In memoriam communism, 1989

I.                                                                                             

Leaves                        are                 burning                                  snowflakes crimping

dumplings gnawed from the tree bark lent
by the neighbour of the seemingly friendly friend of
his friend. Circles, the rabbit stews in
the suffocating of Fire,                                                           but you ran,

 
                   ran,

TEACHER, from forests, when Exile
from people's posts in                  the city has
a cornet stuffed to it, heralding shuffling             

                            unity                

                                                 
                                                        of the smoking stream meeting soil on hydroponics.

Confucius, resurrected as a granite countertop,
recited two thousand years to the cut-off words
of Four Quartets in the kitchen and
there was confused music squabbled in present day
as a present in the thousand soup bowls in the sink,
entwined in the watership washing down
unspoken prophets in reddish rain
where each droplet counted the hollandaise
and aroma bleeding from wrinkled mouth and drain.

When there was no blanket around your head,
twenty years ago,                                                                     

                                                                                                  the chilling storm sat down and held

your asparagus hands like dowager empress telling
                                                                            folk tales and dragons moralities to

princesses bethroed to the flying

Ouroboros burried in rubble of clouds,
in misty fortresses of ancient civilization  
vapourizing into dampening

autumn. Remembering
the Berlin Wall: when fireworks
went off in Poverty village and
there wasn’t a sound, it echoed, but
everything was cold and got colder when imperial yellow
turned to red. The embers of concrete fly back
to Ground and was smothered, plowed in
the crisp cutting of meat in drowning air when

today, folks believe the bridge in Kiev falls at
the end of fall, when winter has already crawled
onto your enamel windows,
unheated, uncared for, unlit.

What is free culture? 

The snow blankets a head, TEACHER, when
the dirt roads were covered, buried in the blood
of november leaves when rain created
cleavage in the quarries where you laid.
Whose turn is it now to chop timber
when one hears people rise to Les Mis,
when Beijing is built up from backs of Rome and
the carmine is embedded in a vigil of Christmas lights?

It is perhaps a mystery when
the pines sleep quietly and the bristlecones
walk to the nightmares of 1989,
when the young bark is stripped and made to
divine dreams born from hammer and sickle,
when they are arranged down on jade board
held down by the knife for a phantom revived 

in the Western Wall past the rising eastern
sun, which rose and receded to the sleet
as the thrushes feigned the siren of a silent generation,
as the steam from your kettle boiled to heaven’s gate
running past the cauldron, tanks and guns,
as the poppies in the field are shaken by
unheard distant rumble hereof.

II.

On a shivering night, I was told a story that
your neighbour’s television was finally passed
and you witness the Iron Great Wall deconstructed
by elves swinging in the West, where the
Great Music plays in the phonograph in abandoned
houses. Today, the hobbits have found their
time living at the heaps of rolling raked leaves
at an end, and you are grabbed by wheat ships
on golden wind, heading into a sandy millennium
defined by the two classes of the evening sea
driving the earth to madness when all it does
is to let us work it, work it. It is
in a faraway place.
The velvet carpet has been strewn for celebration,
the coronation of a new sensation, or
temptation of the new coup, dressed without
clothes walking proudly in the coupe invasions of
the capitalist kind. The king permitted it, I mean,                    bullshit,
TEACHER. Inspiration is breath of  
ocean ramming its whitewash onto
innocent rocks, who stood bruised but firm in the
asiatic continent they were born in
and sanguine ultramarine stains its clothes
when the torrent currents gunned up
against all of their heads.
When the foam finally subsides and
all that is left, the whistling zephyrs
empties the profoundly littered bay.

When autumn has ceased, the bear is
seized in the rocking cradle of the snowing
bull, radiation sparkles onto the atmosphere
and the working day is clear. They learn
language and grope the choruses, but fall
bears no more fruits. They are banished
from a world into the hairy forest growing
between lines lying on the beginning of horizon
when the paradise of
                            home is merely a zone.

Arriving from wooden days where the armies
scale fogged peaks, the ringing alarum has receded
like Tibetan tides from the pinnacles of sky,
an ocean, and all the leaves, all kings have vanished.

III.

The rabbit made a great leap forward into the hole
and the grizzie woke up and chased the rabbit
when summer came and the muted
sounds of rivers flowing
into living ocean
trickle out of desolate rich-man wines,
                out of the secrets aged within the haystack of alpines.

When the field is quiet again, the october
season are crimson fossils farmers dig up and
throw like bricks to the ochre ground.

 Steam rises from the terracotta pots,
but no one remembers where
the water was or why

 carried it up the hill, and who broke
their crown when everything fell down
to the mountain. Eagles, eagles, come.

 Exists no more TEACHERS when
the students are born from those words
of 1989, the words of struggles, so
you resolve to sleep as Athens is
rebuilt again in the vacuum of seas

when the surface has been unscratched
and forgetting what little is known,
about the incensed iceberg above, is known.

 Vote, if you can or want to.

You say powerful memories are dug up and
come to haunt you, as the powder falls
in Moscow, in Crimea, but the e-den is gone.

 The sepulchres of revolution are dead.
June and his men are dead.
The trees are dead, the ocean is dead,
the sky and you are dead in the place
where we denote as the set of 1989, when it has been
always left as a plaque in the stupid forest at
the beginning. You are the friend’s
friend, and I am your neighbour in
a world where red,

the fiery birthmark, has been bonded into
our yellow skin,
kitchen knives and empty sea.

 Where the yellow trees fall down,
when all the red trees are down,
who are down?

2014-11-02