Today’s morning hello without skip.
A homeless man who
sang a song for me yesterday,
recited a gem of a poem to me last week,
preached the wisdom of life to me last month.
He will do them again tomorrow, next week, next month.
Why does he nest in my porch?
Why do I call him a homeless man?
Why do I willingly despise me who feel pity for him?
Tomorrow morning, would I try to greet him first,
who spent the night in my door step?
to prove that he is a hologram
to despise him without guilt, with comfort.
This bed I am sleeping on is a paper box?
This blanket I am covering myself with is a newspaper?
This house I am living in is a subway station?
This poem I am writing now is a deep sigh?
I hope not.
Do not ruin the drama.
Wearing a thick mask,
showing a big bravado,
flying all kinds of lies,
you will become an archetypal hypocrite.
If a sufficient amount of time elapses,
the mask will become your face that
can’t be taken off from you,
the bravado will be carved in your memory
as undeniable fact for good,
the lies will turn into poetic expressions and
will remain forever in people’s heart.
Well, then you can walk in high pride
Just like Pharisees.
Don’t worry about Jesus’s little scolding and
just entertain the spectators
by acting natural.
Right! I saw that thing clearly, but
It could be a hologram?
Sometimes visible, in another time invisible,
distorted once in a while,
chopped here and there.
Perhaps I have been tortured too long
in the cramped seat so
I might have talked drivel.
I may have a talent in conning, but
I need more practice in acting
‘til I am able to act natural
as if I was born like that.
So jump up onto the stage!
A happy-looking man who
keeps throwing stones to
a murky horizon far far away
buried in a deep deep fog.
The happier-looking man who
Is gazing at the dim fluttering of
a seagull-like bird in a thick thick mist.
As if worshipping the horizon,
as if waiting for the fog to be lifted,
a happy rock with a look of
throwing stones into the sea water.
A very very old rock.
not necessarily supposed to
not necessarily reach orgasm
by being conquered.
Mountains feel just
content with uncontrollable exclamations from me
looking up from their feet.
Mountains often reach
orgasm by looking down on me with
I won’t try to
climb the unreachable summit.
I can hit my orgasm through
not being discouraged and
enduring contempt and insult from the mountains.
I ate the chocolate she gave me just like a frog snatching a dung fly,
which created a small hell in my stomach.
Perhaps it was a no-name cheap chocolate.
In fact, would she have given you a Godiva?
Just like you shouldn’t pick up and eat a chocolate lying on the street,
you get into trouble if you jump at things a woman gives you.
Thanks to that stomach discomfort, chocolate grabbed my attention.
I’ve found out that Godiva is not No. 1 in the world!
Ah! There will a time that I give a Teuscher as a birthday present
to a beautiful woman who loves brand-name chocolate, sweet things like me.
But I won’t give a cheap chocolate that causes stomach trouble
to a woman I hate, even though she is a sheer bitch.
However, if the thought that even cheap chocolate should be given is sad,
my mindset of no-giving-no-taking would be happy?
Because of stomachache from a cheap chocolate,
This excreta has been created.
Believe it or not, sometimes dog poop is used as medicine,
so cheap useless stuff would be worthwhile.
But, I wonder what this excretion can be used for…
A grass-blade standing alone by the roadside,
The dream of a lonely-looking blade
Is by becoming a vast meadow
and by feeding a flock of sheep bellyful
to have it name fly high to the sky.
A dream; the bigger, the better,
but the wayside dream is just a dream,
A dream dreamt alone is just a dream.
A small advice to the grass-blade
from a drifter looking just like the grass
who is walking alone
with a humungous backpack on the back.
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?