scruta

[Shanghai, night – Ferret is walking down the dark alley that connects his compound to the main road. There’s a Figure walking towards him in the shadows. He’s dressed nicely in a collared shirt and slacks with a light scarf slung around his neck. Ferret can’t make out his face so well, but he’s sure he’s a foreigner. Suddenly, in the dark light he appears to be Ferret‘s friend, Alex, a foreigner who recently moved into his alley. He calls to him as they pass each other.]

Ferret

Alex!

[The Figure stops, undoes his earplugs and turns to face Ferret.]

Figure

Yes?

[It’s not Alex.]

Ferret

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you looked like someone I know. Somebody named Alex.

Figure

But my name is Alex.

Ferret

[very embarrassed]

It’s another Alex. Sorry.

[Ferret scuttles away, embarrassed.]

Testudo

Glaucous

Shanghai as a blossom on a withered cherry tree brought suddenly back to life on a spring day when the sun shines on a cavalcade of armed men, making their way to the Eastern Sea, lost in the thoughts of their homes, the warm beds and soft bosoms of the women, praying secretly that the rising tides across the seas will not fall upon their shores, carrying torture and mayhem and atrocities only forgotten in the passing of time, slipping away from us so quickly, like a cherry bloom, bright, full and then fading into oblivion, gone and gone.

I want to make a concept album called “Amateur Band on the Verge of a Breakup”.

The track list will be as follows:

“No, that’s my solo”

“How could you say we sound like Radiohead?”

“Your girlfriend is getting in the way of the band”

“What do you mean you can’t make band practice?”

“A B-sharp is the same as a C, goddammit”

“I still think that we should all dye our hair blond”

“No, seriously, that’s my solo”

“You need to be more professional”

“Fuck you, I’m out (Fine, we don’t need you anyway)”

Shanghai0820: squatting in a dark alley at 11pm, looking at my iPhone, thinking about being anywhere but here

As one of those who dares to call himself poet, I’ve been writing abstractly about “the heart” for a long time. However, to tell the truth, I never knew what it was.

I’ve made up my mind.

The heart is you seeing yourself. It’s interchangable with “spirit” and “soul” as far as I’m concerned. It doesn’t get deeper or more metaphysical than that.

But I’m surprised. Pursuing this alone proves to be about as deep and metaphysical as it gets.

Shanghai, I read you like a palm. I walk your streets
seeing how far they go, stretching beyond me like the years ahead,
driving me forward. I dig at your pavements, testing the surfaces,
knowing the rougher they are, the stronger they are. I pursue every
spur, every junction, every cracking access road, holding them
close to myself like wives and concubines. I look at the pallor of
the concrete rising around me, finding in those shades of gray
meanings that pull me closer, deeper towards the swirling lines and
the veins of life pulsing beneath them.

Live with the strength of bamboo shoots,

Climb to the sky; affirm your roots.

Omerta

Sulcus

Most people in life are either makers or doers. (Some are both, but they’re rare.)

Scholars are doers. Poets and novelists are makers. Bloggers, essayists and journalists could be either; It really depends their agendas and the day.

The loudest doers are the actors; the quietest are the accountants. (Man, do they do them taxes.)

The loudest makers are the musicians; the quietest are engineers. (People don’t even realize how much they’ve made.)

Politicians want to be makers, but most of them are really just doers. (A lot of them aren’t even doers, either.)

Inventors want to be doers, but most of them are just makers.

Admen are makers, but everyone thinks they are just doers. Conceptual artists, too.

Nowadays, lovers often want to be makers, but most of them are just doing it.

Most people say that God is a maker, but there’s a growing minority that thinks God is just a doer.