Dango

Miyazaki Dreams

A hero in this hopeless city,
he dreams of a vast tidal wave
crashing over and between the crevasses
of these endless blocks of city, of survivors
clinging to the taller towers like stilts, of children
released from virtual reality en masse,
clambering up to create a new world,
he dreams of flowers and bushes
blooming and spreading,
in his own garden no less--
released from the evil
scorched-earth malevolence
of his wife, the gardener.

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.

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.

Pins in the Clouds

The departure date approaches,
days passing in a flurry of classes taught
with half a mind on things
which one should focus on completely
this being a job after all,
one`s economic lifeblood
hell, it`s only a job

thoughts of home, postcard moments
from wide view San Francisco peaks,
tailing southward through
redwood mountain highlights,
surfers, blonde beach girls
everything with a splash of wine

the same tints that will someday make the
humdrum of japanese life as quaint
as the bouyant tinctures of an over-pink
cherry blossom geisha travel poster

memories weave and insinuate themselves
into long bicycle rides to the train station
and longer rides still in the crisp winter air home,
these clouds of longing that never betray
the pins that pushed and prodded me astray

ah well

the winter blues are finally settling
though the sky has been remarkably clear of late
a `koharu`, what they call `little spring`
extending to the cusp of winter,
persimmons, pumpkin-orange inhabit
leafless trees, ornamenting the branches
with a dying autumn sweetness

miles davis seems to suit the afternoon fine,
long langourous early 60`s blues and swirling dreams
of tropical sunset, `En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor`
that`s somewhere I wouldn`t mind going now
the same swirling woodwinds that draw you
in to the M*A*S*H theme, winds of abiding regret

to be back in California, first time in 3 years
will be something, well, not remarkable
something different, lets see how well
I blend in

I often dream of walking the hills, and streets
of San Francisco, lets see how well those
winter colors match the delicate, clear
shades I recall

paint without numbers

Here I have the chance, yes
of course life is full of precipices,
seeming long jumps off heights
that invariably lead to higher places
if you want them to

Yesterday I had that sinking feeling
so common those years after college,
when I was doing work
beyond laughable, yet serious
taking home my seriously small pay check
and spending it on a burrito or such

the sense that even this small job must be held
onto tight like the slithery tail of a silvery fish
in the milling, cut your throat with an `excuse me bro`
world of beach town, california

how can I explain that feeling,
living 20 meters from the beach
one should not feel such anxiety, should not
be so trapped, but there it was, that black
debilitating anxiety again and again

the girls outside my window jogging,
following the eroded line of the coast
somewhat wealthy neighbors right and left,
leisure folk, most retired
and I with a pounding heart choking
down a kind of bile, that beyond angry
urge to paint it all another color

Wildcatters Prayer

I want it all without having to pay with
sweat extracted from love`s grinding mill
Want the company of young ladies in their dozens
breasts and hips of varying sizes,
hair of acorn, chestnut, moss and dew,
eyes of fire, coal and emerald
dresses long and flowing,
or better, tight ass jeans

Oh lord let me have all these things which I can only
dream of on this scorched piece-of-shit earth,
divining rod quivering, my brow quivering
so far from the senoritas and Brownsville cantinas
let this one gush great fountains of rich black crude

I think of my mother, she in her wiry germanic way
broken, I think of Father who left a long time ago,
Ill take this sun lord and throw it at you, my shadow
larger than anything on this plain,
Where not even the ghosts of cowboys linger
fishing they are in the lakes and streams of Colorado
splashing in the cool clear water they dreamt of
as they passed this shit brown place.

half a story

Same as you I was playing at being a man,
collecting breadcrumbs from my parents

we were different of course,
you stuck with that cool melancholy that
may have just run a little deeper than I thought
Me with a bristling outer defense, inside a kid

time passed
I watched the waves,
paid less attention
to the spoiled
stubborn kids
who thought they could break,
without really breaking, free

there wasn`t a lot could be done
while you were getting back to roots and all,
shooting venison with Jack and Shiloh
I was straying without straying,
scanning the boundary for broader horizons,
testing the skies for a favorable breeze

still I was glad
you took the first volume
of War and Peace
when you went off to that beach in Mexico
got mugged at machete point

Who knows where that book is now...
maybe the guy who found it thinks
half the story is basically all

trail to follow

Are the trees still there, and the deer?
Of course they are, sometimes I feel
the neutered mountains and deerless woods
have spread like a virus of hospital dependent
children, for whom lack of space and
privacy is no big deal, a given
to those for whom the thrills of packed-in life
are enough, for whom a trail through the forest
is a sentence to isolation and boredome.

Are the poets with real trails of words
through real lifetime events without varnish
still there? Of course they are, sometimes
I feel that poetry is where they go, those
who have no intrinsic stake in the game any longer,
and may indeed allow themselves to enjoy
a sense of spinning wheels, of biding time.

They go forth recalling patterns
that may serve them well in better times.

Kanto Expressway Loop

A free flying future-like highway
rumbling to the stars
while yellowed vacancy notices
crumble on enka bars
Sell out the farm and plant a robot farm
the advertisements say,
grey concrete congested dreary
roads will have their way.

The cry of the lonely seller
to the throngs that moved away.
The pound of the Taiko video game
where neon nightbirds play.

I rode on an unplanned sprawling
scrabble of grey toned condos for miles
I rode to cover the distance of
what had passed away, a pilgrimage road
through fields of rice and dark mushroomy
woods, the smoke from a fisherman`s hut
along a river`s bank.