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I.

Your eyes lit like screens, from inside the commodity I find a likeness of you

It unfolds, again, again, in a mass of flora scented like the real thing

Of all the 3-D printed mansions, which one suits you?
“there’s maybe a higher chance of it fracturing at the contact point if there’s a strong enough force”

There’s maybe a river, underneath, where fish have squatted the mall

There’s a future I’ve only glimpsed from the promises lapsed

Your car spinning, where the parking lot will be

 

Pressed on by a dream, a liquidation sale of my nineteenth century obsession w/ everyday life

Versus all the oceans that tug

Versus the romance of circulation

Versus if I’m rare will you keep me

 

 

II.

In the consumer dream house all the light pours down from above

Electronic dolls whirr in the hallways, cleaning

Panoramas are boxed in by cameras no longer in our hands

 

Walking the boulevards is not what it was—Virgil and I try it and we are bent and frozen, trying to make it to the steps of the museum. 200 years of African American art is housed in one room. A small room. Later we walk through many large rooms of medieval armor. The shell casings of cyborgs spit up from the past. In the dark of the Buddhist temple, stolen and then we speculate housed in a warehouse full of stolen temples, it must have languished in the dark for a long time. The paint is not allowed to fade. We wonder if the miniature temples carved and added to the ceiling at a later date were meant to house birds. No birds animate the ceiling now. Tourists make Buddha poses. Hey yr not in Oakland anymore.

 

In the dense realms of wishful thinking

I am always being betrayed, or else a friend is falling off

One of those dream houses

I can’t stop looking at the light –or- I cannot save anyone

 

 

III.

Each greenhouse: an intricate music box of sadism

Every plant a handcuff               my reading technology fades with laziness not cus it doesn’t feel pretty good

Cultish robes get moldy then get all silicon valley

“I had a car”                           I had it remelted to my form

Somewhere in the ruins of dead objects, every overdraft fee screenprinted onto teeshirts

Somewhere along this avenue of goblins, I have picked up pagan belief

(Google ad preferences tell us about our interest in astronomy tho its riots we talk about to measure distances but it’s no wonder stars appear throughout)     (all our friends got into astrology)

 

If I turn my head enough, and shake and shake and shake like you tell me

Everything I said before might become different

Everywhere we thought we were going might become the hell we abandoned before

 

1) Here’s someone to greet you, w/ these flowers the size of yr new avatar’s head

2) Here is agitation foaming up like water, tmrw, another necessary clutter, another letter with a bunch of names, another chance to be called a witchhunt

3) The witchbread you eat all the time

 

 

IV.

A slashed angel lies where work was: baby back wings & summer

Incorrect gloopy time

Whose gonna be witness to the pause of refusal

With no record of moving parts

 

Just-in-time-gloom:

A drone hummingbird stands watch by our shoulders

Datamining waste

Dropping bits of goo from its mouth which falls on our heads

 

The meat axe, the pickaxe, the rope, and the coffeeshop move against the metropolis

Human sandbags loiter, causing a pileup

A traffic circle has many points of stoppage

The highway we took by mistake becomes easy with more bodies faster into the pause

 

-OKI SOGUMI

Oki Sogumi was born in Seoul, lives in Philadelphia (recently transplanted from Oakland), and writes poetry, speculative fiction, and into little boxes on the internet. She dreams commune dreams.

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Published Feb 24, 2015 - Comments Off on Notes on Glazy Places (seeeeeeing like that), Part 3 by DB Guest Blogger Oki Sogumi

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