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 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.

Lying amid a billion other empty spaces just like it.

Nearly breathless, though still heaving.

Nearly obliterated, but still funneling

Consciousness

still percolating information

still transmitting noise into

this.

Pointless roads. Until now.

Breaking ground until BROKEN

A howl throttles from eons away

A vision spirals from the blood of these veins:

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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J.T.

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

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