Umbrella Man

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I cannot help but be aware of my class consciousness even as I think on this image. He looks up, as if in hope, and the umbrella might shelter him from the harsh sunlight. Yet what has he to look forward to except a life among slightly decrepit buildings such as the one above him in the background? The tattoo of his left shoulder speaks of a defiance against a middle-class, executive presentation of the self. I can understand how such an image could be aestheticized, probably in a film by Wong Kar-wai.

Is this the only narrative I could conjure for him?

Sermon

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Sermon

Was it God I saw talking to his women,
holding a jug of wine?

I am reading Genesis, chapter five,
where Enoch walked and he was not,
for he was taken.

In this fever of Hong Kong
there are no hermits in caves,
no saints on mountain tops.

It is not easy to see with this fever,
and I am numb to my face,
all thumbs in my eyes.

Is it possible to believe
a beard and a light bulb?

Fingers on my throat,
I try not to dance in my sandals
to the hymn.

I am no mime artist.

I am not a Roman centurion.

I am no Caesar,
though I try not to add salt
to the wound.

I am waiting for a voice
to rip me open to the sky.

I am reading Genesis, chapter five,
where Enoch walked and he was not,
for he was taken.

Poem and photograph previously featured in Friends Newsletter. Hong Kong: Friends of the Art Museum, CUHK. Jan 2013 Issue.