Strangely, life continues. Without being edited, contracted, staying. Now that some years have passed and I think it’s strange, but indeed, it’s strange. I sometimes think about why this is such a strange thing. How does everyone, realize this moment is the highlight of this life. Here, there’s no background music, special effect, plot, or anything at all. It’s just strange.
The value of this book is, as of present, same as the lowest online-exclusive price for a half-box of 30-pack Shin instant noodle, though Shin would be slightly cheaper if you pay with a rewards card.
Careful comparing of prices before purchase might be a great help to your life.
—Seo Jung Hak, May 2017
Indeed, writing a poem is a task that is quite, absurd and like spitting away a seed wriggled in your mouth, pretty thoughtless, personal, and so forth. That’s why someone’s Chaeri needs to sit in the front. Don’t bother to know the reason. Just remember that.
In the front seat is Chaeri
Even if I scribble a poem, the absurdity like a fly who doesn’t bother to fly away somewhere, is sitting on a chair like an old joke. The paper is too small like a fly and the few bills I spent to buy this seed are wandering with their two wings gaunt like formalin and enjoying the world like a fly, but you who read this poem just read only that. A familiar conclusion,
Front seat Chaeri
In conclusion, though already sitting in the frontmost seat for a personal reason, you can’t bother to drive away the annoying fly even if you read a poem, ZZZ. The everyday cannot be edited, contracted, and of course, explained simply, indifferently. It just becomes a pile of paper, the only task left is handing it to someone. Small, maybe good for one more use, shabby
Don’t ask whether the front seat is important
It is important but none of your business. Until now, the value of this poem has been outside of the paper and it is not, also, and, even mine. Seedfly, because it flew away, because in the frontmost is a sun-suffered red chair and you are not the one sitting there, something personal is for a person you are for you and this front seat! is for someone, no, the familiar, Chaeri’s.
Someone’s Chaeri must sit, especially in the familiar front, to turn the page. Extremely personally. Yes. Thus decided from the outset. Because a seed.
Surreal Machinery and Green Trees
1.
Landed in the middle of the forest, you soon discover a red button near the root of a tree. You look around but even the sun hardly shines in this dense forest. Let’s not mind there are nameless birds chirping. What stands out the most is that simple-shaped, red, big, tempting-to-press, so-friendly-that-you-can’t-help-but-press, round button. There are jumping insects and the scent of forest is surrounding you like a thick mist but your two eyes are just staring at the button. Even the fluffy moss and wet earth under your feet can’t turn your attention away from the red button. Try one step closer. In the middle of the forest you are standing while the trees surround you, the branches make sounds as they sway. Would you reach your hand to press it, the leaves fall one by one, and you are standing in the middle of the forest.
2.
The secretive movement of the dense forest is nothing compared to that one red button you are seeing. Like falling leaves, the curiosity blinds you and sprays darkness in the forest. Even if you close your eyes, the redness is clearly, even more realistically and vividly engraved in your eyes. Landed in the middle of the dense forest, you now want to press the button. You, can’t go anywhere in the forest, rooted in front of the button. You, enjoying loose obsession, You, waiting for something mystical. You, lonely. You, bored. Pre, ssitp, ressit, press it. Trees sway in the wind. Branches make sounds. You become, a tree. Standing in the middle of the dense forest.
3.
O
DO NOT PRESS.
Paper Box
They said they came to perform on stage. Looked like a handful of up-side-down paper boxes, their spaceship was so old that someone would throw it away if they weren’t careful. As if aware of this, they said one of them always stays behind to watch the ship. It looked like some parts with the words ‘Warm Love’ inscribed have been recycled already, though they didn’t seem to care much. It wasn’t like there was a place they could return to. Their self-proclaimed ‘beautiful’ planet destroyed by the ultraelectronicplanetary-professionaldestructiveformidableterrifyingantennalbeam. Their music, despite the pan-cosmic embellishment—the space-rock-groping-hard-for-the-outer-space-with-its-infinite-sixth-sense—sounded merely like a dance music, just adequate for dancing, though the beat was a little awkward. Saying that a TV show producer told them to try harder in order to perform on stage, one of them shed tears. It was as if they realized nothing could be achieved without an effort like the sorrowful life of the fallen dynasty, they said they wanted to be off to look for a new planet where they could be warmly loved. The paper box made of warm love tumbled in the wind. To practice, they drag their feet around like corpses while mumbling until late night. Hope they find enough people to board on the spaceship and clear out of my yard soon.
Paper Box Factory
Always, needed goods to needing people! was the owner’s motto. With proud eyes and a dry cough, the owner was watching the production line. It’s possible to produce anything with a few necessary materials. Ah, hooray! Mass production! is the only way to survive. The owner pompously inspected around the factory. Money! Money is the best! Although it wasn’t Said! out loud, you can read the lips! Misunderstanding! Customers spitting and parks holding chopsticks, and the owner, the printer was printing Text! while making loud sounds. Fragile! Final Sale! Rise to Crescendo! People of Color! The paper folder was folding boxes while making loud sounds. Beautiful Poem! Quick Glance! Publicly Traded Company! Market Ebb! The boxes will be Neatly! piled up and soon, needed Goods! will be shipped to needing people. The paper boxes were continuously being produced in the factory. The owner recalls the old days in a shaky voice. I glued and folded and stacked them and Money! I got paid. With some necessary materials. In those days we could produce everything we wanted. I guess that’s still true. It’s not like there’s a Problem! I’ve got. You understand? I started it without a plan! Though now it’s become an enormous and beautiful and mighty factory like this. What begins with gluing shall end in technology. The owner’s eyes glow in deception.
The Cheapest France in Town
A twenty-pack for just one dollar, the incredible amazing price made everybody run. The price so good, it doesn’t even cover the production cost! Your loss if you don’t buy! The banner filled with red French text was tumbling under the storming crowd’s feet. Someone shouted desperately toward the Eiffel Tower, someone cried loudly toward La Défense. The euro bills were flying like red butterflies showing off their beautiful design into the sky. Holding paper boxes in both hands, warning no one should come near. What’s made in France must go back to France! The store manager was busy filling customers’ arms with freebies. While everyone worried the store wouldn’t make any profit, France, though so many, was finally sold out. With bloodshot eyes, the store manager rolled up the flyers and thanked everyone in excitedly accented French. Outside the store, someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the parked cars, the sky turned red.
All for beautiful cheap France.
