Do I Know You?

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.

Trauma in the Flower Garden

Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the

sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the

flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept

taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have

been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The

happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?

An Eschatology

You didn’t send me flowers this time.
I realized you were much more beautiful than flowers.
I am slow, you know.
Would she smell the end from my lame excuse?
She might disappear like a ghost at dawn.
If there is a beginning, then there will be an end.
But the beginning like a volcano eruption
shouldn’t end like an iceberg in the South Pole,
which is melting due to the global warming.
Regardless of Earth’s demise,
we have been holding up against the world
with the memory of just one night?
Who knows what was between us?
Just like a virtual reality with run-out battery,
after being distorted and chopped constantly,
the illusion might pop up to the real reality.
A fantasy in which only the flower is real
can’t have a beginning and an end!
At the end of the world,
What will remain is not
I or she, but
The memory of sending flowers,
The memory of receiving flowers.

Not My Road

I’ve never been this sure before;
this is not my road.

I’ve walked on this road for more than a decade;
this is not my road.

I’ve been running on this road with my chin up high;
this is not my road.

I’ve been crawling on this road screwing up smiles out of nothing;
This is not my road.

Looking back at the road I’ve been on,
I see many pieces of memory twinkling like the ice that cover the twigs and
I smell the fragrance of wild flowers filling up the whole road;
this is not my road.

I throw more-than-a-decade road in a trash can
and pick up another road;
is this my road?

The final road I will dump;
would that my road?

If I throw away all the road I was on,
they all would not be my roads.

One Way to Trash Desire

When I was a little kid,
the playground in my elementary school
was way too big for me just like a baby squid
is way too small for the gigantic pool
– the Pacific Ocean.

That is in my memory

When I came back to my old grid
after a decade, the playground
was way too small for me just like a giant squid
is way too big for a pool to swim around.

That is in my other memory
of a few decades ago.

When I see a beautiful village
and pretty women in there,
getting into the village becomes my desire.
after some time, however, if I can’t feel the cleavage,
the beauty of the village will become
the nude woman in Goya’s painting?

I will rather wait with some anguish
than knocking at the gate,
until my desire vanishes
or the place no longer looks great.

What a painful way to trash desire
and to lose the urge to live life
– the Only One.