Daily, a Poem

The temperature is still, RISING up here, translated…

With the Steps Light

I’d, Walked on Those Memories Which Were Speeding Up

In a Dumb Daze, I’d Walked, Parallel to the Bicycle, Across that Street

Turned, into that Brick-Cornered, World, Filled with

The Blooming Flowers, and the Shady Trees

it’s, a global thing, not my photo…

Rousing Up the Borderline of Reality & Make-Believe

The Aromatic Coffee Took You to that Slow Intoxication

The Sugar, the Temperatures, and the Lights, Just Right

Providing that Sense of Safety

In the Cracks

The Current Life is always, Slowly, Eating Away, Sinking Down

this used to do the trick, but NOT naymore…not my photo…

When You’re, Most Unaware

You’d Already Predicted

The Moment You Would, Lose Your Foothold

Everything Fell

Light as Feathers, Yet, So Heavy Like Lead

The Weightiness Rubbed and Ate Away at Your Skin

The Blood Started Flowing Out, Scabbing

still heating UP!  Not my phoot…

What’s Lost, Will Always, be Returned, Back to the Origins

Like that, Never Ending, Karmic Cycle

Every Morning, with that, Sensitive, Dried, Clean Body

So, this, is after you’d slept, through a heated night, the night got hotter and hotter, and, you can’t have the air-conditioning on, because it’s going to cost you a LOT, as the price of electricity too, is on the rise, and so, you’d set the timer for a few hours, then, after the air-conditioning stopped running, you’re left, with this, extreme heat, and high humidity (b/c that is how the weather is here???), and you’d, waken up, covered in sweat, and, the day began, again…


Disaster, a Poem

The poet described the process, of something awful happening, without ever, mentioning it in name, that, is the creative agency, of the poet, translated…

I’d Once, Carried My Pocket-Full of Desires

Stood on the Pigeon Colored Earth

Fought Hard, Against the Blood-Colors of the Setting Sun

A Tree Walked Away, the Words from the Tips of the Branches

Came Out of Nowhere, the Wooden Roofs

With Nothing on and Around it, Caused the Snow to Fall

The Disaster Was, about to Occur………

The Awful of Life, Soaked Up, in the Wheat Processors

The Ducks, Squatted by the Ponds

Drowned to Death, by the Autumn

I’d, Held My Breath in, Swallowed that, Imaginary Sake Down

The Ghetto of 52nd Street, with the Fumes Rising Up

I’d, Angrily, Stepped Down on My Bladder, My Heart Which Were

About to Explode, Like How an Angry Child, Had Trampled on the Mother’s Face

With Anger, with Grace, Not Asking Anything in Return

The Elderly Beggar Approached Me Today

He Sat in My Shadow

Like a King, on that Black Velvet Carpet

Anyone Who’d

Extended a Hand, with the Palms, Grasping at Nothing

But a Bundle of Yellow Roses

Making Me, Purified………

There Shouldn’t be, Too Much Discussion on Postures of Sitting

I’d Ordered Up a Coffee, Doughnut, and Cigarettes at the Café

Like a Healthy Insurgent

An Optimistic Enemy

I’d Even, Turned Myself into a Book

In a Warehouse, Telling Those Stories, Beneath

The Drunk’s Pillow

The Chapter You’re, Currently Reading Over

So, this, is what disaster felt like, there’s no concrete “evidence” of something bad that’s happened, but, with the descriptions, you can guess, that something AWFUL had, or was about to, happen……

Drought, a Poem

What sort of a legacy do you want to leave behind?  Translated…

Before the Lights Turned Off for Good I’d Climbed onto the Windowsills

Started, Measuring the Droughts of the World, with the Echoes of My Nightly Pacing

now, imagine this, as the human psyche, doesn’t look good, does it????  Of course N-O-T!

Until My Insomnia Made its Escape, from Macondo

Until that Distant Small Black Town, Started Raining the Black Rains

Until Those Suicidal Rain Drops’ Songs of Unreal Reality

Became the Paces You were Making, as You, Hurried on

Inside My Quilt, Where it’d Started Raining the Black Rains

Until the Water Flooded into My Heart, I Was Finally, Able to Sleep Deeply, Being Drowned

Contemplating How I’d Waken, Unwillingly, a Couple of Centuries Later

In that Never-Ending, Boundless Morn

Your Kiss Was Away from Me Now, with the Cigarette Like a Psychosis, Stuck on Me

Becoming, a Wasted Tenant Inside My Oral Cavities

So Full of Spirit, Like the Maggot from a Wound

It’d Spoken, in Such Extinct Language:

That the World’s Seasons of Rain is You, that You are, the Seasons of Rain for Me

Becoming Wide Awake is a Boring Thing

The Desert with the Droughts, Built Up its Mirages

Before I Was able to See it Clear, There were Still, Echoes of the Ice Age from My Tears

Bored to the Point, I’d Started, Counting Up the Cracks

Like, You Were, Hidden Behind the Symbols Like a Prophecy

it’s going to take a whole LOT more than just a little rain, to quench THis “thirst” all right!  Not my photo…

Several Times, I’d, Almost Severed Off My Own Head, Begging for the Downpour to Come

My Loneliness Danced that Offering Dance

It Seemed, Next to Impossible, to Get Rid of that Sense of Brokenness of March

But, I’d Become Willing, to Be, a Tearless Desert

And, Made up My Mind, Never to Return to Underneath Quilt, with the Black Rains Pouring Down on it

With My Dreams in the Swamps

Although Your Sense of Humor Still, Reflected, in the Black Dead Waters

rain  的圖片結果feels a WHOLE lot cooler instnatly, doesn’t it???  Photo from online…

The Corpses of the Driftwood, Still Noted the Histories of Your Sound Sleep

So, Just Lay Me Out, Under the Scorching Sun and Blind Me Then

Until the Sun Baked Those Words into Gold

Until Time Fell, Out of Carelessness, from the Equation of Eternity

Then, I will Be able to, Relay the News of My Death, with

Full Expectation, in Your Dampened Path

When the World Became, Devoid of Meaning

After Centuries of Unimportant Means

My Inhale & Exhale Would’ve, Proven Meaningless to This World

You May Then, be Able to Hear, Those Cries Unrelated to Me

And, as the Pouring Rain at My Funeral Helped the Growth of the Green Long Hair of My Plains

Perhaps, You May be Able, to Keep Track of It, with Your Nomadic Footprints

So, this, is on the meaning of one’s death to someone else, it’s about, the legacy you wish to leave behind, and, it’s something, that we should all, start thinking about, because, we will all, eventually, DIE (that, would be a FACT!), and, what sort of a legacy do you want to leave for your children, grandchildren, great grandchildren?

A Broken Tree, a Poem

A Section from the Broken Off Limbs of a Dead Tree

Broken Through by a New Bud

What Did it Tell Me?

Like a Bookmark, Hidden in a Book

despite it being broken, it’s still, very much alive!  Photo from online…

At a Page I Had, Yet to, Get to

This is about, the origins of things, because papers are, made from the trees, and, the trees are, chopped down, while it’s still, growing…

Thoughts on Poetry

How poems had lost their meanings, due to the developments, the invention of, the INTERNET, translated…

It’d never crossed my mind, to NOT post out the poems I’d written.

I’d instinctively believed, that for a poem to become finished, I’d needed to, post it.

Why?  I’d thought about it, it’s related to the nature and belief of poetry.  Although, as I’d written the poems, I’d not had specific readers in mind, but, the poet and his collective unconscious became as one, closely related.  The hearts of the poems, and this collective connectedness pathway, was “poetry”, from the pens and paper.  Where the poems came from, will be where they will end up, the poets were merely, a medium, in this cycle, like a shaman.

And so, like how Kafka told in his final will, to BURN everything he’d written, I can’t imagine this.  After Emily Dickinson died, her poetry became known, but, as she was still alive, she’d submitted the poems in, but not received any recognitions for them, and, she’d stopped focusing on getting her poetry published.

And, in the modern day online world, there were an assortment of means of how the poems can get published, and, everybody is performing one’s own Narcisstic songs, without the mind or the heart, to listen to what was being stated.

The poet, Rumi stated, “Every poem is finding its way home”

And the modern day poems are still lost, tramping, not yet home.

So, this, is the problems, caused by the internet, as everybody publishes her/his opinions online, without ANY facts, to back up the claims, and although the internet had made life more convenient, we’re able to connect to people who are not in the same geographic region as we are, etc., etc., etc., there’s, that lacking of truth in the things posted online.

The poet Rumi said, every poem is finding its way back home again.

Midsummer, Remaining, a Poem

the story of how there were, ten suns, making the world too hot, until this mythical character shot nine down…picture from online…后羿 的圖片結果

Thoughts on why it’s getting hotter each and every summer now, based off of a fable of origin in Chinese myth, translated…

After the Mythical Archer Shot Down Nine Suns

After the Wounds Had, Healed Back Up Over the Billions of Years, the Summer Had, Already, Healed

Found Their Ways, Back to the Skies

Everything in the World is Being Scorched, Dried Up

With the Bone Remains,

Searing, to Ashes Now………

This was the story of origin in Chinese, and, it raises awareness of global warming, and, the summers are getting hotter, and hotter, and it’d felt like, all ten SUNS are now, scorching up the world, doesn’t it???  It surely does, and, we humans played a VITAL role in this crisis of global warming.

Released, a Poem

This is, sort of, zen-ish, based off of Buddhist beliefs, translated…

As I’d Heard: He’d, Released Himself in the Big City

Someplace Public, the Metro, the MRT, the Restaurants, the 24-7 Marts, Schools

Anyplace Which He Can Get Lost in

what it’d looked like from before…photo from online…fish swimming in the river 的圖片結果

With Ample Supplies of Food and Water

(He Swam Off, Quickly Enough)

But, One Thing He’d Been Uncertain of

Can He Truly, Survive

Like Those Fishes without the Water at the Marketplaces

And, Even If He Did Manage to Enter into the Vast Oceans

Can He Truly, Swim Free

Like the Fishes

Or, is His Destiny, Limited to

Getting Taken into Someone’s Kitchens

And Lain Down to Sleep, Inside the Frying Pans


He Dreamed that He’d Smelled Aromatic

Someone Puts Her/His Hands Together in a Prayer;

This is the Best Sort of Sandalwood

Offered to Buddha

what it’d looked like at the end, of the fish’s life, as F-O-O-D!  Photo from online…

Someone Raised Up the Chopsticks, with Saliva in Her/His Mouth

Such, a Tasty, Fresh Fish………

So, you went from, swimming wild inside the oceans, and, into swimming, in that HEATED wok worth of frying oil, to ending up in someone’s plate as an entrée, and, this individual is, either having an outerbody experience, or that he’s just, going through his metamorphosis of the mind, like Gregor Samsa of Kafka’s Metamorphosis.