Winter days (II)
Cold rain and too short
days,
The lovers hide inside their corridor
snuggled beneath the furs.
His ancient mind reaches me
through the old ways,
being who
he is,
there has been no doubt of my existense.
In bed, on the
roof tops,
From within my chilled knees,
The lovers chantings zing
eagerly.
The shadows of entangled limbs
Blurs, the labored
breaths slows;
Until bottomless slumber loudly exclaims
Another deep
satisfaction.
Watch him breathe.
Let him luxuriate in the
precious seconds.
Until the guards rush into the cell
And drag the
prisoners away.
Landscape
I have been the cliff
on the edge of the ocean.
You the waxing moon rising upon it.
Upon the
obsidian waves, between my eyes and the stars.
Perhaps I am now the
woods near trenton.
After Feburary snow, all is quiet, in moist air.
You
the distant sun remotely plotting
plans to retake the grounds.
Maybe
you'll start from the southern slope,
where horses graze demurly, where the
road bends,
where a white barn sits watching.
I come to be the
lost canal only visible from satellites,
An elusive print upon the face of
the earth.
Once I flew, curves cradling lives.
There had been so many
garlands and royal vessels
that praised you who was the king.
Boat
As I lie
crumbled
Like some newspaper tossed up on the street,
Head crowned with
the shells of cliche,
Like some ship wrecked at sea and is taken
as part
of the coral reef, as the residence
of angel fish.
There is a
migrating bird who tires in the air.
There is an eye rubbed by rough sand
that bleeds mechanic tears.
Then there is your boat, sailing high
about the Time Sea.
Your boat, a reflection of mine,
But it glides above
the water, untouching.
It sails in the clear wind of singing.
April
Beware of the Locust
Beware of the
locusts. They come and obscure sunlight.
Here they come. I�ve heard of them
From Grandma�s mouth.
For she has seen famines many a time in the old
days.
Here comes one, the beast, the insect: a parasite
That
would not go along quietly.
And they always hunt you down
In great
numbers.
I would have you know that green things have enemies.
And they roam and roar in hunger.
Those bulging eyes, those poisonous
stings called spitters.
--It�s a terrible sight I�m telling ya.
When the night is dark, when the wind is high;
When stray dogs
stroll around in the outskirt of the city,
�Then come the locusts,� said my
grandma.
�For quite a while they are our only food.�
May
(translated from
chinese, 06/29)
Unter the tree here we would return
Under the tree that's blooming
Our forgotten scrolls still litter around.
Some says, some says,
he has yet to come.
Learning to
fall in love again
with the new budlings
in this half gruesome
and
half gauche season.
Do you look up to the sky and smile?
Have you
kept watch
in a cave with candles burning?
How should I ever capture a
white waterfall
that plunges down into a canyon's depth?
Desire
and promise
they merge into one.
The azure sky is infinte
And the
crying of the doves
still soars in memory.
someone remains who plays the
ol' guitar
out of tune and against the wall.
A Poet is He
A poet is he
Who carries a small
brown leather book
To battles. He reads it in the trenches.
It's a book
of poems, stolen from the temple library.
The poet could hear
Ghosts
and cathedral bells ringing
In his sleep. Inside the tent, his boots
sometimes
Lie unbuckled by the door.
This poet has decided, on a
non-descriptive day
To go incognito: To hide in a desert under twin suns,
Build a hut next to the moisture farms,
And visit Mos Eisley
occasionally,
for a drink in the catina.
The poet has vanished.
The last legend
From his arcane order slipped away.
Taking the tomb of poems, the 'sabre, and a star map,
The last Jedi was gone on his speeder bike,
with longs songs in his wake.
Thin Man
link to
early draft
The Thin man strolls
on his long femurs.
I�m
writing this down
all in black ink, his color.
A sword is sheathed
in the outdated overcoat
hung across his forearm.
The ROG is so much
in peace now,
contentment unpacked by the hour.
The city, in
heat at noon time,
this stranger of a summer
has finally spawned colors.
A girl swaggeres by
in orchid blooms and rice paper,
and his eyes
scamper
to her sandaled brown feet.
This is the correct weather
for �All Apologies�.
The ancient�s bones slowly
warm up from the
inside.
All smells are out: the sewer,
the cart for roasted peanuts,
aqua sea foam and lotus
from anonymous human bodies.
I�ve
arrived. I started from
7 AM, and the guy squatting there
with a cell on
his belt is taking a smoke break
before he returns to the window displays
to finish dressing up the circus for Bloomingdale.
That curve,
that wee curve
on the corners of your mouth
is smile in a rose
drinkable.
But worry not, to you I�m not a friend,
just a symbol. There
is nothing
to be afraid of,
the old man
says.
Surely someone has paused here,
the spot where I�m
standing,
someone here, with a scowl maybe,
to watch the thin man on his
way
to get a cup of coffee.
He is safe now, his past
speed away on a
pale horse
before the sun ever rose
to make this
a really hot day.
Breathing
I leave you in a grey and
cold morning
I leave you with a dish of pepper steak and string beans
half eaten and still on the kitchen table
With fish curry in the fridge
With a cat sleeping on the couch, half curled up.
And you are sleeping
too. A prone man on the bed.
That is where you put your hands while
you�re sleeping.
It seems to be what�s in my mind when the train comes
All too soon, it seems. I'm on a slow train. It drags
From station to
station. And now it sits unreasonably long
On the platform at Edison.
I drift away and doze off and the snoozing becomes
The quite
rooms surround you, which still smell
of weekend cooking, of vegetable oil
and garlic.
You said you didn�t like it, that the walls were too
thin
To hold the warmth in the cold
or to keep cool in the heat.
It�s such a faraway place, from where I�m leaving.
Such long
commute. It is hard for me, too. I have grim pleasure
Glaring at the posters
on the train, and later the posters in the subway.
Seeing visions of the back
of your head, the folds in your neck.
Autumn Night
Your quiet soul speaks through the mists in new september
in a day under the clouds, along rustic rail road tracks
approaching, passing graveyards and parkinglots of school buses, cars, trucks,
puddles in the grass and water channels reflecting -
Though a pair of lucid eyes looking out of a man�s face
taken down, printed, and scanned back into a wallpaper
by gentle hands unknown to anyone.
I have but a few IDs to meet. But the cyber home is down.
He has a ciggy, a new one not lit.
The owner of the eyes, he�s in a brown jacket.
See his gaze against the hard and soft glows from the lamp and from the LCD:
they say a picture is better than a speech.
It is the last hour, the time to get ready for tomorrow: radio, morning, a
light shower.
The autumn has begun, says the night, says the damp playground with puddles.
