The black hair I wish to brush.
The black two-piece I wish to iron.
Not being able to receive Jesus’s body,
Kneeing and praying alone,
Her name is perhaps Magdalene.
With ordinary wildflower-like face,
Is she returning to her lonesome Sunday morning room
where hanging crucifix is the only decoration,
dragging her pitiful caves barely standing
on her high heels that is likely to break.
Was her look that of the adulterous woman
who was dragged in front of Jesus?
Was her posture was that of the extravagant woman
who wiped Jesus feet with fragrant oil?
Was her mind that of the desperate woman
who became a puppy in front of Jesus?
A just average-looking woman
who has become a sinful woman
though the mystery of the Pascha,
out of the imagination of a sin-festered man.
The picture of kissing with mask on looks sad.
The corona stopped my fantasy with no brake.
The virus did what even God couldn’t do.
Even Jesus who claimed sexual fantasy
is a sin couldn’t pass Mary Magdalene,
but a protein chunk choked my fantasy.
Luckily, nothing lasts forever in this world,
so the superpower Covid-19 will be powerless,
then my fantasy hiding from storm will slowly rise
and run on the highway the microbe cleaned up.
then, I myself won’t be able to control my own
fantasy, so my beloved fantasy will become real.
After all, nothing and nobody can’t block
my fantasy, but rather she pours oil over it
and set the blaze. Long live my fantasy!
Why am I climbing this rough mountain?
I climb further and further,
but the top won’t be getting any nearer.
Enjoy the mountain path
rather than the summit;
a wise saying from a sage
who never climbed a mountain.
On the mountain top,
taking one pcture of proof,
putting on ane title of summit conqueror
are what I would do.
The next thing for me to do
is to crawl down the steep mountain path
trying not to tumble
to the foot of the mountain.
I think I can know
why the self-made spiritual gurus said
that we don’t need to climb the mountain.
Because no matter how high
the mountain is, I am still higher.
The mountain is under my feet.
Who is this sage or spiritual guru
with this word of wisdom?
This human being is this me.
How can any magic or spirituality
is higher than I?
Privacy of lovers
should be kept within walls.
And their sizzling hours together
shouldn’t be tales to the world.
But, collapsed walls & shattered privacy
wouldn’t be a disaster.
Pieces of brick & fragments of little secret
would give them more excitements.
Let their red-hot hours
be a long-lasting tale to the lovers
around the world.
And let their indecent bodies
be a perpetual image
to the ordinary people.
No wonder no privacy is my only dream
left in this troubled world.
But I don’t recall I ever had any other dreams
except for those wet videos.
Should I be afraid my private dream
might become tales someday? Yap!
I can smell her tenacity in her dictionary.
In this dictionary, the word ‘abandon’
doesn’t have the meaning ‘‘give up’.
Who made this lousy dictionary?
what is this smell of perfume
whispering gently like a butterfly?
Is this the smell of sweat
of a butterfly fluttering vigorously
searching for flowers?
what is this fingermark
dimly visible just like a weed
in a morning fog?
Is this a beautiful trace of her mind
that never gets tired?
I can’t help but loving
the owner of this dictionary.
One day suddenly
I hear cicadas singing.
Just like its sound has
no trace of many year’s
underground enduring dark,
when one day suddenly
I’ve found myself living
here already for many days,
‘there’ I lived for 10 years
now is buried in my memory park.
The flower that one day suddenly
popped out of my sight, dumping
its many starry blossomed days
that will become just one of bright stars
in the night as a skymark?
Right. One day suddenly
I might find myself humming
on the mountain top in thick haze.
Forgotten all agony of climbing craze,
I would be singing like a skylark.
But, again, one day suddenly
I would find myself being
alone in an unfamiliar place
and swimming the pitch-black Space
looking for another Sun….?
While enjoying her freedom to the max
and gazing at the sunset in Key West,
the Madame Freedom feels the Sun looks lonely.
She is wondering
who would be the lover of the Sun,
feeling sad on her thought
that the lover might be the Moon
then they would never meet each other.
Just like this,
there are lovers who can’t meet,
there are lovers who can’t look at each other,
there are lovers;
one watching the Sun,
the other watching the Moon and stars.
the Madame Freedom gets sick of the freedom.
The freedom seems too lonely to her.
She wants to bury her freedom deep in the Key West sand beach.
‘Cause she and her lover can’t bury their feet in the same beach.
She wants the freedom to vanish like the setting Sun
and to never rise again.
Ah! The Madame Freedom in Key West,
hating the love between the Sum and the Moon,
trashes the lonely freedom in Key West
and heads to the fetters of love
in New York, New York!
As if she hates shedding her clothes.
a woman I am familiar with in TV shows,
embellishing herself with clumsy and awkward smile,
posturing her body in ill-fitting and uncanny style,
is exposing the agony of her life.
Not being able to do acting she does in TV shows,
the naked lady can’t boast about her body God gave her
and cannot arouse men’s sexual desire,
so, she should be called one of pitiful pigs
that are being swept away by a flood of life?
Who wants to be swept away?
Woman! Try to smile like a pig.
Not a fake but give us a real play.
Make men crazy imprisoned in a sex brig.
Enjoy your own beautiful body in your glorious life.
Now she is saying with a naked smile,
“Mind your own business, boys!”
Exactly, watching woman’s bodies
is men’s business in grand style.
The flower that blossomed through a rock
When I tried to pluck its beautiful life,
It became a bird and flew to the sky.
“Fold your wings for a moment and sit by me”.
Then, with its wings grazing my face,
it soared to the higher place.
When I tried to smell its sweat,
It became a rower and jumped into the rough river.
“Come and rest a while at riverside”,
Paddling leaf-boat through troubled water,
It threw a fistful of cold water to me
and ran down to the wider place.
When I tried to peep into its mind,
It became a poet and set off its road trip.
“Come and rest a while on roadside”
It tossed a poem to me
and headed to a faraway place.
The flower that is dancing
with a bright smile
as if it takes root in Canaan land.
The deep-rooted flower
that is sorrowfully beautiful.
The sky that was so blue so lofty
suddenly blocks my eyes with darkness
and my mind that flied high with vast wings
abruptly feels a millstone hanged in the neck,
so, I throw a deep sigh,
then, “Been there done that”,
says an aged flower that monkeys
the elegant flapping of a swallowtail.
When a hoary flower that never left the place
where it was born tries to cover with its shadow
the colorful butterfly that roamed around
a plethora of flower gardens,
the butterfly tries to leave the garden.
Here is not a flower garden.
Aren’t you bored – the rusty relationship
between flower and butterfly?
Make the flower a sparrow
and give it away as a food.
The butterfly could become a sparrow too.
Otherwise, becoming a bigger bird
and leave this place for good…or not.