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…
i read a poem
as if walking in a thick fog
in my dark room.
i read a poem
written by a woman
whose mind even God wouldn’t know.
i put out the dim candle light in the room;
i read a poem
without caring where this invisible road
in the night fog leads to.
with this feeling in the fog as it is
with this dark feeling as it is
i write a poem.
in order for the woman who loves me
to get lost in the night fog;
nah, she wouldn’t even look for a road.
i write a poem.
in order for her
to feel my small breath
to feel my shaking hands
to feel my bitter yearning
in the deep darkness
where even a single firefly
is not allowed,
i write a poem.
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.
No matter how beautiful it is,
if it won’t seduce me
with its fragrance,
if it won’t greet me
with its warm heart,
it would be just
a flower in a vase,
a unnecessary attraction to innocent bystanders,
a cheap decoration in a so-so restaurant.
The flower that was thrown in the garbage can
even before it was touched by my hands.
I’ve written poems for this flower, so
If I excrete it from my mind,
It will bequeath beautiful poems, but
the flower I dumped,
whose flower will it become and
be thrown away again?
‘Cause of my spirit of mercy,
It would take long to realize that
I’ve been trashed by the flower…
I have no desire to become a God. I would be content with being an idol. Nah! I have to be an idol. Flowers could worship the invisible God? Nah! Hiding behind a God-like mask, when I crisscross the follower garden, flowers would worship me as if they meet God, would be frightened as if they are under judgment in front of God and would offer everything as if they give offerings to God. My mask becomes God and God is hiding behind the mask. I wish my mask would resemble God even a bit, but I don’t know what kind of being God is and what God would look like. Even though my mask is said to be an idol, but the only visible thing is an idol, so I have to look like God to flowers. In this way, the true idolatry would be born. When I saunter around the garden with a triumphant air, I’ve found a flower wearing a similar mask as mine. What’s happening here? How come a flower puts on an idol mask?! The flower with mask won’t worship me when I pass by. What is going on? Our eyes behind masks have a fight, but how could I win over a flower? Make the flower Goddess, then I can keep my position as an idol. Come, come, butterflies that would worship Goddess! I will gather beautiful flowers that worship idol and when the time comes, I would unmask and say I am not God. Then the flowers would say how fortunate you are not God please keep being an idol for us. Your mask would be magnificent if it is plated with gold. Well since the mask looks like the real God, who knows you might become God in the end?! Why am I writing this kind of gorgeous crap? A grumble of a self-proclaimed idol who can’t be worshipped by the flower(s) behind the Goddess-like mask.
I am listening to the sound of a bird;
Is it weeping, laughing, or singing?
How would I know? If it is pretty, I
would listen intently even though I
couldn’t decipher no matter I listen
again and again. It could utter a sound
that I can make out a bit, but just like
Jesus who persists in sowing truth into
dumb disciples, it keeps flying the same
un-fathomable sound. Cry, cry, bird…
He could stop listening but is sticking
around in front of the small bird; a
tenacious human being. Does he want
to spew incomprehensible sounds just
like that bird or he has a desire to become
like Jesus? If I put that bird in the cage,
would the bird speak human language like
parrot? Ah! If I say something, that bird
wouldn’t understand anything from my
mouth. We would fall in love just like this!
God probably was pissed off by Moses
who accepted God’s calling before he
realized what he did and was trudging
back to Egypt without any thought; God
pretended to try to kill vacuous Moses,
but he was lucky enough to have a quick-
witted and extremely reactive wife just
like me. Zipporah instantly circumcised
her own son before God killed her beloved
husband. Perhaps she is the only mother
who herself did circumcision on her son?
Who knows? There are plenty of weird
moms in this world. Even with her iron heart,
how frightened she was! How mad at her
thickheaded husband she was; she called
him a bridegroom of blood. Zipporah who
was not fazed at all at the sight of blood
can be called a bride of blood or a mother
of blood? If there were no Zipporah with
the great prophet Moses, I wouldn’t be
writing this kind of gem of a poem…hew.