Three Poems
This Minute
I am stuck between 4:30 and 4:31,
stuck with my short neck
in the generality of a body; a fish scale.
A time too short—
a minute of recurring freedom.
If a fugitive at 4:30 couldn’t
find the door latch at 4:31, I would trade
my minute with him,
then erase my existence.
A free minute. A stuck me.
If there’s a door, it must be iron.
An ironclad 4:31. I am hungry
and someone eats for me.
With an apple in my throat, I can’t regret.
Enslaved by this minute, I’m loyal only to its ticking.
2001.7.19
这一分钟
我卡在 4：30 和 4：31 之间。
这么短的脖子，被卡住，只能作为
一般性身体的体现，一个鳞片。
这么短的时间。
这一分钟是自由的，是季节性的。
假如 4：30 的一个逃犯
4：31 没有找到门栓，我就与他
交换这一分钟。
然后销声匿迹。
这一分钟是能动的，但我卡着。
假如是门，就是铁门。
4：31 是铁打的。我饿了，有人
代替我出去。
被一只苹果卡着，不能反悔。
这一分钟的奴隶，只服从这一分钟。
2001.7.19
When I’m Alone
I don’t like using language when I’m alone.
A bear and a parrot on the two ends
of a seesaw.
One end goes up. Many things
can’t be measured: I’m a bear, you’re parrots.
My bearhood doesn’t allow
your language.
2003.7.20
孤独时
孤独时我不喜欢使用语言。
一头熊和一只鹦鹉坐在
跷跷板的两头
跷跷板朝一头翘起。很多东西
没办法称量，我是熊你们是鹦鹉。
我是这头熊我不使用
你们的语言。
2003.7.20
Sound and Color
Someone suddenly starts running.
I want to say something to him—
these trees flanking the road, you might get distracted.
Some drive so recklessly. What on earth.
On the bus, I lean to the side
to make space for a tall man and a stout man.
A few fragments from their talk:
someone got a facelift and looks like a fox.
Little Zhang is a pushover. Little Liu is a call boy.
I’ll shovel them into a poem someday.
Why does inspiration always come
like a cold?
When I leaned to the side, I didn’t forget
that I have a body and like to write, that I gobble up ice cubes,
laugh in private, close the door to fool myself.
My dizzy brain all day long.
Come. Refute me.
Like the color green, it needs
something to rely on, a limit to its form
where carefree squirrels
bounce in the middle.
Imagine them as the form.
I can be proud, sensitive, feel disgusted, wake up
caring for no one, never wash my face
or stare out the window
at a bird that knocks
for food.
I can keep aging and carry about nothing
while everyone on the street,
walking or in wheelchairs,
waggles their hands at some nascent idea.
2008.7.2
声色
一个人突然跑起来。
我想对他说点什么。
街两旁有树，容易被迷惑。有人开车
像玩命。什么鬼年月。
往返于上下班途中，在公共汽车上，
我侧身，将空间让给
需要空间的高个子和胖子。
听他们闲聊，一两个有意思的片段：
某张脸整过形，像狐狸；
小张是软柿子小刘是鸭子。
哪一天，将它们塞进一首诗。
见鬼了灵感，为何总像
感冒似的？
侧身时，我没有忘记我
有身体，喜欢写作，吃冰块，躲着笑，
关上门，哄骗自己。
迷迷糊糊的大脑，整天都这样。
来啊，反驳我。
就像绿，要有一个
依托，一个有限的形式。
毫无知觉的
松鼠们在其中跳跃。
你想象那就是他们。
我可以骄傲，敏感，厌恶，早上
爬起来，不理任何人，不洗脸，也不去看窗外
为觅食不着
敲打屋檐的小鸟。
我可以继续衰老，不在乎任何人。
马路上，几乎每一个
走着或坐在轮椅上的人
都在为刚刚萌发的某个想法摆动着手脚。
2008.7.2