YuHeng's blog

It seems like I’m breaking out of a cage. Hurry a lion into the sound of cage. Echo. Because emptiness pervades. ‘Do not test the sound of names if you no longer hear it.’ It was there, but it is here no longer. ‘Its travelled far and far into the past where you’ll have to dig it up again like hard, hard bones.’ Like a dog, I say. He laughed.

And so I pick out the bones like weeds sticking out. And once they are plucked, the roots reveal a rose of pubes, wet and soggy. I toss it into the cold, rusted, metal garbage can. I pad the clot of mud back into the earth and hurl my garbage can into the shed. Through the window into the house, I see my dog sleep gently. And then I splash and pad the water from the pool as I usually do and enter the house, where Hoya (the dog) immediately awoke and ran towards me, wagging his white tail, sniffing me with her wet nose. I pet her head firmly and suddenly, it metamorphosed into a melting form of–mud. The soggy peat in the backyard transformed into Hoya’s head, and I could no longer entertain the thought that I tossed her head into the cold, rusted, metal can… Grass, weed, pubes, mud, roots, rose—AH. K. keeps entering my head, penetrating and reversing my memories; her warm, tender neck, stirring the scents of roses, reviving the past as weeds propagate their roots… one thinks and thinks of her–myself–now… thinking… of only her… but my thinking of her and of her thinking… becomes… is… an… image of doubled… images, where along the stretches of the street, shades collide with shadows, not understanding one another, forgetting as one forgets the shades sheathed upon shades under the glow of the pale moon.

Now back to my spiritual undertaking… I’ve broken the rock that blocked my flow, now bending and undulating like slow water, molten metals–the mud of dreams. Sometimes, dream wear the mask of illusion, and illusions at tines, hide behind dreams. But to see which one is which, one must tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I carved out a hard, round eye and dropped it like a tomato–squished and formless, bleeding. Then I knifed an orange. It cut through so gently, so deeply, and it too… was formless.

It seems like I have reignited my spirit for poetry. And some sort of water now moves.

It seems like… he has finally been borned out of a necessity to write, as if he hasn’t written for years.