I Speak of Blood by Xu Lizhi (1990-2014)

I Speak of Blood by Xu Lizhi (1990-2014)

I speak of blood, because I can’t help it
I’d love to talk about flowers in the breeze and the moon in the snow
I’d love to talk about imperial history, about poems in wine
But this reality only lets me speak of blood
blood from a rented room the size of a matchbox
narrow, cramped, with no sight of the sun all year
extruding working guys and girls
stray women in long-distance marriages
sichuan chaps selling mala tang
old ladies from henan manning stands
and me with eyes open all night to write a poem
after running about all day to make a living
I tell you about these people, about us
ants struggling through the swamp of life
drops of blood on the way to work
blood chased by cops or smashed by the machine
by casting off insomnia, disease, downsizes, suicide
each explosive word
in the pearl river delta, in the pit of the stomach of the country
eviscerated by an order slip slicing like a kaishaku blade
I tell you these things
even as I go mute, even as my tongue cracks
to tear open the silence of the age
to speak of blood, of the sky crumbling
I speak of blood, my mouth all crimson

-translated by Lucas Klein, Assistant Professor at the University of Hong Kong’s School of Chinese

「我谈到血」

我谈到血，也是出于无奈
我也想谈谈风花雪月
谈谈前朝的历史，酒中的诗词
可现实让我只能谈到血
血源自火柴盒般的出租屋
这里狭窄，逼仄，终年不见天日
挤压着打工仔打工妹
失足妇女异地丈夫
卖麻辣烫的四川小伙
摆地滩的河南老人
以及白天为生活而奔波
黑夜里睁着眼睛写诗的我
我向你们谈到这些人，谈到我们
一只只在生活的泥沼中挣扎的蚂蚁
一滴滴在打工路上走动的血
被城管追赶或者机台绞碎的血
沿途撒下失眠，疾病，下岗，自杀
一个个爆炸的词汇
在珠三角，在祖国的腹部
被介错刀一样的订单解剖着
我向你们谈到这些
纵然声音喑哑，舌头断裂
也要撕开这时代的沉默
我谈到血，天空破碎
我谈到血，满嘴鲜红

2013年9月17日

connoisseurs of light

evil? is it 

the opposite of 

feeling alive? yeah, 

he's friendly, but 

seeking permission 

to pet instead 

of just petting is 

good practice for 

learning how to get 

consent. she 

reclines in 

the shade of 

a beautiful autumn 

morning, mirrored 

in her silver sun-

glasses sparkling, 

a hint of crisp 

amid summer's last 

gasp. does 

nostalgia 

depend on 

kindness, or 

kindness 

nostalgia? 

both are warm 

& fuzzy blankets. 

the barista dangles 

chilled notes from the ceiling 
just to make sure we know 
its cool in here. 

diagnosis means 
to know apart from. 
alleviating suffering 

begins with giving 

affliction a name, 

the surgeon said, 

but what if life 

is your affliction? 

floating  

until we become too 
heavy 
to float. 

a tall young man 

exits wearing 

a chalk white skeleton 

on his black tshirt 

didn't we used to 

celebrate the seasons 

& our connection to 

nature and now 

we celebrate money. 

why do we need so much 

sweetness and what 

is so bitter about our lies

that we have to hide the taste 

with sugar & shine? 

as if having filled. 

we should know by now 

as cars rush past. black 

clad ladies tilting tables 

upright onto their 

bright white legs as 

a young man skates 

lazy figure eights 

down my neighborhood's 

gently sloping hill. 

before me a young woman 

sits down at a sidewalk table. 

in one arm, glistening with 

fresh ink, she holds 

the leash to a caramel 

coated mother who 

watches & waits 

for her treat. the trees, 

those connoisseurs of light,

have begun to change.  

the trees know.

right on time

running late for the bus
running and missing it
but not missing this sun-
light so delicate. i love
how it hangs there like
crepe paper half-heartedly
hung for a party we're too
tired to clean up for. 
i waited inside this 
clear plastic can, empty of
everything but the traces
of its function. of course,
the next bus was late as we
maintained our proper 
spacing on this 
glowing court. 

someone who was there 
wanted you to know.
someone who was there
will never know. 
and someone who was there
had all the time in the world
to catch the light.

standing in the line of thought

                                                                                                                                                                          
if judgments were visible we would flee our rooms for fear of fire, resting a palm or a cheek against the wall, feeling for heat before falling to the floor, so we can breathe just below where the hatred floats, humbled away on hands & knees. 

burn your notebooks and listen to the rest of your body.

cities are sets where we stage our dreams and nightmares. most of us too poor or weighed down with debt. what we owe submerges us, keeps us flailing in slow motion beneath the waves. 

how can you ever be anyone else and never leave?

i know what i am a few incidents away from losing, but wasn't i always a few incidents away from gaining something as well? how often are you just a few incidents away from love?

catastrophe forces us to choose all over again, to organize what's alive. faced with such cliffs, we always exclaim, "what have i done!" instead of asking, "what have i chosen?"

i feel like a bus driver who always drives the same route.

versions of ourselves, both newer & worn too well, breaking & already broken, pass like a melody played on an instrument you do not touch, through rooms of old wood, in a house that survives from a previous era of the place you live and falsely feel yourself at home in. 

standing in the line of thought
it's not enough to drop what you have
you must untie the knot

images from http://www.placehacking.co.uk/tag/caves/

there will be no purple rain

standing in line at the plaid, tall dough boy who i usually see behind the cash register is headed out the door, skateboard slung over his shoulder, nods as he walks by, we exchange muttered dudes. the fluorescent light is bright, the linoleum floor is white. i recognize the song. 

I never meant to cause you any sorrow. 

I never meant to cause you any pain. 

I only wanna one time see you laughing. 

I only wanna to hear you... 

inside, i start to sing along. usually the wait is interminable, a mockery of the slogan: 

GET IN

GET IT

GET GOING

but tonite i have a song i haven't heard in ages. but just as i start to groove, the cashier reaches over and skips the track. this is the plaid, so all hopes & dreams must die. suddenly, a guy who had just checked out and was walking away stops, turns & juts his face into the middle of the transaction. 

you turning off purple rain?

the cashier is surprised. he obviously hasn't fully considered the consequences of that decision. 

uh, yeah he stammers, confused. 

the man just stands there, shaking his head. he is middle-aged like me but wears his years worse. his hair & beard are thoroughly salted. his face is a slab of pink, tenderized meat. 

you turning off purple rain?

he says it again, his tone lands somewhere in between a question & an emphatic statement of disbelief. he turns and skulks out the door, yet another thing a working man can't have. 

and the cashier, who never meant to cause him any sorrow, who never meant to cause him any pain, moves on. 

next transaction,

next song. 

quote from "The End of Night" by Paul Bogard

"you can't help but feel that tingle of fear, that fear of the unknown, that mystery. you like the feel of bare feet on warm desert rocks, the unexpected scent of night-blooming rose. you lie on your back with your hands across your eyes like blinders, making the world that much darker, then open them to reveal the sky. you do this again & again, and each time the sky is a little brighter, each time more peppered with stars. you stand & open your arms, savoring this window of darkness between the end of twilight & the waning moon's rise. you feel the breeze on your skin & in your hair, hear the sounds from the canyon of crickets & crows and the steady throb of some creature unknown; you feel utterly surrounded by natural night, by fellow creatures for whom this is home, none of whom care if you're here as long as you don't bother them, all of whom lend their voice to the song this night sings, saying wel-come wel-come wel-come, belong."

all of us had everything

all of us had everything-

we are trying 

to make 

what we lost...