She is called Sophia.
No matter how thick her lips
is rouged with wisdom just like her name,
even though her whole life is given to God,
and her passion of feminism is being hidden in her breasts,
she wishes to be a woman in her heart?
Then her skin-deep body would follow.
That’s why she said to ordinary women
that sacred and sexual didn’t hate each other.
If she were a virgin, I would be happy but disappointed.
If she weren’t a virgin, I would be bitter but relieved.
Well, how could I pluck a star?
The only thing I could do is to fly
my kite high up in the sky
toward her bosom
that is yearning for being a woman?
Let her be,
if she looks soaked deep in sorrow.
Millions of scandals couldn’t stop Bill
from getting to the top of the Sequoia tree.
Even sex with a little bird in the top leaf
was not able to pull him down from that highest spot.
With all of these filthy scandals,
not a single leaf was shaken in the tree.
How deep is the root of this huge tree?
Otherwise, is this a cloud floating in the sky?
We’ll see if Don is able to shake even one twig.
This tiny house where a flower
that hasn’t become a butterfly and a butterfly
that hasn’t become a flower are in together.
would be collapsed by a single ant?
How could a minikin like an ant do such a thing?
But a scandal between a flower and a butterfly,
who are more minuscule than an ant
could destroy the building in an instant.
The nest they are in is just a sand castle,
which even ants are not needed to be destroy,
Is it just a collective rootless formless phantom
in people’s heads?
This castle that the butterfly is settled for snugly
might become a paper shack
that would be swept out by the flood
from the scandal ensued from a mysterious
word of that bird?
Is this place that looks like a sand castle
a just a clearance in the forest where
the flower and the butterfly stay together?
What if I rumor the scandal to prove
that I am at least a small tree with thin roots
deep in the earth and with branches
looking up toward the sky?
Why do you live?
After eons of walking,
I am gazing around
standing on a road not known to me.
There is no way for me know
from where I set off on this journey.
Do I know where I am headed?
I wouldn’t know where this road my feet are on
is going? Rather,
if this road wouldn’t arrive anywhere,
after I would do again eons of walking
and return here,
would I see gargantuan wings
coming down ripping the gray sky?
It’s just a dream.
Don’t put it into your prison and/or
into your pathetically poor stream
of imagination without oar.
Give it a wing, an engine, whatever.
Kick it’s ass up high in the blue sky.
What if it won’t come true?
It’s just a dream hanging high
just like a piece of pie in the sky.
It’s not supposed to get through to you.
Ah! Nothing to lose
no matter how ridiculous your dream is.
So dream on and on…
as if you are in deep booze,
as if you are high on a low hill.
A kite floating way high up in the winter sky
and looking down upon the world; I am looking
up the bird feeling pain in my neck. Unlike
no-name obscure birds flying in a flock and
a pair of geese singing love songs by filling
up the sky with eardrum-splitting noise, the
kite looks lonely but so elegant and splendid
Probably the kite is not alone and may have
kids to feed or boy/girl friends are floating
somewhere else. Just like a golfer standing
alone and gazing at the invisible hole in a
green, it is alone even though it is not alone.
I hope I am not its food since I am not dead
yet. Just like that kite, I am looking down at
this world all alone and elegantly, but I am not
looking for dead meat. Yeah, after I eat fresh
living meat, I will be dead and will be the food
of the kite. I’ve come to know that why the kite
is hovering over my head. I might close my life
as a dinner of that kite, but I wish I could eat
the flesh and drink the blood of the fresh
living meat I’ve been yearning for. My elegant
and grandiose floating high up in the sky could
attract the refreshing breathing meat. It’s
little wonder the kite is a he.
The sky has sunken
as if it steps on the ground.
On a twig as skinny as young girls’ leg;
its tree has thrown off
the Summer and Autumn,
a pudgy nameless bird,
hiding behind the color of the tree and the sky
with the deep silence like a tree,
is squatting like the sunken sky.
What is in the bird’s small head?
Is this my fault that the bird looks lonely?
If a she-bird that embraces the fall sky,
the summer tree and the spring forsythia,
lands by the he-bird,
It wouldn’t have to open the door for the winter
I am sitting on a wet blanket
Where is this blanket from?
Unpleasant as if I am lying in a casket
What am I going to become?
I am sinking in this nasty mud
Who put this mud here?
Restless as if I am a lonely stud
When am I going to disappear?
I am gazing at the gray sky
Who painted the sky dull?
Depressing as if I hear woman’s cry
When am I going to cry like a gull?
I can go on and on and on
But no answer to the question;
Why am I here?