Audience of subway strangers. Stagger at them! Pelt them with praise! I’m Ko Un, and I’m drunker than a poem. This text, pirated, sallies forth upon the bristled breeze. Ko Un! Standing in your shadow magic. Spam, originating from the Republic of Soju, hits me fortnightly. Ko Un! Standing by the door, laughing at advertisements. Shouting obscenities at microscopic mobiles. Dreaming of deep blue grass. Coming round to the sound of sirens. Drunkenness, created by weaving fingers! Text! Applause! Ko Un! You look so cute in that dress. Oops, sorry! That wasn’t meant to … go to you. Hmm. Text me! Tomorrow you’ll wake up and wonder what I was drinking. I was drunk on your text! Looking forward to your future replies! To your future! To the text future we are creating together. Ko Un, you really looked . . . drunk in that text. Boy, were you drunken! Who would have thought your poems—out loud? Ko Un! Text me! Call me a name! I know it’s expensive but I need to hear from you! Okay, so I’m drunk. What’s new? Text! Your poem vibes sounding out the freak stages! Ko Un! I’m dancing down the aisle, I’m dancing down the escalator, I’m dancing down the street with my texting fingers itching, drunk! I’m seeing one-thousand Ko Uns standing in the subway station. It’s dark and drunk. I’m texting myself to see whether I’m alive. Or just drunk! Ko Un! Baby, I’m drunk. Can you text Ko Un and let him know we’ll be late? You looked just . . . great line. Text! Damn drunks! I want to kiss . . . Who, you? Nah, Ko Un.
