Where Everything is In Halves

after The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker

Gabriel Ojeda-Sague

Presented by Be About It Press

The Sea (I) One red streak known for comfort

Dragon Roost Cavern If it was that what could be revealed as a second path would be with hooks, I would have heard ten years ago. This is my child-hero, a system of his sister, and his inability to get along with hogs and spears. Though he is unfailingly geometric, I expect his nautilus and composition to be rewritten in my corpse. I will keep the description of limitations in my wallet, like unregarded masculinity. Meanwhile, the vendor with the bowl cut thanks me for a screaming pear. I want his wonderful silver member. I know the island and the bird, who is also a child, who is looking for a tail. Yet, even the unconvinced boyfriend needs gold feathers. Look for my hat under the scorpion’s third apparatus.

The Sea (II) My 7000 x 7000 laceration: as if the energy of language was in its reciprocity, but such a thing is white men’s lie. Here is the grid: And here are the thousand points I will make you trace on it. The sister is the corpse and there are more sharks. Is this why the cannons show up every time the play ends?

Forbidden Woods Why is everything forbidden? Welcome, as quantifiable matriarchy, to my huge hollow tree. Even the spinning tops are tired of keeping up with the wind. Although I am an unfortunate child, whose sister is long missing into embroidered eyes, I brush patterns on the wall for saying: there’s that alarm again. I lied to you: I am outside world. What cancels my life is not so much an arrangement of sources, but the fact that even child-heroes jump automatically. Mythologies of composure weigh me down, so my lover comes back to me. He hits the fine spot, making maps of everything. My form is going into another, like the repeating, tirelessly repeating child-hero becomes the meal of scorpions and chu jelly. I love to love chu jelly. You caught a fairy in your bottle! When your life energy runs out and you collapse from exhaustion, this

fairy will replenish your strength. I shouldn’t be here. Send me, with pottery, into another world. The little dust mite whose face is a leaf is telling me: “The way everything is designed to be as annoying as possible: that is my ceremony.” All is well, Makar, do not cry. You are the most famous cellist I know.

The Sea (III) My lover just called me and said he was coming to town just around tomorrow morning. A child-hero always comes from a grandmother. WHERE IS MY FATHER, I ask the map. Another island, another fish to bribe, I am slowly accounting for the war. If I just let out more bait, and another shop-ship comes, another square space, and then the child-hero gets to go home? No, the language of “home” keeps changing. Raise boys to know their own bodies first. Let them count their constitution in a scale. One red streak makes its way again.

Tower of the Gods Test for permission: coming from the sea, for “courage” in the child-hero. My architectural reluctance to all gods, the way they never explain what the individual piece does: only that, if you have the full set, you can rule the world. The child-hero is the rule and he is bobbing. The only monsters come down, shocking droplets, every time the frame empties itself. Imagine me naked in a waterfall becoming a small key, participating in my eviction, loving the dead body of my former lover. A child-hero pukes onto himself, again. When invited, I come into the mouth. It’s easy, because the water keeps rising and lowering, rising and lowering: I hate temples and love the history of my own sword. I’ve learned a new song: get the horns to follow me, take them into my dramatic sense of self, swing through the air, and wait for other lifetimes.

Death’s red dog begins to swipe at the air, karate style, because I’ve removed his armor, or as we say in my neighborhood: no precision wiring. I put in all this hard work, or the child-hero does, I mean, and the horns just finish the way. I keep thinking there’s smoke in my room. It’s true that I’m turned on by being called “Chosen One,” but not by it’s aim. Even the severed limbs yell out: “YOU WILL BE CROSSED, CHOSEN ONE, PLAYER-CHARACTER, YOUR LYRIC IS DIVIDING THE WELL OF HEARTS. THIS IS A CELEBRATION OF YOUR BEING CHOSEN, CHOSEN ONE. WELCOME TO A MEASURE OF FATE. I WELCOME YOU WITH OPEN ARMS. BUT CHOSEN ONE, WHERE IS YOUR PITIFUL SISTER? WHERE IS YOUR ACIDIC PRINCIPLE? WHERE IS YOUR SISTER? I’LL STRING HER NECK BY HER HAIR; YOU WERE PUT IN CHARGE OF WATCHING OVER YOUR FAMILY,

CHOSEN ONE.” please don’t ring the bell, don’t ring the bell

The Sea (IV) The duodenum is free “at long last.” The small shaking nighttime. “We do not do this anymore” says an old man, in one voice and then another.

Hyrule Castle I’m sorry you were caught up in these events. But: have neither of you heard the tales? Searching frantically for this child: if he succeeds, my ancient kingdom under the sea. I have a suspicion for the loss of power. The child, the power to repel evil, of resources for this mythology: I am going to become a word too. Can I tell you again about my dead, red father? He’s a rewiring of my personal anachronism and my quest which becomes more and more dependent on travel, and the rhetorics around my thighs, and the purple hand, out of the terrace. A sword in a vacuum of time. I am not the child-hero My good arm’s swing, the iron tubing, the palace has to be a palace, the occlusion of the personal, I eat private mythos.

The Sea (V) Overbecome the abhorrent animal; the puzzle: drivel; the absences: Mercadian; Tell me, little boy… Can you control the wind? Arrows rings boots materials don’t help my grieving process but they melt the ice. The abscess in the static: that is worth 20 rupees. What a pleasant surprise! I imagine myself with cancer, again.

Earth Temple my graph paper city with which I minimize that everything will kill us for profit for margins parchment “the realities of reflection” for youth? for another sister? no bastard hand to pull the body back with compassion I mean to mean evidence “there just isn’t enough evidence” this girl Medli is difficult to control I have to play another song for her to flap around to the obviousness of pronouns the speed of light the sphincter the harpist no wonderment can learn to control the dead are coming out by turns

words like black juice meet up to expose the many corpses I put up with instance of instances I’ve learned troubling news: the ratio I’d love to live in your cabinet where everything is in halves

Wind Temple Link: patterned semiotic governance palette little skinny but so strong polygon porcelain such a waste images are crueler than we once thought for lack of correspondence I have many nightmares but not about it one virtual yellow rupee writing-pad just out of reach one lover of mine is in one place and another in another I hate the separations and the escorting see h ow t he chil d reac hes ou t ins tinctiv ely to

fee l ho w far aw ay th e nex t is land is see h ow the co ps kee p com ing see h ow th e way we li ve is see h ow th e way we li ve is see h ow th e way we li ve is see h ow th e way we li ve is my feedback loop migrated into some planet which keeps shy but can open the door I keep fucking the mattress thinking it’s you.

The Sea (Triforce) There are 50 ships, first. Each one knows where I am, in my little red boat. I try to pass them, even as they lob bombs at me and miss. It seems that I have to destroy just one boat to get past. I do, as quickly as I can, but get hit a few times first. I am almost out of beers and will have to ask a friend to buy me some more soon. There is something called a “fault line” and another thing called an “apparition.” I must have missed out on these days in school because I don’t remember these words. Link: Link is looking for triforce charts. I find the first one in a room past the 50 ships. Somehow, I can smell the salt on the other end of this silk wire. I buy the deed with moths. Or “joy.” A lonely spinster wants to wear joy, and I can understand that motivation. I take off my green shroud so that I could put on a white boa instead. Once I am in the cabana, an older man takes advantage of me. Or “apparition.” When I am free to look around the “private oasis,” I see three beetles fighting over a leaf. I tell them that I could fly with that leaf and that they should aspire to better things and they do not believe me. To prove it to them I take this little leaf and jump off the waterfall and break my spine. I am touching the iron bars and look just past to see a horrible virus inside. I have to get in and feel that virus. I didn’t know seagulls ate pears, but they do. 7 points in the 7000 x 7000. I am not the child-hero. The child-hero, I mean, takes the seagulls to 7 points to make them glow and when they do the bars open and I, the child-hero, I mean, goes in to feel the virus. Hurricane Wilma brought my favorite ficus down onto a neighbor’s house. There was a little bird, by a broken window, who kept yelling: “DO BE QUIET DO BE QUIET DO BE QUIET.” The seagulls are chased by several skin-head bigger birds. Look at that cut stone and find the graveyard. I take Link, Link, to the ghost-ship. the little bird in the window is here casting spells, making the skeletons move and bash me with clubs. I watch, salivating, as the ladder slowly slips down. Blue lights. The child-hero looks up at the moon and says “7000 x 7000! 7000 miles of sea, 7000 miles of sea! And it’s here under my wet hair that I find the ghost ship! Insult me! Insult me! The dead, apparently, vanish unless you have a map of them.” I see the centurion. The yellow head that comes out of the water, war feathers in a mohawk, like a roman soldier. It eats the red streak. “Many bombs are coming. You can feel it in your fingernails. Many bombs come out of the earth.” I am an unfortunate child, so I put my bleeding hand in the salt water and wince. When I look up, I have lost track of time, because it is 2 weeks later and none of my problems have been solved. The old woman who cries when you mention her daughter whistles a song about a long dead cat. 31 bodies all packed in a bottle of shampoo. They stink of citrus. My grandmother tells me that I killed them all, though I may not remember, and that she will protect me from the police. She hides me in her soup bowl. “Hey, small fry” whispers one voice, which at first I think is the ladle. “Hey, small fry” when I realize it is not the ladle, but a fish from outside the window. “Hey, small fry, the cops keep coming. You can’t pretend it isn’t happening anymore. Wash your body, or they will find you by the smell of soup. Last I heard, they want to eat your webbed hands.” I built a shrine for my dead father. As an offering, I gave little pieces of purple paper. Only my kidnapped sister ever visits. One day, I tear the whole thing apart and find my nakedness as a little

silver key. I thought the mosquitos wouldn’t reach it, but they have. My sister shrieks when she sees the single earwig turning between my toes. I jumped the fence last night and the dogs chased me. I climbed a tree to get away from them, but their teeth got caught on my boxers, like the Coppertone girl. My friends tell me boxers are only for straight guys and that I need to revamp my image. They are completely right. From my tree, I notice a little hole in the island, one barely even an ant could fit through. Then, to my amazement, not just an ant, but a ladybug squirms and shoves its way into the hole. From what I heard, it found nothing but its dead friends. I pay the wonderful green fag to let me into the door. He burns down the building, smiles, and calls me a fairy to my face. I hate to be in the middle of the ocean.

Ganon’s Tower comes out of the earth, shining because it has no sea my sickness isn’t gone even on solid ground I run to the four corners of the world and chase my shadow like a dog there is the final arrow and there is the tombstone and there is the cobblestone driveway and there is the door knocker of a hand holding a steel ball and there is the seventh lie under this government and there is the little laughing ball of gas and there is the mutiny of spotlight “do you sleep still?” he says with his mouth to the silk “I can see the girl’s dreams Oceans… Oceans… Oceans… Oceans… They are vast seas… None can swim across them… They yield no fish to catch… So many pathetic creatures, scattered across a handful of islands… What can they possibly hope to achieve? Don’t you see… Your gods destroyed you!” he holds me in his big arms

I put my sword slowly into his kidney that which binds us together: my glowing fingertips Gods: think of the children I wish I could identify my fated enemy further into the conceit but really I mean it: our little categories transform in the grief sphere the child-hero must have an enemy full of ideology gone sour the rust of mythology a small girl and a smaller boy fling their bodies at the adult until the child-hero puts his blade into his enemy’s forehead with that the seas come down and there is the child-hero’s sister waving her hand from the pirate’s ship everyone the boy, his sister, the girl, the grandmother, all the islanders everyone is waving their fat four-fingered hands