Leapdragon 2016 - Aron Hsiao Was Here

Proverbs.  §

The optimist is a useful idiot whom hope fools again and again and again. The optimist never learns from this. And the whole world, wanting to feel wise, dances on the optimist’s grave. The optimist, refusing to be buried, crawls out of the earth to dance alongside everyone else, and is thus caught inevitably caught unawares when it all starts over again.

— § —

I am forty years old. Forty.

— § —


“Cut away, cut away!
Send transmission from the one armed scissor!
Dissect a trillion sighs away, will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins, I write to remember!
‘Cause I’m a million miles away, will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins, I write to remember!
I write to remember, I write to remember!
Cut away, cut away!
Send transmission from the one armed scissor!
Cut away, cut away!”

— § —

Oh, how the young seek reasons!
They try to make the best of things—
fighting their ways so valiantly through
gray days and weighty sums!

Such naïveté, though forgivable,
is far from colorfast;
innocence taken is always forgotten—
like childhood, primordially past.

The wizened know what’s never said:
‘Fate the liar is a cheat.
Wherever fate has taken you,
you have been misled—
made to wander, dragged astray,
poisoned as you’re fed.’

Mazes are mazes, nothing more,
no greater purpose served.
It’s meandering and the search for why
that precisely fate adores—


that and callow nerve.

— § —

You get born and then you
go to school and then you
hate your parents and then you
finish school and then you
wander aimlessly and then you
wonder if you will ever amount to anything and then you
work while you wait and then you
realize that you have been working forever and then you
marry and then you
have kids and then you
fight a lot and then you
give your kids away and then you
realize you won’t do anything you planned and then you
arrive at very old and give up and then you
die to make room for someone else to be born.

— § —

There is this generative impulse. And there is this destructive impulse.

The generative impulse believes in tomorrow, while the destructive impulse believes that the apocalypse is tomorrow, or maybe even later today.

You get in a race with yourself, as the two halves of your being vie for position and seek to protect you from the damage that the other is certain to do. You sweat. You bleed. You cough and spit teeth. You flail and your eyes get wide and you try, try, try, try to reconcile these wildly diverging halves of the ethical universe.

Pulling, pulling, pulling, they tear you apart and in the end neither protects you from the other; instead, working together toward your protection, they bring about your destruction, and you find the whole thing to be ironically funny and post-mortem, you sit around drinking with sad Manhattanites and talking about how it’s all just a semiotic game and psychoanalysis is dead.

— § —

In the olden days, they used to bake. This is now officially classified as a form of oppression; no-one is allowed to bake without a license from one of the identity-politic-quora.

— § —

Testosterone, testosterone
where is your microphone?

Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, after the fact,
that you’ll get a reprieve?

— § —

Courtesy, courtesy, courtesy, courtesy of the
of the
of the

— § —

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

— § —

Sensing that things had become hopeless yet feeling at the same time that desperation that comes with knowing that your point has not been made, that no-one in the entire universe has heard the scream of your pain, I flung my glass with all my might across the room and against the wall, where it knowingly shattered into a thousand tiny, flapping, hapless butterflies.

Taking this to be a signal, I put on my hat, so very heavy in the gray afternoon light, and stumbled out into what seemed nonetheless like endless, laughing darkness.

— § —

Someday, I would love to be free. Cherished dreams and all.

I’ve heard that freedom is good.

— § —

Hormones, hormones, hormones, they tell you about your hormones but they don’t tell you how much you will hate them, how much you will miss them, how much you will live in them, how much you will learn to let them go.

— § —

Into the drug, into the drug, about the drug, without the drug, tell me about the drug, carry me about the drug, will the drug, pill the drug, I drug the drug ever forward.


Ironic or not, what have you got?

— § —

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, silly humans with your justice plan:


— § —


“Picture my house in a postcard town
Picture a bomb in the sky
History at your door
Who could ask for more?
I’ve felt better.”

— § —

A sandwich, a sandwich, my kingdom for a sandwich,
my soul for a trite and officious bloody heart.


“I torch my soul to show the world that I am pure—
deep inside my heart—
no more lies…
I shall be free…”

— § —

Wherefore, wherefore, Shakespeare, baby?

Wherefore, you fucker?!

— § —

Bleed in your own light.
Dream of your own life.
I miss me—
I miss everything I’ll never be
And on, and on.”

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