CRYPTIC POEM

The bang bang of literature’s slavish heart and the bruising after,
you bang bang bang, I bruise for no reason at all.

A stand-up guy, perched on the excavator, extends its metal arms
and the moment of exposure, of shame

condensed into a twinkling, lasts almost forever!
The summer dew writes back, says you’re still not cryptic enough.

Fury has many categories: flattering, hair pinned in tight bun,
stream of cat piss, unaggrieved, engrossed by the broken soul . . .

Does the glittering system abet weakness?
The fish bone chorus is violent, cracking the scenery but blocked in the throat.

What’s most serious doubtlessly happened before all the talking.
Swashbuckling heroism? Haven’t seen it in ages. On heaven and earth’s

temporary chopping block, you can put fir, white oak, red pine . . .
Spirit and the flesh, sliced until they're so lean!

斧头诗

斧头诗

     不再沉湎于夜色。但夜，始终在那里。
　　所以，现在，我是疯狂的。
　 　
　　梦境呢？不会迷信了。奇怪的是：
　　如同厨房乒乓作响，梦境，也一直在那里。
　　
　　微醒之时，眼眸竟是清凉的柑橘！
　　是啊，我还活着，矛盾、混乱，又柔软……
　　
　　若热气腾腾可障人耳目，就好了；
　　若保暖内衣也是隐身衣，就 好了。
　　
　　朋友，别误会，我说的全是朗朗白日之事。
　　正择菜呢，葱根上有两小块蹄形
　　
　　泥渍……不必 声张，剐掉那层葱皮就可以了。
　　人间，安静之事太多，所以是疯狂的。
　　
　　更疯狂的事：一颗大树，广阔星空下
　　伐 倒了数次，而斧头，还明亮地立在那里！