Look up from the deep, the static

Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019
Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019

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, 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

Fragmenting into space

outer,
empty,
dead
space.

Just space, taking 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.

Nearly breathless, though 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.

A howl throttling from eons away

The cells of a million dead bodies,

Spiraling through the blood of these hands,

Flourishing in these

Opened eyes:

A broken nation. Long lost tribe(s).

An ancient wisdom, still here with you:

How tomorrow we rise again.

Look up from the deep, the static

All of time and space,

The stars.

They’re still ours.

J.T.

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J.T.

Born and raised in the Los. Los Cuentos. J.T.

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