Noisy birds in my backyard
have a lot to talk about,
like a girl in my arms
Birds kissing on the deck
have many things to share,
like a girl in a motel bed.
Singing bird by my window
tries to lure me into lust,
like girls on the street.
Birds flying away from my tree
have nothing to say to me,
like a girl showing her back.
I hear you guys are close. True?
What is ‘A man and a woman are close’?
Do I feel jealousy in her tone?
Close? Not at all.
I don’t look like I am lying,
but where is my hidden smile coming from?
Suddenly I miss her
who’s not in front of my eyes.
I miss you dearly.
A joke-like outcry thrown in public.
A pollen flown awkwardly before Spring has come.
As women’s suspicious glances become the spring breeze
and makes my heart pounding,
this flower will root deeper?
Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the
sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the
flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept
taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have
been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The
happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?
Do not ruin the drama.
Wearing a thick mask,
showing a big bravado,
flying all kinds of lies,
you will become an archetypal hypocrite.
If a sufficient amount of time elapses,
the mask will become your face that
can’t be taken off from you,
the bravado will be carved in your memory
as undeniable fact for good,
the lies will turn into poetic expressions and
will remain forever in people’s heart.
Well, then you can walk in high pride
Just like Pharisees.
Don’t worry about Jesus’s little scolding and
just entertain the spectators
by acting natural.
Right! I saw that thing clearly, but
It could be a hologram?
Sometimes visible, in another time invisible,
distorted once in a while,
chopped here and there.
Perhaps I have been tortured too long
in the cramped seat so
I might have talked drivel.
I may have a talent in conning, but
I need more practice in acting
‘til I am able to act natural
as if I was born like that.
So jump up onto the stage!
The Sky, sunk deep down,
seems to become one with
the Earth, but how can the Sky
and the Earth be fused into one?
When a thick cloud harboring
the smell of the Sky is wandering
and touching the Earth with its feet
and a sunlight filled with the yearning
of the Sky Is coming down to cover
the Earth with its warmth, and a dim
moonlight bearing the desire of the
Night Sky is falling down like a firework,
the only thing the Earth does is to try
to reach the Sky by smoking haze.
Right, the Sky and the Earth
was one. After aeon has passed,
They are trying to become on again,
But the Earth can bear the weight
of the Sky? The Sky can stand the
humidity of the Earth?
The Earth that can’t come up close
to the Sky can’t do anything but waiting
for the Sky to collapse.
You are wearing blue jean.
So what? Even homeless man wears it.
Right! This is a beacon fire.
Something is coming or
Just a door-knocking sound.
If the fire comes down the mountain
And swoop on me,
Then I would become a burning bush
Seducing old Moses.
Struggling to climb to the top of the mountain
Might make you uprooted so
Just stay put and wait for
A young butterfly
With lots of dreams
Coming and be trapped
By its own snare.
That butterfly would be circling around
With Armani in its mouth?
Because I should be a flower.
She is called Sophia.
No matter how thick her lips
is rouged with wisdom just like her name,
even though her whole life is given to God,
and her passion of feminism is being hidden in her breasts,
she wishes to be a woman in her heart?
Then her skin-deep body would follow.
That’s why she said to ordinary women
that sacred and sexual didn’t hate each other.
If she were a virgin, I would be happy but disappointed.
If she weren’t a virgin, I would be bitter but relieved.
Well, how could I pluck a star?
The only thing I could do is to fly
my kite high up in the sky
toward her bosom
that is yearning for being a woman?
Let her be,
if she looks soaked deep in sorrow.