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 trillion 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 and sucked of all its time.

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

Expanding into space

outer,
empty,
dead
space.

Just space, taking up space, creating space,
transforming

trans (taking)

gone.

space.

Lying on the ruins of a billion other dead ends just like it.

Nearly obliterated like them.

Almost breathless. But still heaving.

still funneling consciousness into this

percolating information into this

transmitting noise into

this.

Pointlessness until here. Endless roads. Until now.

Breaking ground. Broken.

How, not sure.

A howl, quite sure.

Throttling from the valves of a million dead faces,

Spiraling through the reams of the blood in this body,

Through these open veins:

A broken nation. Long lost tribe(s).

Ancient wisdom;

I am still here with you, as you are still here with me.

Tomorrow we fight another day;

Look up from the deep, the static

All of time and space,

The stars.

They’re still ours.

Author: J.T.

JIMBO TIMES is about the heart of a nation, which begins with the heart of a woman. It was the 1980s, and hailing from the dusty trails of her pueblo of San Pedro in the mountains of Oaxaca, Mexico, my mom crossed over 2,000 miles to find work as a garment laborer in downtown Los Angeles. Shortly afterwards, she met my father. He had just escaped from a civil war in El Salvador and was working as a handyman for an apartment complex in East Hollywood. They were both in their mid-twenties when they met, and in 1989, they married to give birth to me and my brother, respectively. Ten years later, before my brother and I became teenagers, my father left. Heartbroken, but not overcome, my mom didn’t remarry, but chose instead to raise us on her own. It wasn’t the first time she had to start over. When mom was in the sixth grade, her father —a tradesman of el pueblo — was shot and killed by a jealous ex business partner. As the oldest of nine siblings, mom left school in order to take care of her brothers and sisters. She helped raise them alongside my grandmother for the next ten years, after which she'd leave for L.A. Today Mom's resilience is mine, which flows through JIMBO TIMES: a dedication to her and Los Angeles. J.T.

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