Friday, March 5, 2010

My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note


I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

l

o

v

e

y

o

u

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Betrayal

.
Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—
disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,
static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,
repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;
Still more, you make me weep.
On a Saturday morning,
Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,
doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!
Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that
I am weak or strong, not that you have
a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the
front porch? On the swing? Near the
lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.
But again, outings are not
outings without a damage.
Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk
nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither
like a summer flower, so does the last
song we sang together.
Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live
….O Plants teach us how to live!"
disposable good sense of yours
has told me so.

-->
Alas,
I get mutated inside out. Alone
in my living room. Just next,
next to that old,
static TV of
yours.



Tuesday, March 2, 2010

“4:14 am”


At the dawn, the night
meets yet another
soaring soul
I long for Rangoon
there lies a thousand birds which
can take me places—
bridges of the past.
.
.
.
.