Ask me Who I am

It’s ironic to me then that a man
Is an arrow shooting into the future
And a woman is both the aim
And the place of strength from which

The bow shot the arrow in the first place
Oh well, It’s not like my mother failed
Just that I was a bit too pure for war
Not to be shot off into the world so quickly

Dying by that same arrow is an art
Though I think courage has died out
I’m not a man, in the sense of who they used to make them
Let me just live, love and say it well in

Good sentences, and I’ll be happy
As I commute from one hand to another
Like money, like the catalogue of value
I’ll be the unpublished writing

Who drowned in hot baths
Or a disclaimer than I never truly
Learned how to write but
I’m dying to get my soul back from you.

Last Stop


51

There is a last stop in all of us
A place our soul consents to rest
Few were the moonlit nights
That I’ve truly cared for after all

In the alphabet of stars
Time carried me until I was
Completely different
And with a fatigue of thought

I settled on dying a white death
After people were forgotten
There were still my dreams
Dreams I had held on to in spite

Of difficulties, tempests, dishonour
But memory is just a day
When somebody we cared for

Is replaced by somebody else or
The fleeting thing of hours
The turbulent street where everything blurs.

On Waiting for Love


Surfing with The Alien

You are so beautiful, like karmic prophecies
I hold you for the first and last time
With the remembrance of white loneliness

The eternity of jasmine of waiting
I waited for you my laughing Mandarin Queen
I lathed your body with soap

Out of the earth the sweet roughness
Of womb and smile and mother-qualities
The sacred touch of the helping hand

You are so beautiful, like I wish to always see again
To stir the night with our golden sceptre
Out of the love of hope, the weight of kingdom and tiredness

The last relief of a life well done
Where we can continue walking
After the bonfire of burned letters, misguided spouses

Who never experienced what we did so easily –
You are so beautiful, like honeyed-butter skin
Like a Taiwanese fruit so rare, you give rest to my eyes
And nobility to my “face level” heart.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Surfing-with-The-Alien-390729533

Till the Broken Creatures Part


4

I’ve grown accustomed to the dark
To witness enormous Goodbyes
The constant pain of remembering
Who you were, what you taught me

Life steps always straight
While we curve around nostalgia
For the newness of the night
Finds me erect for novelty

I’ve grown accustomed to the dark
Or something altered in sight
Now misery is my last response
A constant reminder of having felt home

With you, your light no longer
My witness, those months have ended
I remain knotted for the remaining years
An uncertain grasping for something that wasn’t there

By accident or by hidden gains
I’ve grown accustomed to the power of dream
That is the last action of remembering.