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?
I got sick and tired of the name – Rose
In this rose garden crowded with roses.
Smiling Rose; now you come to know
what ‘flower’ really means. Don’t say,
rose! Rose! If you become a flower,
You will be a flower that is more beautiful
than a rose. Rose is for your eyes only;
It’s just a beautiful flower. I am who I am,
why am I rose? How come a human can
become a rose? You’re right. Live just
like that as always. Live just saying rose!
Rose! What a silly dream! Can I call it a
rose dream? When I wake up, Jesus
on the cross is in front of my eyes. Lord,
why do you talk hard sayings like this?
Jesus who smiles just like a rose…
I wonder why she’s become a Samaritan woman.
The man sitting by her is her husband.
She doesn’t seem to have gone through many men.
Well, nobody knows, though.
Just like a doe wandering about in the mountains looking for clear water,
she might have been trying to find a man who can cool down her burning heart.
That’s why she comes in here every Sunday
And throws up sizzling eyes to Jesus on the cross,
Like a woman hanging around the well,
Even though her husband has been with her all the time.
However, how Jesus without body can take woman’s volcano?
If she is a Samaritan woman, I would be Jesus.
I should become her Savior who provides never-dried spring water.
If I had a power like that of Jesus,
I would fall to Satan’s temptation that let me make a bread out of stone.
Since it looks like I don’t have that kind of charisma,
It would be just a passing wind.
I hope not.
Perhaps I am just another Don Quixote.
Then, most likely, that butterfly-like flower,
Beating the air with its awkward wings,
Hovering around over me, is another Dulcinea?
Even with her punctured stocking,
She is just a beautiful princess to me.
She may be a queen under a spell,
Whom I have to save. I shouldn’t let her
Come near me, but should just let her scent
Graze my nose, so that I could save her
Or not from the witch through blood battle.
No, I am not Don Quixote,
Then she is not Dulcinea.
She, hiding her cruel sexual desire
Behind the thick mask called faith,
Is just one of women strewn
All over this world.
Well, I am the Excalibur
That could pierce her impenetrable mask,
Which is my fantasy.
Just like this, she is still my Dulcinea.