I chew on sand in your poem.
Reading your poem won’t get my heart moist.
Why don’t you have a date?
Try to dip yourself deep in love.
Then your poem will get al dente with some moisture.
and make the small chest of a woman pound.
The poet who is looking around;
That flower garden was a mirage?
The poet who is crossing the desert;
built an oasis, but the material is only sand.
The flower garden is a hologram that came across the Pacific.
Maybe it is my hallucination;
Can I cross this desert
If I walk and walk and walk again while
chewing and chewing and chewing again the poems I wrote
when I was floundering deep in love?
In her teens, she was full of curiosity about that.
In her twenties, she knew what that was.
In her thirties, she enjoyed that.
In her forties, she badgered about that.
In her fifties, she bought that.
In her sixties, she prayed for that.
In her seventies, she forgot what that was.
In her eighties, she didn’t know what they were talking about.
In her nineties, nothing mattered.
I can’t satisfy her curiosity.
I got nothing to let her know.
I can’t quench her joy.
I can’t give her desire a disappointment.
I am not for sale.
I am not an answer for her prayer.
I don’t want to remind her of that thing.
I don’t have to tell her what they were talking about.
We are just staring at each other blankly.
To go that green grass
across the river,
I want to turn into a fish.
I can’t split the river like Moses;
I can’t walk on the water like Jesus;
I can’t swim like Michael Phelps;
So I want to turn into a fish.
If I have to,
I will sell my soul to the Devil
to turn into a fish
I will take the bait of an angler
on the other side of the river;
I will be grilled sizzling
on the green grass.
What kind of fish
do you want to be, buddy?
What I recall is
its sexy alto voice.
Not sure. Maybe it was soprano.
In fact, nothing I can remember
except a delusion;
A bird sang a love song for me.
If I go back to the forest,
could I pick out the bird?
If the bird sing a song for me again,
could I recall that delusion?
Should I ask other birds?
I could put my memory in a birdcage
and just wait for our fate unfold…
Mind of a butterfly,
hovering over a flower
even when it’s taking a nap
with its wings folded;
Flower is THE treasure of a butterfly.
What is my treasure?
Who is my treasure?
Where is it wandering around?
Where is it snooping around?
My delighted smile;
Not because of a vision of Jesus;
I am still a butterfly
even with my feeble flip-flap.
If you love me, you can have cute fantasy.
Make a white horse out of my ugly donkey.
Turn my run-down shack into a beautiful palace.
Let my rags become a fabulous ball-dress.
A nameless man passing by you
is transformed into a prince by your eyes.
An invisible man loitering around you
is transfigured into a special man by your cares.
Ah! Do not shatter your fantasy.
Your fantasy is
my daily bread,
my real clothes,
my only shelter,
my ever-lasting life.
When you fantasy wears a thick shell and
becomes my unbreakable fantasy,
you can get out of the fantasy and
watch the reality with ecstasy.
Half of people in the world is woman; even Don Juan
can’t love all of them. He might be able to love all the
beautiful women, but there must be a special woman
he loves in a special way just like Jesus who loves all
women as well as man loves Mary Magdalene in a
different way, then who would be my special woman?
Not an easy question to answer; how many married
man would say, “My special woman is my wife”. My
wife being my special woman might make my life appear
dull and boring, so am trying to squeeze my memory to
find out a woman who was special to me, but since no
women dare to enter my deep heart, my wife is destined
to be my special woman? My life has been full of wild
rivers, high mountains and dangerous forests just like
other men’s lives, but alas! no special woman I loved in
a different way! Hold on! She might claim she was a
special woman to me. Who’s she? Do I know her? Um…