HK-2012
(1)
Friend, talk to me.
Why won't you talk to me
like a friend?
I am here.
Where are you?
Do you say you never knew?
But you did,
I saw you there
while you killed the little bear.
"It was for the greater good,"
was what you thought there while you stood.
But now the mother's anger's roused
to take you out, your fire doused.
Yet now you hide, you disappear
when you're needed so, my dear.
Behind your reasons misdefined
as mist mists misty misty-eyed.
But it's you who have missed, isn't it?
If you were here to discuss
it'd be resolved, wouldn't it?
"But I am here," or so you said.
How can you keep that fiction in your head?
You plainly see, you don't see me,
my crushed spirit and mangled body,
cry out to you for all to see
and there you are, away from me.
I talk to you, though you're not there,
imaginary conversations in my head,
where I think how you might respond,
in turn,
and see what that does to the space between us.
It burns.
Now nothing left but ash and fate,
twisted dreams and broken gates,
yet I resolved still not to hate,
nor take revenge. I contemplate
what might be better
down in the pool
of emptiness emptied, sitting on a stool
with evil sloshing at my feet,
I can see the horizon,
and you're not there
while broken dreams, they at me stare,
their shattered pieces break the pool,
which sinks below,
now only shards of dreams for me to stand on.
Tread lightly, for you tread on broken glass.
How does one repair a broken dream?
One is all who's left, I mean.
I smell a faded flower,
one with no scent.
Smells better than the battered bodies
left behind
beneath the dreams that line the ground,
growing sharper and taller
as the stool sinks, too,
and I am forced to stand
somewhere
in this field of past-present-future,
be they dreams or reality,
which now line my empty pockets
being filled as I dive head first
down,
while still no one is around.
(2)
I put out my hands
to catch my falling form,
and as the dreams rush toward me,
ready to pierce in every direction,
I grab the shards with my hands,
as I slide down, being sliced,
(these are larger than they looked),
now the shards grow into mountains,
like windows of things not realized,
grow so large so fast
that now sunlight pierces through them,
and I see my dreams play like movies
through the stained glass mountains
now surrounding me,
stained with the blood of my hands.
...but now, just a moment passed,
and they eclipse even the sun,
the sky,
darkness all around,
around where?
I am nowhere
again.
But is it no-where, or now-here?
All the words seem to run together
nowadays
without someone to hear them
reflect,
except the broken glass,
my dreams,
but that's still me,
no other,
not-her? (type-o?)
Yet before a chance to think
becomes
mountaintops pierce the sky,
still not piercing me,
my stinging hands,
which I can't see,
in the valley of dreams,
with thunder
(th[e]-under?)
as the sky is pierced
with what was left
abandoned
so long ago
as I looked for her
or him
or whoever
(wha-??)
--no time to think,
the sky is falling,
the earth quakes as the mountains break apart,
and the ground up glass
falls like dust and sand
and flint and ash
still hot
all over me,
burying me,
not sinking,
just an avalanche
(ave-launch?)
all over me--
can't feel my hands now,
hard to breathe-- dust!
Can't breathe in,
no
*breath*
*cough*
*nausea*
(thought: so, what are you all up to these days?)
... breathing still reflexive...
I breathe in and out my shattered dreams,
my lungs seem to have a thicker skin--
I mean, alveoli--
(all've you lie?)
lie
it's like I'm lying down
sitting up,
hands are gone,
feeling the dust filled inside
and expired,
but I'm still breathing,
at the bottom of an ocean of sand,
which I created.
But I'm still breathing.
And dreaming
my old dreams
come back to haunt me,
(do they?)
still inside,
outside,
inside,
unable to distinguish
extinguish,
nope, still there
and there
and here,
yes
now
enough breaths,
I am the ocean of sand
below your feet,
whose treads I now feel
on me,
even though I can't see,
since sand has no eyes,
and ocean no ears,
the turbulent waves inside
can be seen crashing around you,
too,
like the ocean I am,
across,
cross the ocean.
See you in Hong Kong.
Not quite the way I imagined going to China
or learning my purpose
or 'dying for my people,'
but...
(3)
...what else can a conquered people do but
resist
reform
revolute?
Fission
(fishin'?)
remission
mission
redefined
fined
defined
(deafened?)
tried,
proven untrue
untried
(untied?)
tide
stem the tide,
but no,
the ocean remains.
(burn the land,
boil the sea,
you...)
You!
I see you.
See me
do you?
Dew ewe sea mi
ma
mo
xu
du
.iu
si
oops, that's ungrammatical.
Get it? No? Do I talk to much?
I thought you stopped talking to me long ago?
What, not any more?
Why?
What's in your question?
Still no questions?
Then I have no answers.
I don't really know what I'm doing.
What?
I answer your unasked question.
But you have no questions?
All has been answered, then,
believe your dogma
without question
and... see how that turns out. (Sea? ¿Sí?)
So, now what?
(No W. hat?)
Do I get to
live my dreams
as she said?
Close
find one close
to be close
with?
(talk WITH; sounds much more reciprocal than talk TO.
That must be why mi tavla fo la lojban. .e ku'i mi tavla ma)
Suppose the only way to find out
is to
find
out.
So, I'm out for the finding. Pray that I don't choke on my sand.
Yeah, "Who am I talking *with*?" indeed.
© Gabriel Koulikov
Friend, talk to me.
Why won't you talk to me
like a friend?
I am here.
Where are you?
Do you say you never knew?
But you did,
I saw you there
while you killed the little bear.
"It was for the greater good,"
was what you thought there while you stood.
But now the mother's anger's roused
to take you out, your fire doused.
Yet now you hide, you disappear
when you're needed so, my dear.
Behind your reasons misdefined
as mist mists misty misty-eyed.
But it's you who have missed, isn't it?
If you were here to discuss
it'd be resolved, wouldn't it?
"But I am here," or so you said.
How can you keep that fiction in your head?
You plainly see, you don't see me,
my crushed spirit and mangled body,
cry out to you for all to see
and there you are, away from me.
I talk to you, though you're not there,
imaginary conversations in my head,
where I think how you might respond,
in turn,
and see what that does to the space between us.
It burns.
Now nothing left but ash and fate,
twisted dreams and broken gates,
yet I resolved still not to hate,
nor take revenge. I contemplate
what might be better
down in the pool
of emptiness emptied, sitting on a stool
with evil sloshing at my feet,
I can see the horizon,
and you're not there
while broken dreams, they at me stare,
their shattered pieces break the pool,
which sinks below,
now only shards of dreams for me to stand on.
Tread lightly, for you tread on broken glass.
How does one repair a broken dream?
One is all who's left, I mean.
I smell a faded flower,
one with no scent.
Smells better than the battered bodies
left behind
beneath the dreams that line the ground,
growing sharper and taller
as the stool sinks, too,
and I am forced to stand
somewhere
in this field of past-present-future,
be they dreams or reality,
which now line my empty pockets
being filled as I dive head first
down,
while still no one is around.
(2)
I put out my hands
to catch my falling form,
and as the dreams rush toward me,
ready to pierce in every direction,
I grab the shards with my hands,
as I slide down, being sliced,
(these are larger than they looked),
now the shards grow into mountains,
like windows of things not realized,
grow so large so fast
that now sunlight pierces through them,
and I see my dreams play like movies
through the stained glass mountains
now surrounding me,
stained with the blood of my hands.
...but now, just a moment passed,
and they eclipse even the sun,
the sky,
darkness all around,
around where?
I am nowhere
again.
But is it no-where, or now-here?
All the words seem to run together
nowadays
without someone to hear them
reflect,
except the broken glass,
my dreams,
but that's still me,
no other,
not-her? (type-o?)
Yet before a chance to think
becomes
mountaintops pierce the sky,
still not piercing me,
my stinging hands,
which I can't see,
in the valley of dreams,
with thunder
(th[e]-under?)
as the sky is pierced
with what was left
abandoned
so long ago
as I looked for her
or him
or whoever
(wha-??)
--no time to think,
the sky is falling,
the earth quakes as the mountains break apart,
and the ground up glass
falls like dust and sand
and flint and ash
still hot
all over me,
burying me,
not sinking,
just an avalanche
(ave-launch?)
all over me--
can't feel my hands now,
hard to breathe-- dust!
Can't breathe in,
no
*breath*
*cough*
*nausea*
(thought: so, what are you all up to these days?)
... breathing still reflexive...
I breathe in and out my shattered dreams,
my lungs seem to have a thicker skin--
I mean, alveoli--
(all've you lie?)
lie
it's like I'm lying down
sitting up,
hands are gone,
feeling the dust filled inside
and expired,
but I'm still breathing,
at the bottom of an ocean of sand,
which I created.
But I'm still breathing.
And dreaming
my old dreams
come back to haunt me,
(do they?)
still inside,
outside,
inside,
unable to distinguish
extinguish,
nope, still there
and there
and here,
yes
now
enough breaths,
I am the ocean of sand
below your feet,
whose treads I now feel
on me,
even though I can't see,
since sand has no eyes,
and ocean no ears,
the turbulent waves inside
can be seen crashing around you,
too,
like the ocean I am,
across,
cross the ocean.
See you in Hong Kong.
Not quite the way I imagined going to China
or learning my purpose
or 'dying for my people,'
but...
(3)
...what else can a conquered people do but
resist
reform
revolute?
Fission
(fishin'?)
remission
mission
redefined
fined
defined
(deafened?)
tried,
proven untrue
untried
(untied?)
tide
stem the tide,
but no,
the ocean remains.
(burn the land,
boil the sea,
you...)
You!
I see you.
See me
do you?
Dew ewe sea mi
ma
mo
xu
du
.iu
si
oops, that's ungrammatical.
Get it? No? Do I talk to much?
I thought you stopped talking to me long ago?
What, not any more?
Why?
What's in your question?
Still no questions?
Then I have no answers.
I don't really know what I'm doing.
What?
I answer your unasked question.
But you have no questions?
All has been answered, then,
believe your dogma
without question
and... see how that turns out. (Sea? ¿Sí?)
So, now what?
(No W. hat?)
Do I get to
live my dreams
as she said?
Close
find one close
to be close
with?
(talk WITH; sounds much more reciprocal than talk TO.
That must be why mi tavla fo la lojban. .e ku'i mi tavla ma)
Suppose the only way to find out
is to
find
out.
So, I'm out for the finding. Pray that I don't choke on my sand.
Yeah, "Who am I talking *with*?" indeed.
© Gabriel Koulikov