The Questions

The street lamps emit shadows of unwavering breath
With chaos of the running metals
coming back home
But we are way too far
Out from boundary of night,
Out from gravity of light,
As if sleeping on the trash
We die a real death

Like a two-year-old who catches a black cat out of curiosity
Everyone could give other person's death a bother of two minutes
Who else you are to think you are successful?

What could be the ingredients of life
which pour down the relentless days
right on the lazy cars of heavy traffic
painkillers in doctor’s prescription
and walking dead praying for democracy?

How could you enjoy humanly heaven
when you like being masturbated
by the prostitutes of religious bigotry?

Wary of questions
I used to meditate
in the painful forest
that has gone to a bank account now

I want to go home
and on the way home
the tires would never fail to screech
as they are kissing with the road

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The Words

It’d be at best if we could swallow

Everything down with a morning coffee

Or last night shower

I wanted to live

In the time zone

No historians born or no politicians born

Perhaps no built-in duty of adulation

 To uninvited gods so far as we write, read and sing

I gulp the coffee down

And bounce back to my shell

Before all sense of poetry dies itself naturally

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