Traffic Jam; Woman in the Dream; International Sunset over I-45

US-19 Traffic Jam

Something so dear to me
Besieged on the highway of Houston
Staring at the dull cement  shoulders
I feel I was going home
In the college commuter bus
At five o’clock  near Jianguomen
With my stomach churning
For the desire of millet porridge
And fried pan cakes

US-20 Woman in the Dream

We first sit in the mass of people
In a room-like yard discussing
Or listening to someone discussing
Or watching the listening to someone discussing
Outside, I lie down on white sand
Circled by shining crystals of colors

You come out, sit down by me
Your eyes black with light
Shining with flickering fire of darkness
Your fair skin smooth as the surface of rain flower stone
That I bought in China’s Nanjing
Shyly, you smile, your snow-white face blushing
“Although we do not know each other well....”
I wake up to a messy room
Savoring the sweetness of your words

US-21 International

Earth is held in this hall
With her dwellers here and there
The fair-skinned, the dark-skinned, the brown-skinned
The believers, the believe-nots,
The Chinese, the Anglo-Saxon, the Africans, the Indians,
The Koreans, The Thai, the Vietnamese, the Ukrainian,
The Europeans,  the South Americans, the Pacific Islanders...
Today, we speak one Lingua Franca
And eat from the same plate
Putting world news
Behind our mind
Wishing to hear
Something good
Like the harmony of piano keys
Or the fierce coordination of Karate
Or the rhythmic discourse of Hindu poem

US-22 Sunset over I-45 19990110

At this grassy corner of greater Houston
Traffic on I-45 shakes the red glowing sun
That sinks slowly beyond the darkening concrete belt
Silhouetting the steel power line tower
That looks like a rig in a Texan oilfield

The sun sets, leaving a patch of dark orange
That eats up bit by bit the blue shade
On its outskirt

Made visible by the landing dusk
Traffic lights on FM 1960
Blink stronger and stronger, holding and releasing traffic

An airplane soars into the sun
Diminishing itself into a tiny mosquito

Sitting on a grassy mound
I sip Dr. Pepper, the color of its can
Darker than the sun
In the rare luxury of a late Sunday afternoon