Guarding Faces
Modomatic’s Guarding Faces with unsleepy eyes. Barong, Kirtimukha, and Drishti Gombe reborn as wild, round, neon faces wheat-pasted across downtown streets. They stare, they swallow evil, they never blink.
The city is being watched.
City Spirits
Mythic faces watching the streets of New York.
The Eyes, the City’s Unsleeping Guards
I was born where the gamelan still argues with the night, where every doorway once wore a monster’s face so evil would trip over its own reflection.
I carried that old medicine across the ocean in my suitcase, folded between T-shirts: a handful of fearless stares.
Now I set them free below 14th Street.
In Soho’s iron canyons, on Tribeca’s hushed cobblestones, across the red lanterns of Chinatown and the graffiti psalms of the Lower East Side, through Nolita’s perfume, Two Bridges’ river wind, the Villages’ crooked laughter, Chelsea’s white galleries, and the Meatpacking District’s after-hours neon blood—I leave circles of color with eyes too large for any human face.
They are doing what they were born to do:
Stare back.
Swallow envy the way Kirtimukha swallows its own hunger.
Burn quietly like Drishti Gombe at the year’s end, taking every poisoned glance into paper flames no one will ever light.
Dance a silent Barong on brick and plywood, laughing at darkness until darkness forgets its lines.
I paint them round because circles have no corners for bad luck to hide.
I make them loud—acid pink, venom green, temple gold—so evil gets embarrassed and looks away first.
Every wall I paste becomes a threshold again.
Every shutter is a temple lintel.
Every sleepless corner, a village I once knew.
Walk these streets at any hour.
If a bulbous pair of eyes suddenly finds you under a streetlamp, don’t flinch.
Hold the gaze for the length of one held breath.
They have already swallowed what was chasing you.
They never sleep.
Their eyes never blink.
Downtown is under watch tonight and every night after.