JASON WEE


Jason Wee is an artist and a writer. He is the author of My Suit (Math Paper Press, 2011),
and his work can be seen at Chan Hampe Galleries and Valentine Willie Fine Art.






Parts

Think of an older body lying on
Top of a younger body.

Think of that body above waking up
Slightly startled at the sight

Of having slept with one's long lost self,
The bed a time machine

Bringing one back to another dark room,
When one touches a stranger

For the solace usually found alone.
Think of the body below

Stirring, brushing its hands on bits and parts,
A pit of coarse hair, elbows,

Ribs, returning to slumber, satisfied
With the evidence of flesh

Careworn and starved, knowing the shape of
A self so disappointed

Proves its power to unmake experience,
To ignore pain as it stands

For another year, hour, another song
Slowed down. The older hums, stops.

When the body below wakes, will it know
Those eyes it looks in on, or

Was nothing grasped, will it ask to be known
Naked and seized for the first time?






Time Machine

An edgeless aluminum box
With no buttons,
Responds to electric memories.

In your hand, remember
And regret no more.
The sun sets in the west.

Pens refill with ink.
Lost keys back in pockets.
Hair leap like salmon

Off the shower floor
Upstream to heads.
Molted shell slides back to flesh.

Pick any moment and release.
Skin like cling wrap return
To pale smooth rolls,

Pills flush out of mouths
Into pillboxes.
Bodies flip from hospital beds.

The Oracle slips out of Smith.
Everything with a beginning...
Beauty back to Sleep.

Babies back to wombs,
Vows unsaid,
Zips undone,

Homes are castles,
Comforts are cold,
Have it unmade,

Wine turns into water,
All roads lead to Rome,
Stone laws break,

Golden calves crumple into jewelry
... has an end?
Who remembers, stops?

Listen to the bite, the arsenic,
The steel of words dragging chains
Of older words, forgotten pictures.

Light, and dark and light again,
Mammals are cold-blooded,
Fish crawl down the shore,

The world moves on
As it has, eyes at the back,
Hummingbird wings,

The hand tightly on
Aluminum, has a beginning,
Everything.






Near-Blind Wise Men Touching An Elephant

'People are not only, as the saying goes, falling for the swindle;
if it guarantees them even the most fleeting gratification they
desire a deception which is nonetheless transparent to them.'
- Theodor Adorno


Over-mature night
And every man's in a towel.
The maze in Babylon;
Every corner's
a tripwire of sensations
that proves less what you touch lives
than your tremulous, breathing hand.
Once a friend entered another
same place where they found
a body with cum stains fresher
than it was. What the fuckers
thought was submission to
a silent commiseration of skin
instead claims companionship in
skin's ignorance, its inability
to reach beyond where each sense alone
falters, beyond the thing itself
for its faint corona, where the dust
of some faith lingers, like a smile
with ends that soars barely
discernable in some deeper cavern.
So we wander in the dark,
feeling a pec, thinking here is
a bulge from the burrows of love,
a dick is a river streamed from pleasure,
an arm is the right hand of
the hiding hills, when mapless
we turn in circles so tight
if the lights came on
we might find our hands
wandering on the animal
landscape of our own skin.



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