Sold Out

How cool is it that half way around the globe someone is articulating my own thoughts and putting them down to paper? In China, of all places. Please, do not take this to mean that I am surprised a Chinese man may feel what I feel. Rather, it is to say that sometimes thoughts that I think to be my own still may be echoed by another — across distant places.

Sometime, Mo Mo wrote a poem that I am sure will find its way into your skull, digging its way into your grey matter until you finally say, "Man, that is vivid." This is that poem.

SOLD OUT

I sell dreams, cheap
following my inclinations like a dog who sold his master
I sell epochs,
my body crosshatched with scars
I sell time, diarrhetic
penniless as fresh air
I sell country, motherland disappears
I sell space, earth vanishes
I hold the universe in my hand and write you a love letter

I sell holidays, together with loneliness
in ignorance of the world
I sell everything:
life, breath, death
But tonight you must listen
I'm going to kiss you seriously
and turn over like a sunken boat
You're the ocean
the only thing I have left

Avant-Garde Chinese Poetry 1982-1992: 6 Poets

Now, as a single 20-something man who lives on his own, works at night, and is only surviving through the skin of his teeth: Wow! Yeah, sometime along, I sold out. I never intended it to be this way. I was so punk rock. But in this dog-eat-dog world, I sold out. I sold my time, I sold my eyeballs, I sold my peace of mind.

I guess my only recourse is the "ocean". Some sort of escape to which nothing can touch me. Something overcoming, I guess, but also soothing.

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