In a strange city
In the ordinary life of a man
there is nothing so black
as riding a public bus
at night
in the rain
of a strange city.
July 2012.
In a strange city In the ordinary life of a man there is nothing so black as riding a public bus at night in the rain of a strange city.
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June 2011.
The Love Tree Version 1 Love is when you carve your sweetheart’s name into the old schoolyard maple tree and then the city cuts it down because it’s full of disease. Version 2 I am love, I am a tree in the schoolyard, look at me. Carve my bark, cut me here, to save your name for years and years. But I am sick, my leaves are brown. The City wants to cut me down. I look around at other trees but only I have tree disease. Now you’re grown, you don’t come ‘round. Your loving gaze Starves my crown. I’m old, I droop, I might have blight. My woody core protests your flight. I am love, I am a tree in the schoolyard, look at me. June 2011.
Love Letter After 30 years you’re just as beautiful as you ever were. And you’re still the only one that I’d be a better person for. The things we did we did for real. The things we said were true, even the promises we made and didn’t keep; even the love we gave and then stole back; even the lies we spoke and then forgave; even the fun we had and then denied; even the doubts we hatched and then hid; even the fear we felt and then used against each other. The nearness of your skin made my hair stand up, and so does the memory of it. You turned your face away, and I showed you my back, as we walked apart. You didn’t lead me to love, and I didn’t dance with you. I don’t know if you’re home, but I saw your face on the internet the other day which is why I know that after 30 years you’re just as beautiful as you ever were. April 2011.
Not a hina doll My sweetheart’s not a hina doll, Not a sedentary girl, Not a coy flower Or a Zen master. My sweetheart’s not a hina doll But a dragon lady. My sweetheart’s not a hina doll, Not a geisha girl, Not a flower artist, Or a light-footed ninja. My sweetheart’s not a hina doll. She’s a bringer of good fortune, A death-defying, prickly-skinned salvation fruit, With big doe eyes. My sweetheart’s not a flower, She’s a press. My sweetheart is my oriental kryptonite. ここをクリックすると、編集できます。 February 2011.
An ordinary day I was born without you, baby, And when I first saw you My heart shivered and hopped, My palms grew sweaty, And the sky was a sepia photograph. Words fell like inky tears, Milk curdled in my fridge, Newsprint suddenly turned to yellow, And the library called in all my books. The moon became like blood, The wind screamed its pain, Mountains shifted, And seawater lost its briny edge. Planes flew astray, All the birds flew south at once, The polar ice caps shivered, And girls donned long cotton gloves. Nurses changed to black, The ground liquefied, Long black clouds hovered near, And sea mammals beached themselves in droves. Unemployment spiked, Inmates rioted in front of children, My neighbor plastinated his own organs, And farm animals spoke in human voices. Jews and Arabs feasted on ham, Mother Superior became an octomom, Headstones toppled, And the Olympic Games were cancelled forever. Farmland turned to desert, Traffic lights froze on red, Fuses blew in every home, And cooks everywhere suddenly burned their fingers. Rock bands turned to Country, Rivers reversed their courses, Bears roamed near seeking berries, And the Pope announced he’s gay. The sun set unexpectedly, The stars gave up their twinkle, Public TV turned Commercial, And I outgrew all my clothes. Letter carriers went on strike, Public education budgets were slashed, My credit cards were stolen, And the surviving Beatles reunited Singing that I’ll die without you, too. October 2010.
The face of moral confusion Scattered dust sprinkles my shelves And all the abandoned knick-knacks I once adored, Some of them were yours. Cold darkness floods the vestibule, A threatening orifice of Old shoes in the door. A pile of books on the floor, Some of them gifts from you, An electric typewriter high in the closet, Pushed there by time’s current. A pile of papers on the chair, Odd pens and paperclips and rubber bands Laying about, my father’s hat on a peg, Grandma’s china still in a box, Old family pictures on the wall, And one of them is you. A scuffed baseball mitt is tucked in a drawer With a wallet never used, a birthday gift from you. Old school notes, like a safety line to a life long lost. An envelope of old postcards you sent, From your holidays in places I never went. Carefully wrapped Christmas decorations, Waiting for a girlfriend or wife to use. My old turtle aquarium, Its occupant long deceased. How it died I can’t remember, Although it was terribly important at the time. Where did all these keys come from? And these plastic bags, too? How many different sized envelopes does one person need? Long unused accessories in a box, Earrings and pins from my wild youth. Unused linens neatly folded, Old friends’ addresses on a piece of scrap paper By the phone next to the out-of-date city maps. And a three-year-old telephone book. Two rejection letters on the fridge, One from the school board And one from you. September 2009.
The Tribe of Joseph I know who I want to live with. I know who I want to sleep with. I know who I want to eat with. I know who I want to play with. But you don’t know what it’s like And you don’t know how I feel. You’re not of the Tribe of Joseph. I know who I want to work with. I know who I want to go with. I know who I want to walk with. I know who I want to spend time with. But you don’t know what it’s like. And you don’t know how I feel. You’re not of the Tribe of Joseph. August 2009.
Come on, Woman Come on woman, Get real, man Get real, man, Get real ,man. With your low-cut T-shirt And your lacey bra, With your high-waist summer dress And your strap-on sandals, With your pony tail And your long, gentle neck, With your sunglasses And your painted nails, With your little lap dog And your bracelets, too, With your straight-cut bangs And your legs up to here, With your dangling earrings And your cute tattoo, With your tight cardigan And your high heel shoes, With your soft pink face And your hazel saucer eyes, With your swaying tassels And your sweet sashay, With your one piece swimsuit And your pulled back top, With your long lithe fingers And your handbag full of things, With a floral hair tie round your wrist And your hair pulled behind your little fairy ears, With your painted toes And a simple cross round our throat, With your bare, smooth collar bone And your girlfriend chatter, With your opaque white blouse And your short mini skirt, With your low-cut jeans And your black shoulder bag, With your clean Ivory soap smell And your long eyelashes, With your small compact mirror And your plain and simple tights, With your belly button ring And your small sequined purse, With your tall black boots And your coy table manners. Oh, come on, come on, come on woman, Get real, man. It’s killing me, But I want to see you again. Oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah! |
AuthorI am a permanent foreign resident in Japan. I have no plan. I don't know what I'm doing. Archives
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