November 23

the rain eased up
the cold persisted

holiday evenings
and not enough chairs

hey so when are you…?
a battery of questions

some blunted by the years
some softer, owing

to wisdom, knowing
what not knowing

for years means
a bridge washed out

a road not finished
even yes can mean no

when prized
out like a stuck door

unburdened by solace
by desire

it isn’t speakable
so just smile

too widely
turn one’s attention

to the fire
that is dying

all heartwood
no kindling

it’s filling the room
with smoke

November 20

If not resentment
what then? Tomorrow

a sulking rain.
Even without

an action
premonition

of motion
premeditated

carelessness
a glance might

linger or
it might be

furtive
but like

a glancing blow
it also lands

November 18

Stilled, the chills sets in
in fingers and toes and heels–

still, it seems easier to stay
in so many ways,

yes, facile–
but the sky is cloudy

and the moon is half full,
what blame is there really?

No long shadows here,
regret like one too many,

only one, so easily walked back
and the sun tomorrow

outside this window is such
a ridiculous shade of gold–

generosity, magnimosity,
can’t look right at it, either

November 17

a game, to step around
the fallen leaves, to not

disturb the early hours
you can’t not face it

properly cold out now
and it isn’t a coincidence

if there’s a causal link
what comes next is mostly predictable

November 14

Nightime and raining
in Akihabara

screens shout
at nobody

in particular
and songs play on

in endless short
loops, Yodobashi,

yodobashi, even here
up seven floors

in a narrow corridor
stacked with bins

of diodes, capacitors,
secret parts

foreign as the writing
on the wall–

signs here have no meaning
for us–

we enter if the door is open,
and stare,

entranced, as small things
start to move,

or dance, or wait for us
to reach out

and divine their purpose–
although technically useless

this plastic dome
with a slit cut out

to form a toothless mouth
has us in crying, laughing

at its wretched singing,
its function must be joy–

the sentiment is clear
if not the packaging.

Outside loud neon
melts into pools of liquid

color, blurred by our tears
and the unceasing rain,

suggestive in a way
of Christmas lights, the tree

the way a sleepy child
sees it, awake if barely,

still tethered to conciousness
by pure delight

November 13

Recently arrived,
wide-eyed and awake
well past midnight,

dyssynchronous–
the ginko here
has turned to gold

rain plastering
leaves to cold windows–
it was quite warm still

in Tokyo,
and mostly green
with neon evenings

and the unbelievable
lightness of being
always in transit,

mostly uncomprehending,
empty as a mouth
hanging open in surprise

at some novelty, beauty
requiring no formal translation,
the now familiar clatter

of bells at the shrine,
claps and bows and heady incense,
deer ambling by, unafraid

and observing closely,
silently, unburdened
by speech

so also moving lightly
but with effortless presence,
neither studied

nor imposed–
how often we were told
you are here, you are here,

fish, tide, tree
as subtle cues, landscapes
simplified by rapid passage–

Now, the gray static
of early morning hours,
grainy with data points

and unsettled like weather–
Too much to take in.
Just where am I? And when?

October 21

It’s sunny in the mountains
but it isn’t sunny here

fog expands, descends
bright with day

but clinical, sterile
silence like a tumor

excised or silence
like the scalpel–

malignant and precise–
the skyscrapers

disappear into the white
inversion, soundlessly

no breath of wind
the gingko leaves

a thousand
stilled tongues

October 11

Crescent moon
mostly a shadow

mostly nothing
absence of light

each night
listening for

the voice
hearing it

wishing I hadn’t–
the matte of lack

having plenty
but just not that–

the rest is black
but this silver sliver

shiny as promise
pulling like desire

like a hook
through the mouth

September 30

the garage door
of the building

across the street
flies open

an anxious eyelid
creaking, sleepy

the suns sets earlier
and earlier

these days trail off
suggestively

this is sharper
an intentional silence

it says everything
it needs to

September 28

At first the quiet
like a balm

the calm eye
of a storm

but it, too, turns
evenings

like cupped palms
all that they might hold

what prescribes dread
instead of hope

it gets darker earlier
turning in

this cave of a world
and still no word