Desert

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?

Woman’s Life

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.
Nothing matters.

Woman’s life?
Man’s life….

Want to turn into a fish

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?