Post-separation alone at night listening to Patti Smith sing “Dancing Barefoot” while thinking of mistakes I made while living in Hong Kong blues by Chris West

In the apartment at night. Have you ever seen it? The ethereal bobbing red and white blinking lights. Probably a plane, but still. And Venus and Jupiter move one degree closer, the prelude to an incantation that threatens to release pure white light into the night like a deluge. Meanwhile, I am on the floor listening to Patti Smith. Could it be he’s taken over me? Have you felt the pulsing spinning, seen your interior self stretching in columns incandescent with phosphene glow, and what is the profile that I see in my mind’s eye? Here I go and I don’t know why. Then I go into the sound of words that I cannot understand in a song from China . Meanwhile, halfway around the world, Amy wakes up, and what does she think when she thinks of me? The loss in my soul is so intense now, the grief, the space, the lost and empty nights in frigid neon-lit towers. My real soul emerges at last and the profile I saw earlier was the chrysalis cracking, the glow, the frission of the moment of birth. And what emerges here tonight must find its own way through the awful, pounding, hollow, warm, safe, wrap-around vault of night. Why must not death be redefined?


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