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.
She, trying to upload her name to the cloud,
seems to want to fly a tower of babel up to the sky.
I attach wings to the flower holding a fort
and it’s become a real butterfly.
Will it be wandering from stars to stars in the Universe
fluttering its fallen-leaf-like wings?
I am here, my lady!
I, being on this blue star called Earth
is trying to grab wings of the passing butterfly.
It is I who tried to upload a tower of babel!
How fortunate that I am a boy who
is building a sand castle on the beach!
She might want to be a mother who
raises a newborn baby.
a woman jogging in a park;
smell of sweat mingled with
smell of perfume bought in a dollar store.
(i don’t have a nose for perfume though)
a woman with thick make-up
who’s just given birth to a baby.
(a rumor, but it might be true)
a feminist woman waiting for a man
to open the door for her.
actresses in a TV show
who can’t be told who’s who.
(i don’t have good eyes though)
my wife sleeping by me
is the only woman with bare face?
(only if wife is a woman too)
of woman bondage that brings back
the memories of lust to men
with fake face and the make-up
as thick as pig skin
Millions of scandals couldn’t stop Bill
from getting to the top of the Sequoia tree.
Even sex with a little bird in the top leaf
was not able to pull him down from that highest spot.
With all of these filthy scandals,
not a single leaf was shaken in the tree.
How deep is the root of this huge tree?
Otherwise, is this a cloud floating in the sky?
We’ll see if Don is able to shake even one twig.
This tiny house where a flower
that hasn’t become a butterfly and a butterfly
that hasn’t become a flower are in together.
would be collapsed by a single ant?
How could a minikin like an ant do such a thing?
But a scandal between a flower and a butterfly,
who are more minuscule than an ant
could destroy the building in an instant.
The nest they are in is just a sand castle,
which even ants are not needed to be destroy,
Is it just a collective rootless formless phantom
in people’s heads?
This castle that the butterfly is settled for snugly
might become a paper shack
that would be swept out by the flood
from the scandal ensued from a mysterious
word of that bird?
Is this place that looks like a sand castle
a just a clearance in the forest where
the flower and the butterfly stay together?
What if I rumor the scandal to prove
that I am at least a small tree with thin roots
deep in the earth and with branches
looking up toward the sky?
Why do you live?
the christmas that visited me last year,
my still being alive make it come back.
while the christmas tree that was not
trashed is glittering again this year,
i don’t hear ‘merry christmas’ from her
and the bridal chamber is still waiting
to be indulged. the dream of honey-
moon that was shattered and scattered
into the universe. the memory of promise
is still piercing my heart with a spear
head, but the picture i draw is a short
kiss and the only thing left is a touch
of her tongue. her christmas is blue-
tainted too or she is being burned red
in a room? my thirty hand motion that
is groping around the glass wall; the
fatigued phantasy of copulation; the
desire and lust that are turned blue.
blue blue blue blue christmas
a leaf dangling precariously for 20 years
has been finally plucked out.
my heart was not ripped apart, though.
what remain are only broken pieces of memory
in darkish corners of my mind.
the feel of her earlobes;
regret in not being able to kiss;
a bench by the lake in the middle of the night
where we never sat together on;
threatening call to kill herself;
wedding pictures with the handsome younger man;
sultry and clammy fantasy.
the desperate gesture I ignored,
which has become the final one.
final? I look into her picture.
would I want to be a leaf dangling
desperately from her naked twig?
The watermelon, being stuffed
in a plastic bag held by an unwelcome
hand, came into my house. As if the hand
itself was not interested in what did come
with the bag, it didn’t even move
a finger when the house owner uttered
the empty words; “you didn’t have
to bring this.” The bag held
by the new owner was put in one
corner of the kitchen. No one,
neither the hand that brought the watermelon,
nor the hand that received the watermelon
cared if its taste was awesome or
awful. Perhaps they didn’t even care
if it was a real watermelon or not.
Although the melon, a mere whatnot,
survived being pushed in and out
of all the corners in the house, It never
was out of the bag. One day, the worn-out
bag was seen accidentally by the owner
and was thrown into the trash bin
with still breathing watermelon in it.
The thought that it might have been
the severest and delicious tidbit
In the world never occurred
to anybody in the house.
The watermelon never existed
from this world’s nascence.