Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

Blacklight In Wuhan (Draft 1)

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

I don’t know how to start or finish this draft

I started an outline but I haven’t found a rhyme or rhythm scheme I can use. I don’t feel inspired. I was going to look for random rhymes or song forms but I don’t feel like doing anything with this:
Blacklight In Wuhan (Part 1, draft 0)

Many times there have been
screams in the night
when Grandma’s spirit asks
about her pen pal

Grandma is dead.
So is her hair dresser.
I’ve been to two funerals by video
but it’s not what you think.
The pen pal has disappeared.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
who was a foreign medical student
studying here, had passed the USMLE
had passed the TOEFL and everything.
The student’s now a doctor
now a scientist. Grandma was
fond of her.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night
when Grandma is asking
about her penpal

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

There is no honor
in a gift of dead flowers
though she loved them nonetheless.

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual. However,
the pen pal is missing.

Grandma left
me a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, she is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

Polerowanie Dnia (Polish)

Za każdym ona razem szlifuje akt jej
ona poleruje matowe wykończenie dnia
dzięki czemu świeci makijaż dnia.
Tak, ona nakłada makijaż na błyszczący marmur
w ten sposób to jest
posągowego dnia, który błyszczy uśmiechem
———
Every time she polishes her act
she polishes the matte finish of the day
thanks to which the makeup of the day shines.
Yes, she puts makeup on shiny marble
that’s the way it is a
statuesque day that shines with a smile

Baking Apples

Wind storms through orchards
mocking calm branches
left a bird frantic,
fruit on the ground

She hasn’t stopped singing
this mockingbird
who mocks the calm, my thoughts
seems searching for a perch
a mate, perhaps, like I
seek Cindy, yes

I will learn the mockingbird song
before the next storm, so birdie luck
will perch a finger, and

I will storm home
like the shocking bird,
my Cindy electric and flighty

Artechouse, NY (09.16.2019)

It looks like Refik Anadol has done a great job. It’s intriguing how he has used machine learning to synthesize all the visual data of architecture, past and present styles etc. [Reblog from Yaprak Ugurses]

Becoming A New Yorker

Good morning, Bon Appétit, Good night, from me to
you, whenever and wherever you are reading this today!

Every single day at New York is a new,
unexpected experience. You would imagine for me to run from one class to
another, spend nights sleeplessly studying at the library, drink ten shots of
espresso daily, and barely find time to leave for myself. Well, there is all
that, except of course, I try to limit my caffeine consumption to four shots a
day. Now stop for a second and imagine having hundreds of pages to read and multiple
essays assigned for tomorrow in alignment with the midterm season so subtly yet
hastily approaching.

This
scenario sounds too exhausting, depressive even. Thankfully, that is not the
case — at least it partially is. Classes
begun full paced right after the orientation-intended Welcome Week at NYU and I
have been assigned new tasks…

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