I sit in the penumbra of a light-bulb that shades over black fingertips of an ape. It leaps to yell towards fruits of the earth so sour and salt For the tongue to utter the truth. Where does It happen? What does it mean? A slippage, a sock. I sit in the penumbra of a light-bulb just Right for imagination to enter in and make up the notch on its material kernel. I sit in the kernel as Hamlet enters my room. I run, run Through white fields spangled of giggles, feet Of white lambs, wearing socks of crimson lace. And yes, winter: I run, run towards the stage And pause: I announce, 2000, the millennium And “In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art.” That’s what he’s trying to make up and what she said. I sit in the penumbra just Right for imagination to climb upon my attic, my roof, my plumbing systems, my sink, dripping and dripping through, cold and thin hairs weaved on brown wrinkled hands. That’s what he’s trying to make up. Hamlet Is there. In my dreams, my childhood libido Fantasies. The most poisonous thing. I yearn For something more intense: a prince, magic, perennial love, and flying through hills on nights of lunacy. Without knocking he came (Come rain, come sun) He is calling, his name is: two syllables I can remember but refuse to utter I am waiting here; I have my own belief I am waiting for you; our eldest and our lead I am your lamb: eg. Master, Georgia, Eden lands And he knows my name. I sit in the penumbra 10.17 during a literary criticism class with Mr Freud
Shiyun Tang
our lunar tongue