Dango

Blinders

In the stream each morning,
in the train speeding towards Tokyo,
in the early workday crush, I follow
this path to a forested dead end,
a mix of new rectangular family granite, all polished
and indicative of new wealth, crowding the older
lychen-spotted buddhas and strange animal-headed
divinities, one statue with crocheted hat
dark and dank, mottled bright green with moss,
this nature, so close and unexpected
will disappear when I put on my blinders
and swim.

Mankai (Full Bloom)

Such a delicate pink mixed with
the green foliage,
not overpowering with ruffles & ruffles
of wedding festive cloth,
no borderline gaudy popcorn wigs
these cherry blossoms,
but icing on the rich cake of a dark shrine
anchored by one large, old rope encircled
elm, 3 or 4 or five hundred years
no one knows, this old religious forest
sprawling in a way that I thought was
lost in Tokyo, hidden in the quiet hilly folds
just a spit from Roppongi crossing
and Akasaka short-time hotels--
Petals have reached full bloom,
already taking flight.

(an ode to) pissing where I like

I forget the moment the idea
that pissing where I liked was a sign
of general health occured,
was it on the long walks up the hilly stairs
I do believe I pissed off into
the bushes a few times and enjoyed it...
but conscious?, no I was probably thinking
more of the girls my heart
would somehow guide me to
If I could stop thinking

There was the parking lot downtown
late in university days,
with Chris, fellow philosopher and bespectacled
lover of the mountains, egging me on to piss
next to the Volvos and Hondas that were fast
replacing the VW camper vans,
I do believe I did realize at that time
how much I valued pissing where I liked,
and all the associated freedoms

In retrospect not the most positive
manifestation of my urge to pee,
at that time discovering
the surly side of drunkeness, treading lightly
in the waters that probably consumed my
paternal father and grandfather

Moving to Japan there was
an undercurrent fear that the houses
would be so tightly packed
there would be no handy place to piss, and unleash
all that which is most native in me

Reassured then, when I saw an old man
in broad daylight, not far from a busy station,
facing the train track`s supporting trestle
letting out a long golden stream as if from a hose,
no homeless bum, he--
this slightly senile grandfather

And having seen this repeated
more times than I can count
I conclude that the male perogative to piss
is one that becomes all the more strongly defined
the more hemmed in one is

Oh beautiful though short lived stream I let out
like a baby in the tub just a few minutes past,
I swear by all that is holy, wild and thus unruly
you shall not be the last.

Scraps of Green

moving to Tokyo he began to collect
scraps of green, like bits of cloth,
moving from one to another on his
early morning walks, that was another
new thing

the crisp morning air of the pre-dawn city
when he could catch the faint sound
of bird chirp, though mostly the great
caws of the black crows as they swooped
and hunted through bags of trash

still, the streets were empty enough
that he could walk without purpose,
without keeping to strictly defined parts,
without his Spidey-sense tingling
at the slight whoosh of from-behind
bicycles as they swerved their way
through crowds

the air sharp he walked quickly
to warm up, from the earthy garden
of an old house to the bamboo encircled
grounds of a small shrine, always taking in
the perimeter of an odd bit of green woods,
maybe two acres square, in the midst of the
lego-square buildings, protected by a wall
concealing any sign of house within

he imagined some family living there
according to ancient Edo rhythms,
a clan of rip van winkles who had not
ventured out in a hundred years,
playing and doing laundry
by a forgotten spring

as the salarymen in their black suits
and office ladies with thighs revealed
filled the street, mingling with old men
on their way to the early morning places
old men go

an increasing flow of cars and the sudden
clack of trains bringing waves and waves
of freshly pressed warriors,
police directing traffic,
a rhythmic weaving and bobbing
encountered as, moving upstream
he made his way to work.

Source and Echo

An interesting question posed,
the country in which one must live
to see one`s art properly appreciated,
not one too close to the source surely
as those who live near the spring
are not likely to value pure water

Transplanted to the city-hemmed and worn
folk clubs of Berlin the high and clear echo
of the old mountain valley can perhaps
be best appreciated as something to cut through
the apartment blocks that jut and crag
on wintery plains

yet once removed, though showered
with the applause of a thousand
the heart does grow desperate to recall
days when notes bent and lumbered,
were plucked from intimate skies and sunsets,
the vigour and whim of local dogs
running circles around, and up and down the hills
until standing with hand on knees and beating heart
you viewed the tree-crowned sunset.

flute in the desert

sitting on the edge of the soft red rock,
looking out into an immensity of space
this is the desert, this is my body thin and fasting
I am playing the flute now often, feeling
the gauntness of my body and the whisper of a wind
still not cooling, this dry wind that blows
against my skin, the flute which I am playing
in strange half scales partially covering the holes,
the simple notched bolivian flute that is so
haunting and distinct, I would like to disappear
and sink into the temporal with these beautiful
women I have discovered, naked and open
while I am still closed and distinct.

Strum

We sit around the lone microphone
in the reconditioned barn,
the sky has been a welcome blue,
the wood boxes we sit and strum
in search of meaning, sounding weather,
sounding travel out of these earthen boards
complementing eachother in songs
and words for endeavors
not well thought out
or carried out, but done.

the Red Lotus

A flower opens under the deep water
the deep water

I take a cord and throw it towards
the flower whose roots are so far down

whose roots are so far down

The spell of the deep is troubled
the ripple spreads all out

With my cord I try to snare the lotus
as if its heart lay deep beneath the water

The sun floats on the edge of the lake, balancing
it goes out, it goes down
it falls into the night and drowns

He falls into the night and drowns
as if his heart lay deep beneath the water

(inspired by Ly Y Hane/ Colored Stars)

in the quiet woods

I was back in the shady forest, at a level spot
not far from a creek among the smoky leaves,
I had built a hut along the side and was snug
and content, though missing my mother

The lone hermit I might well have become
playing my accoustic through the days
and dreaming of sandy haired women

living among the detritus of forest
feeling a yearning now and then, though
nothing that a good ponder at the stars
and a sit by the fire couldn`t ease

world of tomorrow

biking home at midnight
air bone china clear
stars and moon aglow

sky captain of tomorrow
fresh in mind, a movie
also aglow with the dreams
of early hollywood

and the eery sinister city
fires and shadows
of weimar germany

looking at the moon, bright
back lit by the sun
thinking as usual how many
aeons that shining star light
has travelled

and how someday sooner
than the last time I had
this chilly, wonderous thought
I wont be here see it