Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019

Look up from the deep, the static

All you see is what was,

what is
apparently,
enough.

Lungs inhaling, people slipping
past a line.

Space collapsing on itself;
time churning, slipping, sulking.

Light pulsing,
passing,
placing,

itself

on a face it’s seen before, or a billion of them

Only to leave them,
fading endlessly
into darkness.

Or what’s called darkness,
death, or a dead end. The abyss.

A dark point; or a point within itself.

A point not going anywhere, lying still in the middle of space.

A point trapped within itself, frozen,
suspended, sucked of all its time.

A point alive only when it’s named, but at no other point in time.

No other–
What’s the point

Getting larger and larger into emptiness.

Universe unfurling into a big empty nothing.

All forms of life fading, disintegrating from light, proceeding into darkness

Fragmenting into space

outer,
empty,
space.

Just space, taking space, creating space,
transforming

gone.

space.

A point lying amid a billion other empty spaces just like it.

A point nearly breathless, though still heaving.

A point nearly obliterated, but still funneling

A point; a consciousness

still percolating information

transmitting noise into

this.

Pointless roads. Until now.

Breaking ground until BROKEN

A howl throttling from eons away

A vision spiraling from the blood of these open veins,

A dream:

HOW tomorrow we rise again.

Look up from the deep, the static

All of time and space,

The stars.

They are still OURS.

J.T.

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