I can’t go to Mars
to test my luck for survival.
so I create Mars on this Earth
by sucking up all the oxygen,
by drying up all the water,
by throw myself far away from the Sun,
and by living in thick ugly mask.
After 15 years, I am still alive on Mars
without doing anything to survive;
by depending on pure luck.
No wonder that none-existent humans
call me Martian.
What a monumental non-effort!
Why don’t you take off your stuffy
space suit? Who knows? You
might find out you are human
by not dying and your fortune
can live without your helmet.
But I like Mars’ barren soils –
Its desolate deserts –
Its naked mountains –
Its muffled silence-
Its utter emptiness.
Well, you may need a different skin
on your face.
Forgotten I must be.
Perhaps she’s been busy with her own life
I can’t push my stick into.
Do I know you?
I wouldn’t be marveled at
this horrendous question from her mind.
Yeah! Almost everyday
I throw this dismal inquiry to
the guy in the mirror.
I am a lucky jerk
who haven’t been buried in oblivion yet
You don’t know who I am?
Won’t matter. Be my virgin.
We can re-construct our memory.
He is a real genius, she says.
Do we need a genius, for that kind of thing? I scream.
Because of all the fuss she makes,
I can’t claim I am a genius too.
How fortunate I am!
I could just be a wine bottle for that genius,
it would be better if I could be a chair the beauty sit on
and it couldn’t be better if I were a bed
the genius and the beauty make love on
Don’t praise for my modesty.
How come he can be a genius without drinking wine?
How could the beauty’s butt touch the floor?
A good bed is a must for a passionate sex.
This kind of cute ambition should be allowed, shouldn’t it?
I am just a prop
that takes whatever happen to me
and keep my place
While just watching admired genius and beloved beauty.
A prop that won’t reveal its ambition,
just like a forest that wraps the village,
just like a mountain that sustains the forest.
If ‘prop’ sounds too small,
How about calling it a stage background?
Nah, calling it just the stage?
How could a genius and a beauty exist
without a stage where they play on?
Just like the Earth on which humankind is living,
just like the Space in which the Earth is breathing,
the prop that has accomplished its long-cherished goal.
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.