A monk says you look at the glass.
It will break someday, you know
May be, there is nothing to look .
From a looking glass I ask myself
Is my poem my equipment to die
Or gratitude to live another day?
My looking glass shall lie broken
To moon-like pieces at a lavatory
And to left is sea reflecting them.
(After reading a thought-provoking article “Idols of Immortality ” by Jacob Rubin )
They fucked you up ,in priest-like rite
But you fucked someone up yourself.
Everyone fucks someone somewhere.
Somebody gets fucked up and down.
They had started journey in her waters.
Why did she have to overwhelm them
Who only loved to play ball with earth?
She was powerful and yet loving mom.
Would she have wanted her boys back
In her cave and free of an earth’s mud?
(A dozen Thai teenage soccer team members with their coach had stayed holed up in a flooded cave for ten days before they were finally rescued by divers)
I carried world , in my stomach.
It had button to connect mom.
Now I carry demons in cranium
But it has no button with mom.
Some microcreatures within me
Fire a world I daily carry about.
It is their world in my stomach
Under the button with mom.
Some day world will be ashes.
Button will be ashes like mom.
A light series of oil lamps craves
An ephemeral existence by wind.
We do copies of deaths by wind
Of trees of birds in broken sleep
A moon fluttering on totem pole
A fragmentary moon of a dream
That is a figment from our sleep.
Copies are fragments of our lives.
Words better come as leaves or not at all.
They are not projects of a made up mind.
Leaves of course turn yellow and shall fall.
Gold of leaves is the gray matter’s falling.
They are body’s leaves dragging by wind,
To pause by the edge of the asphalt road.
You can wear poetry leaves as garments,
A fig leaf against your tiny insider shames.
Or wear them against your insider howls
In v-shaped wolf snouts against a moon.
Or make winter fires of them on sidewalk
Their smoke spiraling into electric wires.
When the beggars tug at your sleeve, they smell a money
With decisions about one’s life, marriage and God inside.
But their thoughts mainly look in a sitting plastic tumbler
Of loose change, where water may have flowed smoothly.
They resort to scraps of music, sung in trains and breeze
That came in and went out, through a whir of train fans
And a sad song could easily flow to single wire of music.
Outside the temple their cloth spreads like the night sky
And the coins glisten in it, like stars on a moonless night
Lying loosely with decisions about life, women and God.
