Forget to Forget
--Where there we were once, there we are inhabited forever.
There are scenes our eyes pass by everyday that can become sights
Only when inhabited by our bodies. We see once and imagine all,
And all but one are nothing but proper nouns to be forgotten.
I keep so many names so long that they point to nothing
But the once-upon-a-time themselves.
There is a town called Big Factory which means first love and heartache,
A kind of milk powder that brings torture to your baby,
Who cries harder than others but cannot tell you why.
There is a title called Well-Wrought Urn that promotes study reading but maintains
Indetermination over truth, as all are texts open to all interpretative perspectives.
Last night when I was writing a poem, trying to balance morality and death with love,
My wife cried herself awake from a nightmare.
In the countryside she walks in eroticizing air, where beautiful leeks weep for help,
Saying they itch all over under the skin, for their blood is full of worms of pesticide.
The wind is too soft to thrash them and she cannot lend hands to them either.
I gave her a glass of water, saying this is the last soup of our lifetime tears;
I held her in my arms as if we were under Meng Po Pavilion by Frustration Bridge
That connects our road to Yellow Fountain Ave.,
The water below running silver and gold, and our eyes almost blind.
The water runs down into her like time through us, traceless, painless, as the bad of dreams ease.
We need bad dreams to delay us from drifting toward oblivion,
We need a startle, a gyring halt so that we can talk to each other’s eyes
And forget to forget and remember.
Now let me describe to you a scene of snow field where a blue bird jumps,
Writing a love letter to the sun, which I may whisper to your ears.
September 17, 2008