Dango

On Fire

Wise men say avoid Roppongi, it`s a place
where all manner of sin, venality mingle
under the hot night streetlights and neon hues,
where east and west meet and circumlate, expressing
desires in the only language desires take,
bite of neck and hand on thigh, it is drunken,
slurred, aloof, she is Japanese, she doesn`t
understand, nor do you, on fire--

let this one go out

Let this poem go out in a great slant
to Roppongi, to Bar Milwaukee still
the best felt path to wide pockets

to the chicken warmth of the Heineken
pita stand, the original and only that
doesn`t send stomachs into mad contortions

to Gas Panic, all crew cuts and fat german
necktie around the forehead slobs,
500 yen Fosters, sexy come hithers
and a fair few who look and dance easy
but would not, not ever

to the subway open at five and already smelling
of urine and vomit as you follow the dead
deep into the caverns of Tokyo

to the strip clubs, well we`ve all been to strip clubs

to the nigerian touts who Will harangue you
and Will Not let up until all gentlemanly decency
has been extingished and you are pushing them,
aware that only in theme-park night life Japan
could you get away pushing a guy this much bigger

to the trash bags that line the pavement nightly,
testament to yen and sex dissolved suddenly
in early morning repentance blurs.

Kindling

Lone man dancing with all good ladies
in the club, drawing all tight-jeaned
honeys into his inner circle, subtly
bringing the center of gravity down,
creating heat and friction between
the legs, an expert in kindling
club room drama, slapping that ass
and pushing, guiding her hips in a slow
circular motion around, this is the beat
one two one two one one oneoneone
this time, it`s me.

hatarakimono

Once, books and pamphlets luxuriated
in space, taking time to greet some people
watching me, they`re very funny
through the glass of the kebab stand
with the neon heineken bottle atop
the only place to go for chicken in Roppongi
that can rival a Santa Cruz taqueria for pure meatness,
fat slices of roasted chicken slathered between
pita, with onion and tomato, an explosion
of yoghurt sloth and sauce

outside the men in grey jump suits
working, 2:30 am, I ask the couple
now inside in the fragrant chicken warmth
why they are working so hard on a Saturday night
as if the devil himself were chasing,
a shrug and the usual reply, `workaholic`
Not a sideways glance from their pipe filled trench
at legs and hips in tipsy passing

Oh they are hard workers, hataraki-mono
beyond comprehension and what I was going to say,
once books had lots of space so you could
write poems and aimless scribble in the margins
while this page is flashing like the old imperial
Japanese flag `nippon maru` all red and white starburst
an advertisement for all-night 400 yen drinks,
I`ll head there next.

felt path to wide pockets

There`s something about a billiard table
with faded felt, deep pockets, sucks down
those balls like a vacuum, old and wood vintage
maybe 50 years the make, now down the stairs
in roppongi bar Milwaukee, the solidity of the oak
dominating the small room, a cutaway cue
for those tight corners, a half-Phillipina bartender
who doubles as a hostess in some cheap
karaoke joint, downs drinks with the customers
gains advantages in games by showing her tits
and gives out free shots of mentholated spirits,
sometimes instead of sheep I dream of balls
entering those wide pockets
with a nice reassuring thud.

roppongi kicks

What is it about the Tokyo night life
late night delerium of Roppongi
which despite its obvious pitfalls attracts
massage girls and african hustlers
passing and wheedling passerbys without
a smile or acknowledgement, twin worlds
collide and intersect imperfectly, dolled up
late 20`s Japanese thrill seekers, looking for what?
sleazy sex and promised american underworld thrills
without the danger of Big City New York,
American hayseed soldiers getting drunk and drunker
shouting their straightforward small town inanities
to the money intoxicated night
the flash of club owners, cars passing, Mercedes and BMW
Inebriated, I dance in the overcrowded afterhours disco
feeling up a half brazilian beauty who looks straight direct
her black sillhouette, feeling undeniably attracted to the
soft curves of her body, a moth going for its last flame