The Nebraska stretch of I-80 has no curves just like
nude model’s legs. So, you don’t need to use steering
wheel and what you can see is only corn fields, the sky,
the road and a few cars. To go through this part in one
piece might be the same as to survive in a fierce battle.
Space travel could be worse than hitting dismal Nebraska
I-80. Even after decades of flying, only you can see is pitch-
black space and stars, stars, stars that never get closer.
Probably nobody would expect to go back to Earth alive.
Just like a spaceship flying diligently to the destination
that may not be reached, I run zealously, but running
running running don’t change the scenery so looks like
the time stops. The only way to endure this agony is to
trash the heavy sack that is being dragged along and
forget where I am running to and to become AI and just run.
Space travel is no big deal since I am already doing it.
With the door of the cage
open, I am dreaming a dream
In which that little pretty bird
Is singing in this cage.
The rumor that I have a great
cage is still just a rumor.
So, all kinds of so-so birds
fly in and out of my cage.
When the cage is winged
and rises like a full moon,
the pretty bird might see
it and dream a cute dream.
The cage that meets the bird
on a road in its dream. The bird
that won’t come in. The cage
and the bird that are only gazing
at each other. But, they look happy.
While they are watching each other,
the dangling bird that is pecking
the cage once in a blue moon.
The cage that is singing a happy
poem. Just like this, the bird cage
and the bird that have become a legend.
I was in her dream, she said.
Went somewhere with her, she said.
She invited me to a road in her dream, I thought,
‘cause that was the only road for her.
I have no memory of being in her dream, though.
Perhaps she loves me.
Pretending that she thinks this is ridiculous,
Just like a lady who spreads gossips in town,
Just like a puppy that frolics in the snowing backyard,
she’s become Samaritan woman
and advertises her dream wherever she goes.
I doubt she can hide her love for me like that.
Call me if you miss me. Don’t just dream.
Maybe it’s a joke that doesn’t look like a joke,
but what a world in which only a road in dream
is allowed. That a man loves a woman is a problem?
How many women are waiting for me in the road of her dream?
Delusion is a daily bread for men so
I am always wandering in my dream
wondering which way to go.
No matter how you live, life is a dream,
If you dream a dream in your dream,
one of the dreams might become a real dream.
Not a shoveling mistake.
It’s time to get out.
I can’t imagine in this tiny birdcage
how stuffy and stifling you were.
Our love couldn’t be confirmed.
I thought I might die too.
It was lucky that you were not deep-rooted.
Let’s enjoy our love in the big world.
Let’s fly in the lofty sky to the fullest.
If this is just a painting I painted,
It would be a never-ending end.
If this is an intentional shoveling,
It would be a new beginning that eventually ends
Even though there will be an end,
I like to feel the butterfly’s antenna,
That is in raptures while licking my nectar.
If not, that’s ok.
No matter this way or that way, it’s my life.
No matter I do this or that, it’s still my life.
This picture that is now frozen, fortunately,
leaves the boring poetry for the world.
My pheasant that can’t be caught.
No. Instead of the pheasant that won’t get caught,
I try to stuff my starved stomach with chicken,
But even before I put that in my hungry mouth,
the chicken hits my nose with stinking smell.
Yeah, I will just watch it
even if I can’t eat it
until it’s talented sexy feathers are all stripped
and its beautiful posture
is no longer visible.
Well, then who knows?
The pheasant might offer its neck
to me who’s become a flower
that is standing mindlessly.
I think I watched too many period TV shows.
You don’t have to say ‘I love you’,
even if you are really in love.
Rather than the word ‘love’
that floats around like a madfly at summer day,
love is to smell the spot
that I was sitting.
If that is a real love,
the rusty smell of my life would be a sweet scent.
But I want to hear ‘I love you’,
even though it is really from her lust.
Well, can I survive the word ‘love’?
Just like when I wrote my first poem with pounding heart
after I heard the first confession of love,
I would finish this serial poetry with my heart
pounding like a fawn,
If I receive the confession love from her lips.
In this room where only we two are in,
you can say it is an expression of longing
or desire…or lust.
A flower is just standing there.
that doesn’t pull butterfly’s eyes
and gives itself to bee’s kissing.
The butterfly’s silence
even without the sound of flapping
is an exclamation
that burst out after aeon’s waiting?
The desire is for living a day
or for getting name-brand bag?
Is it a struggle of praying
like the calm Sea of Galilee?
I wish it were a butterfly faithful to its desire.
I hope it is not a gloomy stillness
after a battle for trying to escape the desire.