Five Poems from: The Future Is Humming

The Future Is Humming

We descend into the bunker of light,

into the sleepless white nightmachines anticipate.

By the river,a pear tree swaying,

your home,the longed-for footpath.

The pear blossoms must be in bloom.

Without thieves or cops,the ghost town's uneventful night.

Only young stars are jabbering.

As I walk onI'll probably cast a backward glance.

In the frosty hideoutsthey'll probably save humanity.

The world is like a burnt bagel,like a shoe shrunken smaller than the foot,

a clock that doesn't age,like a survival game for batteries.

Being terrestrial, I'llprovide you with a song,

the buzzing of bees,the whooshing sound of wind.

I'll provide the bare minimum of tomorrow,the invigorating knee of summer

resembling ambient music,

a home to return to,the hospitality of a souffle cake.

Prepare an apocalyptic screenplay20 meters under,

when the laughter of machinesclangs against the walls,

I'll provide you with a song more subtlethan the sound of rain,

a stone's sealed conclusion,

a ceremony celebrating love.

I'll reach my hand into the bunker of lightand save the future.

By the riverthe pear tree swaying,

your home,the longed-for footpath.

The pear blossoms must've fallen.

Being terrestrial, I'llkeep humming,

and become your empty home.

The Life of Paul

Paul waits for the sun to risewithout falling asleep.

Like a metronome,the tabletop clockticks regularly;

it has a matte finish,is silver,and doesn't leave his side.

The two are inseparable.

Paul's good at cutting onions,is afraid of bugs andis Korean.

Last month, having decided on receivinggeneral anesthesia to have his wisdom teeth pulled,

Paul walkswith the posture of an earnest walker.

The act of walking's aimless,simply a sense of walking is what's needed,

Paul thinks.

When he realizesthat a single small pebble is rolling aroundin his sneaker

Paul feels likehe's in the process of becoming a living human being.

This isn't a realization,but merely an encounterlike the rustling of leaves.

Walking on a plot of grass, Paulsuddenlybegins to wonder about the meaning of family.

Though a person he has loved a long timeis now a person that he had loved,

the wind is good,

the leaves of grass are reclining individuallyat regular intervals,

while inside the shoethe single pebbleremains as it is.

Sitting on a tilted bench, Paulsuddenlyrecalls a scene he'd like to return to.

Having returned to it,he's reverently cooking soft tofu stew.

It doesn't take long beforethe stew begins to boilbriskly.

With a matte finish,sometimes also falling silent,unable to leave his sidethe clock remains as it is.

A tasty meal is ready.

Something warm and softfills his mouth to the brim.

He recallsa scene he neverwants to return to.

He holds his sneaker upside downand shakes ituntil the pebble falls out.

He does thisfor some time.

The wind is good.

Inside the fishbowl,just water and pebbles.

Dead Point

Not dying afreshwhere I died, a fresh

log insearching for Wi-Fi.

It's raining.As it's raining

the umbrella changes owners.

The last train departsas it had arrived to depart.

Night invents a new street.

The deserted platform, the repair shop office,the dark distribution warehouse,

wandering zombies,and in their midst

it's raining;as it's raining

they walk togetherneck and neck.

Tomorrow's cold and distant,replete with neon signs,

red, blue, yellowcolors recoded by the mind.If coated in black crayon,

scraping just one wordwould reveal a rainbow,

between a stain and a pattern,the crayon etching technique.

The content of the game is reality,the...