I can’t go to Mars
to test my luck for survival.
so I create Mars on this Earth
by sucking up all the oxygen,
by drying up all the water,
by throw myself far away from the Sun,
and by living in thick ugly mask.
After 15 years, I am still alive on Mars
without doing anything to survive;
by depending on pure luck.
No wonder that none-existent humans
call me Martian.
What a monumental non-effort!
Why don’t you take off your stuffy
space suit? Who knows? You
might find out you are human
by not dying and your fortune
can live without your helmet.
But I like Mars’ barren soils –
Its desolate deserts –
Its naked mountains –
Its muffled silence-
Its utter emptiness.
Well, you may need a different skin
on your face.
Just like Jonah with his language of fear
Who saved the people of Nineveh
The flower whose prior life was a butterfly,
Groping for the memory of flying
And loading its language of temptation on the pollen,
Flies it through the wind of the early summer.
The butterfly whose prior life was a flower,
Refreshing the memory of its root,
And accepting the destiny as it is….
Just like believers who reached
The illusion of salvation with priests’ language of threat,
Just like Mary Magdalene
Who saw a phantom of resurrected Jesus,
My lover is at my feet.
Every single word by word
Becomes a temptation and covers the garden,
Just like a prophet standing tall on the Athens plaza,
The flower consumed by fear,
Driving its root deep….
Forgotten I must be.
Perhaps she’s been busy with her own life
I can’t push my stick into.
Do I know you?
I wouldn’t be marveled at
this horrendous question from her mind.
Yeah! Almost everyday
I throw this dismal inquiry to
the guy in the mirror.
I am a lucky jerk
who haven’t been buried in oblivion yet
You don’t know who I am?
Won’t matter. Be my virgin.
We can re-construct our memory.
He is a real genius, she says.
Do we need a genius, for that kind of thing? I scream.
Because of all the fuss she makes,
I can’t claim I am a genius too.
How fortunate I am!
I could just be a wine bottle for that genius,
it would be better if I could be a chair the beauty sit on
and it couldn’t be better if I were a bed
the genius and the beauty make love on
Don’t praise for my modesty.
How come he can be a genius without drinking wine?
How could the beauty’s butt touch the floor?
A good bed is a must for a passionate sex.
This kind of cute ambition should be allowed, shouldn’t it?
I am just a prop
that takes whatever happen to me
and keep my place
While just watching admired genius and beloved beauty.
A prop that won’t reveal its ambition,
just like a forest that wraps the village,
just like a mountain that sustains the forest.
If ‘prop’ sounds too small,
How about calling it a stage background?
Nah, calling it just the stage?
How could a genius and a beauty exist
without a stage where they play on?
Just like the Earth on which humankind is living,
just like the Space in which the Earth is breathing,
the prop that has accomplished its long-cherished goal.
Today’s morning hello without skip.
A homeless man who
sang a song for me yesterday,
recited a gem of a poem to me last week,
preached the wisdom of life to me last month.
He will do them again tomorrow, next week, next month.
Why does he nest in my porch?
Why do I call him a homeless man?
Why do I willingly despise me who feel pity for him?
Tomorrow morning, would I try to greet him first,
who spent the night in my door step?
to prove that he is a hologram
to despise him without guilt, with comfort.
This bed I am sleeping on is a paper box?
This blanket I am covering myself with is a newspaper?
This house I am living in is a subway station?
This poem I am writing now is a deep sigh?
I hope not.
She is lying in her coffin.
Jesus’ voice might be for her?
“Wake up! Do not fall into temptation by a clumsy wolf.”
Nah, his voice could be for me,
which would be a plea to my heart
that is pounding not because of Jesus
who is hanging on the cross behind the altar,
but because of the butterfly’s creamy wrist,
which is drawn to the flower’s scent.
It is I who is lying in the coffin.
“She will entrust you with her shiny wrist.”
Jesus’ words have come true.
Being drawn to flower’s back view
the butterfly that sprints to the flower
will entrust only its hands?
Lazarus who never comes out.
Right. Rather dream about honey and milk
In the tomb than comes out and die again.
I, who haven’t caught her signal,
maybe really is dead?
I think I hear Jesus’ desperate voice.
That butterfly drinks cheap wine
and its wings are dyed reddish.
The flower deep in desire is peeping
at its stealthy flapping.
Unless this is not a flower garden,
if I am the only flower,
The floundering butterfly would have
flown to me. Wait on!
You are rooted shallow yet.
I am afraid the flower might be uprooted
with just a little pull of the petal.
Even though the root is too deep and
can reach the other side of the Earth,
a flower should never move.
Would it give up being a flower
because of reddish wings of the butterfly?