Composed in Iga-Ueno Shi and Kyoto, 2005.
it’s not as if the scattered brick-chips mind if they trepass on the stepping-stones
***
the moth flies into the side of the bread bag and turns back around, trying another way.
he hides behind a box of Japanese hot cocoa mix and veers once more toward the light.
the totality of moonlight why must it be beaming from her face?
***
a squeal of unclassified birds alerts the rain frogs rain is over
through one window two i look through three windows.
without eye glasses the mountains could be demons.
***
the place where i was born has orchids blooming with various impressions
the place where i was born has an outstretched hand tenderly pinching bursting with exasperated sweat crackling from voyages to long destroyed forest buildings rough with the rubbing of things that look like bones veiny with death realization fresh with hair of the past present future.
the place where i was born was demolished by government land officials in search of a better modality of trans hyper national apple transplantation
the place where i was born was wild, swampy, stood still amongst reptiles, boulders, 10,000 years of land disagreements, family disputes and moonlight interpersonal communications
the place where i was born is a prism reflecting all the other places i was born
the place where i was born is truly not the place where i was born
the place where i was born was drenched with blood was soaked with blood was downright bloody and the rivers, they say, were like veins
the place where i was born defies all categories the place where i was born might have been called a hospital the place where i was born was excellent, reknowned, and intimidating
fierce and grassy, mildly entertaining: worth visiting once every few years: subtle and mysterious, humid with childhood anxiety; somehow present —
a brick house on a small town road.
***
raindrops keep falling on the roof and there is a man who can’t go to sleep.
“what makes a person good or not is how he can deal with adversity.”
thousands of insects died in his room some trampled by his feet others just puttered out from exhaustion. Some of them had a lust for light (too strong).
“thousands of mothers are crying for their sons. Everyone
wants to get real close to the sun, steal some of its light, bring it home hide it under some dry blankets, say it is theirs.”
dewdrops keep sticking to his bones, the rain was going for seven hours or more, the
train was absent until daybreak, but now it is always sending out signals of danger, a perverse alarm in the rice paddies, letting the
rain frogs
know that it is time to hide.
***
Oh travelers! oh wanderers when you stop upon that road remember where you came from: no thunder in the valley.
Babies of this amusement park planet please don’t forget the ticket has a price: the rain seeps through bricks.
When you look up, and if, what do you pay attention to and is it hard or soft? a picnic with clouds: no cows in the streets.
having seen the sky you won’t have to see it again: he walks away stumbling towards heaven.
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