SUN WUKONG

Empty temple, winding cloisters, night of zen meditations.

But my own frenzied heart

swells with mischief. That moron monk knows nothing,

fleeing for his life, shouting in panic: ”Wukong! Help!

Wukong!”, thinking he’s master.

Through the forest of pillars I spot his clumsy form,

but stay silent, hiding in the shadowy draft.

“Wukong! Show yourself or I’ll turn into you!”

He conjures my magic hat, my golden robe, my tiger-skin,

like a dim flame advancing in vast darkness,

another me fighting the more vicious me,

huge, invisible. Evil wind roars from four directions.

Like daggers, bamboo leaves rake my face.

Run! I can only run, that blockhead at my heels, crying

“Save me!”, self calling out to self,

behind me his flaming eyes, golden gaze.

I run through folding screens, paper doors,

withered mountains, waters, fake landscapes,

old dynasties, modern parking lots,

their vacant cars. With one more step

I’m walking on air, with another vaulting onto clouds.

In a single blink, ten thousand

zhang

aloft,

where moonlight shines through frigid heights,

where thousand-

li

eyes can’t even see

this fresh green earth pulsing below.

From nowhere, moonlight spills across the globe.

I drift through it, filled with gloom.

Far off, a few damaged fighter planes rise like ghosts.

Furious, I wave my gold-banded staff,

shattering the world to fragments. No place to hide:

the fabled cities rise, sway, tumble down.

Years later, if I came back, they’d still be gone,

myself the final witness to their ruin. This last day

of my twenty-ninth year, I dream I’m Sun Wukong,

until the moment I wake shivering.