Gold Line, Chinatown; Winter 2019

Look up from the deep, the static

All you see is what was,

what is

Lungs inhaling, people slipping
past a line.

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

Light pulsing,


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, trapped within itself, drained 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 mute minor nothing.

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

Fragmenting into space


Amid a billion other empty spaces just like them.

A point nearly breathless, though still heaving.

A point nearly obliterated, but still funneling

A point, then a consciousness

A point still percolating information

and transmitting noise into


A point abandoned. Until now.

A point breaking ground until IT’S BROKEN;

Then a howl throttling from eons away,

Then a vision spiraling from the blood of these open veins,

Then 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.


Your thoughts: