GRASSHOPPERS

Walking. Walking alone in despair.

The massive autumn tiger is roaring above me,

a God in pseudonym.

Countless autumn tigers

hide in the numerous motor vehicles on the road,

howling from their gas throats

as if in chorus, scolding me, the only creature

on the road without gas.

I feel guilty, a happy sensation, a thrill of crime.

Yes, I’m walking on the highway

with a weighted backpack on my shoulders

and firm steps

in the wilderness outside this little town.

No bus routes run between the two shopping centers

and I definitely don’t look like a shopper

picking underwear for my distant wife.

I’m more like a suspicious guy

with sun burns,

and poison milk powder, bombs, or communism

in my backpack.

My footsteps awaken some other creatures

on the roadside, who have no gas in their bodies either

just like me; grasshoppers. They live a small life

in this huge country.

They are fantastic country musicians.

Their little wings and back legs make friction

that takes me back to the rice fields

of the Sichuan Basin

from this gigantic North American prairie.

Come on grasshoppers, sing your little songs

before I die from sweating too much.

Put all the autumn tigers

to sleep and let me walk my way alone.