[idiomatic english: why not just let the cat out of the bag?]

 

You see, Elvis has left the building

And you may be glad to see the back of

A hot potato

Jumping on the bandwagon

But once in a blue moon

You will hear it on the grapevine

Rather than straight from the horse’s mouth

Which is a far cry

From the best thing since sliced bread

Something you can see eye to eye

While cutting the mustard

By drawing all the best of both worlds

To make a long story short

 

Now if you feel a bit under the weather

Do not burn the midnight oil

Or sit on the fence

But just give it the benefit of doubt

And then hit the sack

Even in this heat of the moment

 

 

[iHooyeau] 

 

If, if only Darwin were right

It did take as long as one million years

Before apes became what we are, gradually

And passively, with the help of our environment

However, with our own intelligence

And technology, we are going

To evolve into iHooyeaus suddenly and

Actively, in a matter of just one generation

Or two, a new species that will consume

Lunar energy instead of sun-based foods

Each living in a unique virtual

Reality, where multiplication is achieved

Sexlessly via logic rather than through

Love, where each individual lifetime is

Expended within a tiny chip

 

So, are you happy to be the last humans

Or the earliest iHooyeaus?

 

 

[at the threshold]

 

From the darkest moment

Of last winter to the heaviest fog

Of this summer, I fumbled all my way

To this spot, where I stood, hesitating

As I tried to pull the structure

(Actually meant to be pushed?)

And push it while might mean

To be pulled. Confused and

Confounded, I slid it, folded it

Turned it, tampered with it

Through trial and error, but still

Failed to move the blockade

 

Sesame, open! –

Am I facing a fake door

Or just bad design?

 

[the meditation master takes a nap]

 

As he began to cross his legs on each other, his mind

Was wandering nowhere between here and there; he

Withdrew his vision from the skyline of the city

To the cool fire burning in his belly; listening

To the whistling and whishing of traffic, he heard only

His own pulse. With the breeze came the odor of garlic

But he held his breath, while leaving all his inner doors

And windows ajar, letting his sensations travel freely

He believed in Qi, which was circulating with his blood

And his feeling and his thought. The light dimmed

A baby crow was flapping by. He found himself totally

Lost in a temple among puti trees within his yellowish

Skin. That was all the harmony of yin and yang he knows.

 

 

 

[cock-a-doodle-doo]

 

Born in a year of the rooster

You were fated to crow

 

But not so high in the sky

Like any other bird flying fast by

Rather, you perch low

Low on a broken fence

(Still reserved for ghosts and spirits)

Crowing as aloud as you can

To welcome every sun

Looming above the dawn

 

Yes, you are vociferous, both because of

Your breed, and your personality

 

[your cup]

 

Whatever contains h2o, the origin of life, could

Be contained in it, always ready for another fill

 

Whether it is bubbling with heat, or

Chilled with sandy juice, it can hold

 

Any fluid with all the calmness that will push down

Impurities into the bottom as unwanted sediments

 

Most tolerant, and most receptive: green tea

Black coffee, red wine, fresh blood, sour milk

 

You are jealous of it, a container ready to hold even

The heaviest water, and would love to be more like it

 

In spirit, as you take it to your lips, closer to your heart

Like these words that are trying to contain your spirit

 

 

Coupling  

 

Most precious is this moment when

His presence is falling upon me

More forcefully than a summer shower

Downpouring right from heaven. Everywhere

My mind wanders around will hung

A rainbow high above my absence

 

It is this wet metaphor that has balanced

All the yang elements in my heart with the yin

Ones outside my bloated selfhood

 

 

Godly Joy

 

That is the moment when I just wanna retreat

From my position in life, like a soldier

From his in a battlefield. No, not exactly

That would sound like a deserter; rather

I wanna hide myself within the boundary

Of my yellowish skin; better to withdraw

Into the deepest corner in my heart, where I

Don’t have to care whether to sit or stand

Where to look at or put my hands

What to smell, say or hear, a womb-like place

Where I can focus all my attention on my

Inner being, and let my outer self deal with

All the troubles of life, like bills, food, tea

Telephone rings, junk emails, mortgages, etc.

In a word, I wanna find a war-free zone

Where my innerself is absolutely free

Without having to return to the cage

Like the pigeon I really wanna keep

 

 

 

Word Journey

 

While hiking in the wild

I found a foreign word

Lying on the yin side

Of a slope as night began

To fall, I picked it up

Trying to use it to light

My way ahead, but the word

Did not burn, nor did it give

Any smell. Then I chewed it

Like a condensed energy candy

But it was tasteless and too hard

So I put it against my chest

And let it resonate with my heartbeat

 

When a fresh sun hops aloud

High above my darkened dream

I finally coughed it out with blood

Never knowing it

To be a noun or verb

 

 

Balancing Up

 

Beyond the bay 

You are the presence

Of water 

Though that is never the geography 

Once you move

You become what is flowing  

 

Wherever you stay

You join the current

(Without overflowing with it)

To dissolve into a transparent moment

At which your spirit is to reflect 

While none of us has the cause

For staying here

You stay

To balance things up

 

 

Seeing Shapes

 

Now, something is flapping, afar

(Is it a butterfly from the Amazon?)

Beyond the mountain shadow

While many futuristic figures

Perhaps the aliens seem

To be migrating secretly

Perhaps we shall have to too?

 

 

[autumn wind]

 

You have chopped off every head

Every head-shaped

Or every head-like object

 

In the wild field is left nothing

But stumps, each as naked as a human soul

Shivering within a skeleton

 

 

 

[your cup]

 

Whatever contains h2o, the origin of life, could

Be contained in it, always ready for another fill

 

Whether it is bubbling with heat, or

Chilled with sandy juice, it can hold

 

Any fluid with all the calmness that will push down

Impurities into the bottom as unwanted sediments

 

Most tolerant, and most receptive: green tea

Black coffee, red wine, fresh blood, sour milk

 

You are jealous of it, a container ready to hold even

The heaviest water, and would love to be more like it

 

In spirit, as you take it to your lips, closer to your heart

Like these words that are trying to contain your spirit

 

 

 

[valueless:  the myth of fair price]

 

Everything, everybody

Used to

    And still may

Have a value; only

Each has depreciated

Into a price

That keeps fluctuating violently

Against no value

 

 

 

[subjunctive mood: a rhetorical question]

 

If every human had a pair of wings

(Made of strong mussels and broad feathers

Rather than wax like Icarus’)

Who wouldn’t jump high or become eager to fly

Either towards the setting sun

Or against the rising wind?

 

Who wouldn’t migrate afar with sunshine

And glide most straight to a warmer spot

In the open space? Indeed

 

Who would continue to confine himself

Within the thick walls of a small rented room?

 

Who would willingly take a detour

Bump into a stranger, or stumble down

Along the way? More important

 

Who would remain fixed here

At the same corner all her life

Like a rotten stump, hopeless

Of a new green growth?

 

 

 

[am: or american/modern-ization]

 

Every year there is

As much summer

As many a tree here

Than in my native village in China

 

But there is not a single cicada

At any twig, or among any clusters

Of leaves, a cicada that I used to listen to

Singing aloud monotonously, like a

 

Fine saw working on a rusty metal

Or between my boyish ears

 

What I hear is a deafening American voice

About selling every human

Behavior, every human whim 

That keeps penetrating each animal ear

 

[cock-a-doodle-doo]

 

Born in a year of the rooster

You were fated to crow

 

But not so high in the sky

Like any other bird flying fast by

Rather, you perch low

Low on a broken fence

(Still reserved for ghosts and spirits)

Crowing as aloud as you can

To welcome every sun

Looming above the dawn

 

Yes, you are vociferous, both because of

Your breed, and your personality