记住我们不是什么
也就否认了我们是什么
这不是一场文字游戏
也不是要表达单纯的肯定
或者否定
仅仅表明
保留想要表达的
就等于去掉不想表达的
海岸陈列的战舰
天空的云爆破着历史
一发发悬浮的炮弹
无论是未爆炸的哑弹
还是初出炮膛的宣言
都是无声的
因为历史是无声的
所有声音都是后来加上的
要凭吊就只能凭吊时间了
它是我们的底气
是我们对理想的浇筑模型
当然，那仅仅是对外的
对内，则是一个茅草窝
将鸡生蛋蛋生鸡这类问题
真实地留给自己
只有它才使我们悔恨交加
得一场致死之病
而在口头上高呼万岁
当你被想象力
蒸发成一缕青烟时
沉重的肉身仍未到位
一个声音孜孜不倦
像振翅的蜜蜂晃动于眼前
世间并无难解之物
转瞬之间
你就以一株植物的身份
递出自己的名片了
这比一缕烟要容易些
两臂张开不就长出叶子了么
向上抬头不就冒出绿芽了么
你不断调试
经历一系列生生死死
你不断勇敢地跨界
多次涅槃，轮回
从猫从狗都无所谓
直到找到一个适合自己
能够带来效益极大化的形象
你是与墨菲斯特打赌的浮士德
你是市场的斯宾诺莎
你是衔接天地的一个小小零件
你是云山重叠的思
你是非我
你是你
A ballad of Eastern Mountain runs from the stone crack
The fall’s alertness falling down to the bottom of heart
The sunny tomorrow relates to today’s rain
though once choked, it’s good to speak out
The encounter with the moonlight supports a long journey
Lying in the room of past events, awaken from the dream
Fragrance of gardenia climbs up from the gloom
slowly unfolds, into a human shape
Outside the window, an isolated cloud emerges in the sky
Fast and slow alternate in a steady way, each step generates a duckweed
From Eastern Mountain under clouds comes the sound of horse steps
The drooping branches
are fingering a thick black braids
The rustling cool breeze is filtered by memory
becoming the breath of a wisp of black hair
Baskets on the dock are soft and wet
A basket of peaches with green leaves
the rosy-in- white faces are in front of you
You smile bitterly and say to yourself
never expect to grow old so easily
the river reflected in skin has become a wrinkle
That how many miles yet to go
has been irrelevant to you
What’s relevant is that you are still on the road
and no longer believe having seen through the world path, but
cherish an unknown meeting
Whom to encounter on the road is less important
what’s important is the feelings and expectations of the encounter
预备三餐
用竹筷和瓷碗
这些洪水中的船与帆
能保证你安然抵达岸
饭粒凝紧又散开
菜叶的绿色
最后一页不忍卒读
纷乱的脚步
奔向肠胃幽暗的大厅
春天被夏天吞噬
父母被你一点一点
咬嗜，吮吸
从第一声啼哭
到你决定离乡闯荡
他们丰盛的河水
在河床萎缩
他们森林的山谷
开始显出黄土色
当你狼吞虎咽，他们
隐隐约约的影子
在饭桌的碗盘里出现
但是你没有看见
直至他们消失
吃什么就成为什么
这用不着立遗嘱
正如你去教堂
总会听见一个声音：
你们要吃我的肉
喝我的血，成为我
The image of hole gets into my dream
The night is dark
The entrance is black
In the dim bottom of the hole
a white bed stands
Mist humidly sticks to the bed
Silence mysteriously surrounds the bed
Firewood serves as mattresses
laying flat on the bed
The one lying in bed meditating the difference between the
inside and outside of the hole
is me
The one breathing the air given and wishing to share
is me
The sound of midnight wind enters the window
gently shaking me awake
There is no way to tell if I am
in the room of whirling window shadow
or in the hole with the moon shadow reflecting on the wall
A little boat
is lying quietly in a silent river
Night is being sliced
Hole is a void
Yet, it conceives entity
I walk down along the stairs
in silence
starting to count from the first conscience
to the conscience of Alaya
The seed of thousand years in my chest
grows out a Buddha every day
Then it is almost dawn
Someone with a thick wooden cross
blocks the hole
My heart sinks to the bottom
The firewood catches a fire at once
burning wildly
In the throbbing, the hole
forcefully pushes me out
I crash through the wooden cross
emerging into the world soaked in redness
looking upwards right away
the sun is above the head
rising a symbolic pattern
The hole turns to red from black
在水里，火团
最终消解了焦渴
化作一条金鱼
钻入河流的内部
她的软融化了你
你沉浮在她的柔波
汗水溅起的雨粒
带着咸涩的劳苦
爬满你的背
悄悄躲在你的眉下
泪珠和汗珠
此时已难以辨别
生命如是，与性别无关
日光金色的羽毛
遮盖不住苦杯里的酒
笑靥里包藏的
也许与蘸着酒的鹅管
写出来的表情有关
它们映在酒中
被酒染成血
钻进百叶窗缝隙的光线
从一种金色变成另一种金色
路灯下，时间的蛾子在飞
它们抚摸着石雕的唇
然后开始吮吸汁液
无论你是肉身还是石身
对它们来说 都是一样
月亮在音乐中照见你骨髓
一群挤在门口的忧伤
那些没有入门的
纷纷拉紧月光的银线
你把忧伤存放在乐声里
目送它们飞起来
去远方寻找伙伴
当你重新回到水
只看见波纹，看不见烟
火用水的嘴唇对你说话
一滴水珠变成汗珠
The reserves in a song
are much more than you think
When they run out, temporarily forgotten
time will quietly charge them
via an unexpected visit
bringing you new surprises
Only an encounter of heart with heart
those happily crying lights slag with fission
the crystal sugar grains
would melt to your mood
feeding your expression
At this point, the release of others
quickly transforms into the release of “you”
and is enlarged with the release
A peacock spreads its feathers for you alone
although in front of other listeners
nothing has ever happened
After being infiltrated
you would find an endless reveal
The manuscripts in the drawer shine waves
The resurrected inspiration is an invisible boat
the paper sheets raise white sails, memory crosses water
You stand at side by the ship, tasting
the flavor after years of sedimentation
A group of cranes come down
and transform into paper cranes
They are folded by you into seagulls
flying in a rough sea
In a piece of string music
the heartstring is your own
but the fingers plucking the string are not yours