You are not a flower
blossoming alone in a desert.
I am not a starved butterfly
crossing a desert with heavy flaps.
You may be a nameless flower
blooming furtively in a dazzling rose garden.
I may be an obscure old scrubby butterfly
dancing in a glamorous group dance of butterflies.
Despite all of these,
a butterfly is seduced by your sweet nectar;
a flower is craving for an ecstasy
through my long winding proboscis.
Yeah! It would be alright
if you are called a butterfly;
if I am called a flower.
Out of the blue,
I feel I am a swan;
How hard it is to have an elegant life!
You are not a swan.
You are not elegant.
Ah! I see.
Hallucination is man’s must to survive,
but not easy to be living in
fantasy, delusion, illusion, imagination.
If I don’t call me swan,
I would be just a waddling duck.
I see a few old birds
sitting on a branch,
enraptured with me.
Now my illusion has evolved
so I can see young birds as well.
Isn’t swan a bird too?
It’s just a dream.
Don’t put it into your prison and/or
into your pathetically poor stream
of imagination without oar.
Give it a wing, an engine, whatever.
Kick it’s ass up high in the blue sky.
What if it won’t come true?
It’s just a dream hanging high
just like a piece of pie in the sky.
It’s not supposed to get through to you.
Ah! Nothing to lose
no matter how ridiculous your dream is.
So dream on and on…
as if you are in deep booze,
as if you are high on a low hill.
God won’t appear to me and say;
“Leave hear and go there…”,
I am not obedient Abraham.
God won’t appear to me as a burning bush,
I am not old Moses with a dream of Exodus.
God won’t appear to me as baby Jesus,
I am not Mary waiting for Messiah.
Beautiful Bathsheba bathing on top of the world,
tore down David who had too many women,
would surely rip me in pieces, who have too few women.
God would know….
A picture of Tulip I painted when I was a kid
was hung on the wall of my Church.
Let’s paint a woman who would destroy me.
Let’s paint God who would reveal
My sleeping dream,
My baby-like tender mind.
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?