Chinese Poetry
I do not understand Chinese poetry
its ancient traditions of Shijing and Chuci
my mind is set in Mozart, mustard and mayonnaise
in bullfights, the thrust of costumed muscle
wheels and cogsprings in Swiss watches
The West has enough beef
to make hamburgers for ten million
aspiring poets and pop music addicts
hungry after their writing exercises and juke box routines
sports fields, cheerleaders, novels with unpredictable
endings – even for those who love opera
small print and dandelions
I want to sing my own composition
sit in the auditorium of my thoughts
perhaps we’re not so far away from
each other as the planet spins
all blue ice from space
Flying over the Alps
I see snow covered mountains from above
and valleys
winding creases in the world’s skin
like veins on an old man’s hand
writing Chinese poetry
carefully dipping into the ink
of his mind
signed with a dot and a flourish
of our common blood