The Lost Musician

yes again I set foot on this arid land ,

my lyre broken and my lips dry,

after two thousand years, feels like an instant.

but I have grown old , like a man,

nobody knows me and certainly I don’t know the mankind

any more.

the silence of the years has inured me ,

the cracking of the world too intimidating.

But no, they don’t need my music.

my music, death, and my beloved Eurydice,

all belong to another era , even me ,

who could’ve rest in peace in allusions

of new religions, but no one knows music better

I’m proud to say, no one,

even though my calloused hands might tremble,

I can feel the divine notes running though my vein,

and my audience , once the titans, now peddlers

on a silent street ,

they and their prostitute companions, now my friends too,

they are good people, happy to hear my music,

and give me coins from time to time,

for love? for pity? I don’t care,

but I’m here, in this town where the shape

of existence eludes everyone,

a lot of merry-making, a lot of extravagant fun,

why not gather around me , and hear a different note then ,

for this fool is performing a song of ages old.

To A Stage Actor

first I saw you on the stage of a grand theatre,

then on the newspaper,

then on the internet where men sought men,

your exotic beauty, nude, haughty in your own way,

captured my mind and aroused my body.

I imagine that was how it should be in books.

– there must be so many souls inside you,

of Othello, of Stanley, of Orpheus descending to us.

What life would stare back through your eyes

to me , who are always looking for stories.

you’re the bridge to another world.


years later when I think back on that hot afternoon,

I’ll tell everyone, yes, it was you, on the stage

that looked like Saigon,

I had my first date with and I died with you.