Five Poems by Feng Sun Chen
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FENG SUN CHEN
Now I would like to make an announcement. This is out of the amniotic afterlooking state of having been inside someone, the words she gave to me, that swam between us like the rushing of air out of a broken airplane or the dust in a museum being filled with the tantrum of a set of children. Inside the incoherence of a human pulsation, there are gut feelings, but no situation for the displacement of entire memories and modes of knowing as the gods have no names, and in the deepening of a global glottal voice of inertia is deep democracy. In any moment of encountering life between the optimistic glass panels of death, It is that, after having written quite a magnificent series of transcendent lyrical poetry in the upper awnings of a tower, my tail has set fire to it. But it does not fall. It is not real.
A NOVEL ABOUT WATER
China. Does not break like glass.
My mother’s heart, the breaking sounds
like the brown-furred housegods now houseghosts
ripping open small packages of vitamin crackers.
The sound gathers me up at night, magnified
by sorcery, shows me the image of gigantic beasts
crashing through the walls and the floor of my room.
Underneath my room is the kitchen, where there is china,
the other side of the world. The inauguration
drills a hole through the core of the world
and the molten core protrudes out.
It came out of me and screamed and bit her unguent heart
with rows of rodent teeth, and even though my heart
was fruit leather, it was breaking too.
I had no friend in the world.
I did not yet know that I was made of plastic metal rubber,
I only knew that I was not recognized as human,
but my vagina had powers that could give
me the semblance of love.
BECAUSE HE DOES NOT LIKE TO WATCH MOVIES ALONE
Our mothers escape us. “Nicole,” my mother says, “Why don’t you act like you care about me?” To evade or invade, these are the dual effects of speaking back in another tongue, the tongue of who my grandmother calls the white devils, devils who have become trusted experts of the Good Life. In the memory, someone guides a chinese man to the edge of the dock and inserts the hook into his mouth... The idea is to hook the hook through the tongue... When he hangs... the tongue is ripped out and it hangs like a skinned fish... Probably part of the face and jaw... Such fish wiggles and flops and the red paint tastes of copper and scabs... Pain is not truly registered... so it is truest... It is an exiled thing... an excretion from the star pore of God... Creativity or cruelty... its daughters swim through me... So the others know what comes next... they remember all of a sudden the crust of their life’s content... which screams through the adrenaline now... ANDROID< I DON”T KNOW WHERE THE BOTTLE OF STERILE SALINE WENT YOU WILL HAVE TO DO WITHOUT FULLNESS FOR NOW. this is a full bodied text, but I am a wasted thigh. Because the wasted man is trapped by his own labyrinth of mirrors, I worry about how I am not allowed to worry about other things. The bubbling underside of my face is the thing every writer has been scrabbling to get at
but what the bubbling underside of my face which escapes my understanding
is crushed by the legacy of repetition
the repetition of salt, sugar, crystals, ignorance, amnesia, ammonia,
the bubbling underside of my face without consciousness
does not care if Gertrude Stein is patriarchal
goes on by the sex of the clock
goes on through the tide of consciousness raising
WE ARE HERE TO FINISH THE JOB
We are neither human nor alien.
We fly on the membranous hot air thundering up
from eternal summer asphalt.
You’ve picked the kunzite stone
that tells me you are a star child.
That’s why your skin flakes off
in pieces of hard crystals and I thought
you were a snake.
But snakes come from the sky
and drink the moon water.
Do I evade love or invade a sensible performance of filial piety by acting like an affectless robot? My mother often stares at me like a child, unrelenting, obsessive, enraptured, and I have often been annoyed and embarrassed by the touch of her gaze, but I find myself gorging my body and soul with the sight of my lover, at the bottom of which lies the silent appraisal of motherhood. All the wisdom I have been given from this world began with the biological gravity of my mother’s gaze, the sharp wires behind it, her soft individuality and chitinous opacity. Love hits me.
Feng is a part-time astrologer.