It just doesnt stop. The Japanese wear June as a badge:
no holidays, constant overcast, suicides stopping crowded
morning trains – drip drip drip. Thank God for gun control.
Darkness, then gray light, then sticky blowing mist.
Everybody hunkers down to watch rental DVDs. Last month
a ritzy Osaka restaurant got caught re-serving left-overs.
The president bowed and apologized on NHK.

A ballsy U-boat captain glides under the stormy North Atlantic
inside a womb of silence. Last week somebody jumped off a
hotel roof. The president said she was shocked. Then a stupid
old bugger drove his car into a crowd of first-graders. Through
his periscope crosshairs he watches a fat Allied convoy.
The president blamed her employees. He claimed the kids were
mocking him. He fires his torpedoes. An employee blew the
whistle because the president is a greedy old blood-sucker who
bullied her workers.

The rain never stops. An ambitious meathead tries to reach
the top by pounding sides of beef. Mould grows in bathrooms.
A high-school student strangled six rare swans. It blows along
in humid horizontal sheets. On surveillance cameras, one
drunken salaryman was caught bashing the heads off tulips.
Officials were shocked. Retired salarymen are called sodai
gomi. The ritzy Osaka restaurant went bankrupt after many
irate customers cancelled their reservations. They sit around
their living rooms watching tv baseball and getting in their
wives way like big bags of garbage.

Somebody wearing a goalie mask attacks teenagers with a
chainsaw. Rain blows under umbrellas. Two unemployed men
robbed a pachinko parlor. Last summer the ritzy Osaka
restaurant got caught labeling boiling fowl as gourmet smoked
chicken. Everybody steps in asphalt puddles, walks in wet
shoes. One unemployed man surrendered, the other shot
himself in the head. A bankrupt small businessman jumped
off a department store roof. Mould grows under refrigerators
and inside clothes closets. Every day is overcast. The rain
never stops.

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Sunday, 06/08/08

Whose woods these are I dont want to know –
dead computer screens, roaring rusted mufflers,
floating polar bears discarded and forgotten.

His house is in the Grand Caymens though;
far from the chemical eve of everlasting destruction,
way beyond the eye-burning Hell gasses hanging
over the Formless Fossil Void.

He will not see me stopping here to watch his absentee
fast-buck investment fill up with crushed PET bottles,
topless plastic lunch boxes – oily water reflecting
the orange/purple sunset.

The woods are radioactive, dark and deep.
But I have miles to go, miles before the next grimy
Gas N Grub.

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Thursday, 05/15/08

Hes promising change. Shes ready to lead.
Hes on top. Now shes on top. He screwed her in Iowa.
She licked him in New Hampshire. He wants a tax cut
to help the middle class. Her husband wants a bj and
a fresh piece of ass. All agree theres no free lunch,
especially the nominee from the other party, the one
who became a hero by getting shot down over the jungles
of Southeast Asia.
Its April. Its May. Hes got more delegates. She accuses
him of inexperience. He calls her callous. She claims his
health plan wont fly. The incumbent President is a
lame duck. His father became President after becoming
a hero by getting shot down over the waters of the South
Pacific.
He was raised by a single mother, so hes got street cred.
Her husband was President, so shes got experience.
His pastor blames white people for black peoples problems.
Shes got blue collar whites who blame black people for
their problems. Would you want one of them sitting in the
Oval Office?
Hes talking off the top of his head. She pulling policies
out of her ass. He says he wants to talk about the issues.
She says he should have dumped his pastor twenty years
ago.
Old time liberals love his progressive patter. Hacks and
bagmen think shes a winner. Hes attracting idealistic
young people. Shes got middle-aged white housewives.
His wife sparkles with womanly energy. Her husbands a
bad-tempered sleazebag who ate too many cheeseburgers.
Hes on a roll, sounding full of confidence. Shes out of gas,
sounding flat and hollow. Hes cleaning up. She refuses
to throw in the towel.

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Thurs. 05/08/08

I want go
go to the land
the land away from man.

Can you see
see all the lies?
People jockying to get to the front of the line
Trying be the first
Chasing after
Chasing after just one more worldly material prize
I hate to break the news
But you know?
You know--we are all gonna die
die someday.
We are all gonna die
Someday
And then, where you be?
And what will you think
About what you did with your life?
And how does all that fine wine
and caviar taste now?
When you are 6 feet
6 feet under ground.

So I want go
go to the land
the land--the land away from man.

Yesterday morning this guy says to me, a nice guy
from Australia, who knows Im a poet outside the Mr. Donut
in Matsubara Danchi, so I suppose youd like to live in the
country beside the rows of double chocolates and Dutchies
with wild boars and horse manure and I said
no goddamned way I hate the country.

I bet you didnt know its the 25th Anniversary of Tokyo
Disneyland because its full of tightassed old boohoos rolling
up the sidewalks at six oclock, another example of cultural
imperialism just as many claim Tibet is historically part of
China, which is why I don’t like Shakespeare either.

I prefer classical jazz, Bill Evans, Miles Davis, guys not
grandstanding worse than Robert Mugabe or Wayne Newton
and now the Pope just stepped onto the tarmac at Andrews
Air Force Base which reminds me of Julie Andrews who
keeps hanging in like the stock market even though oils
gone through the roof and food is turning into a regular riot.

I hope youre not thinking of getting an abortion, he told
the Presidents oldest daughter, thank God its not raining in
Tokyo this morning so the Prime Minister can smoothly pave
the way for more expressways connecting rural voters to
urban pork barrels even though another Olympic boycotts
looming on the horizon.

I wonder if the Pope eats donuts, not like the present Prime
Minister, another sour apple who really put his foot down
during Sundays NHK singalong from Niigata where rice
farmers fiercely lay down the pavement when it comes to
political road construction because they too speak directly
from God.

I know policemen love donuts with sailors and hot coffee
but so far theyve barely penetrated Chinas booming fastfood
market even though the Chinese have plenty of policemen
with chocolate icing and strawberry sprinkles just like the
Dalai Lama with his permanent equanimity and Mr. Smiley
happy face.

Tokyo, Tuesday, 04/15/08

8am 2-24-08 Reta Lorraine Bowen Taylor

His terrifying roar yanks me from my bed long before
any normal human time for getting up should occur—
his long cold fingers prying like jagged knives
at the once sturdy edges of the shingles above my head—
I listen (trying not to) as he looses yet another rectangle
and flings it into the madness that envelopes his angry lust;
I imagine it swirl, cutting sharp angles, one-winged,
as the curious & terrified birds watch from their hiding places
hoping against hope that they are safe from this wrath.

The sharp fingers pry continuously
and the shingles give way
one after the other
and go
splitting the icy air,
flinging miniscule particles of tiny ancient rock
hazardously from off their surfaces
(just in case someone were crazy enough to poke their eye
outside the safety of their abode for a better look).

The roar crescendos now and then, orchestrated like
the great Leonard Bernstein himself were waving the baton—
and the frigid fingers continue on to a nearby tree
and rake stiffly over each already barren grey branch
to scrape off whatever remains of leaves may yet cling there.

Old and weathered plastic bags
which snap viciously from their tangled branches
twisting against themselves
until wrought into unrecognizable white globs
finally give way now in the force of these ice fingers
which come to hack them loose
and send them plummeting to further doom unknown,
as yet more of them are snatched loose from the open dumpsters nearby —
they hurl themselves in frantic circles of white plastic tornados
itching for a tree, any tree…to cling to desperately in the cold—
they snap loudly against the winds, the force hitting the thin plastic
with a slapping non-stop punishment of power and superiority.

Now and then blasts of water pellets too big to be raindrops
careen like BB’s into my windows at just the precise moment—
(oh, Leonard is good!) and the glass rattles back loudly in protest,
threatens to crack, as the double-paned sliding windows
shake and moan from their worn-down aluminum slots.
The birds are all in hiding, and I don’t blame them one little bit.
I would open my door and invite them in to perch in warmth—
offer them a stale piece of bread of two,
if they would believe me my offered safety.
My voice would (of course) be snatched and obliterated the moment
I would make the offer into the devious and treacherous winds
and truthfully
the only thing I would wind up REALLY hosting, I’m sure
would be a living room full of tangled plastic bag refugees
rattling and quivering from their horrible experience
and probably too
shaking their empty noisy selves for bread.

10pm 4-11-08 Reta loraine Bowen Taylor

Black “Times new Roman” 12 point
aligned left
it spills from the unseen grey microscopic cells
and travels
blue nerve highways
red blood freeways
yellow fat alleys
brown-blotched -no name for this color skin -pavement

It comes and it comes
without invite
or vacation
and never brings desert (let alone a glass of wine)

It tip-toes
it hops
it bangs drums
it whispers rudely in your ear in the night
it comes in dreams

It is sinew
it is twine
it is seashell half buried in glittering beige sand
it is rubber
it is flower petal soft
and it coats the back of your tongue
like cherry cough syrup

It has limbs
leaves
padded toes and suction cups
broken toenails painted purple with silver stars
it tastes like chocolate mint
it burbles
rings
hums
even as you blink—
and it is warm as a puppy’s breath

It comes
it does
without a name
and yells a fresh one in your ear
that you have never heard before
and you will swear you hear it sing then
as it jumps there
just left
12 pointed—
traveled oh so far meticulously
and without blunder along the blue nerve
—and from where
to be YOUR poem?

6pm 4-8-08 Reta Lorraine Bowen Taylor

Her voice—
soft
like fleece
reminds one of the blankets surely she must
cower beneath—
young and pale
blonde thin hair askew between the sheets
as she listens
to the familiar sound
of her father—
nearing
from
down the hall

She
is matter of factly
calm—
now

It’s all only just a fact of life
God’s wishes (according to her Pa)

The footsteps echo off the walls of her memory now
boomerang inside her frail new strength
as they draw nearer —nearer
the steps of her father
coming to pray over her this night like always
and she’ll go inside again
shut her private screen door without letting it bang
(it’s her only safety, that door,
even tho it exists to function merely in the darkness behind her eyelids)

And down the hall the shoes land
planted firmly and with insistence and longing and righteous timing
coming
they are
bringing
they are
Pa
and prayers
when she hasn’t nary a one—
footsteps in the hall
when Nighttime Pa calls
comes a pray’n
over her sinnin’ needs to be cleansed cotton folds
as the sheets even caress her carelessly in foreplay
and she dare not move
or cry out
for her mouth has no purpose here for her
it betrays her in its silence—
this is not her time to pray
but to listen
and to learn
to know the ways of the father
and all the fathers before
and such is the story—
as
the
foot
steps
fall
along
the
hall
and
in
his
way
she’ll
lay.

For the 416+ young girls & women rescued
from a polygamist “cult” in Texas in April 2008.
One woman spoke of her father’s frequent nightly visits
to rape her, as “footsteps in the hall” which would signal
her impending rape in the name of the Lord.
The raid was sparked by a phone call from a 16 year old girl
claiming to be held and abused and raped,
while scores of young girls were forced to “marry” older men
against their will or after lifetimes of brainwashing to “want” the lifestyle.

Beautiful Things

faint hints,
vague touches
quiet looks.

Eyes drip with understanding.
Bodies heave with conversation.

sweet breath,
whispered scent
on pink magnolia wings.

Kissed silence

Beautiful things.

Don't tell me that you are like the rest of the peanut gallery who loves to see big fish like NY Governor Spitzer crash and burn after his being nabbed for his habit of enjoying the company of call girls. Truthfully, would you rather see his hanging around with ego-testical men the likes of Dick Cheney?

The only reason I'm pissed off at all, is that these ladies were $1,000 bucks an hour. But then again I think, the CEO of Exxon is paid some $15,000 an hour or more while we all take it up the keester—oil at $110 bucks a barrel—and no grease.

Back to the $1000 an hour? You know, I could get pretty creative for that kind of dough, At least I'd do my best to get my money's worth. That's the kind of guy I am.

While discussing Spitzer with somebody yesterday, the guy boasted, "I never paid for pussy." Well, I looked at the guy and thought to myself, "You cheap bastard."

The way I look at it, Spitzer was caught after supposedly spending some $80,000 for services from prostitutes. And Americans seemed shocked over what is really a meager amount. What is that $80,000? Less than the money taken in for a fund raising luncheon for any of the three remaining presidential candydates. And all one gets is a friggin' lunch and a lot of bullshit. Meanwhile, the American population is more concerned with their own wallets than the war in Iraq." Shame on you!

Well, I believe ex-Govenor Spitzer was doing his patriotic duty—he was spending. In fact, he was injecting a direct financial surge. One of the prostitutes claimed to have been broke and homeless. So Spitzer in fact was helping the disadvantaged. What a guy!

I'm no economist, but I do believe in "Trickle Down" economics. First, a prostitute should keep an ample supplies of tissues at her disposal at all times. And with remainder of the hard earned cash she has has earned off the sweat on her back, she then goes shopping at the mall--stopping in Victoria Secrets to purchase some crotchless panties. The cashier, working part-time behind the counter, is a college student working her way through school so she won't wind up selling her body to pay for tuition. Then patrolling through the mall, to make sure we are all safe while shopping, is the black security guard. He/she is able to keep his/her job because there are in fact shoppers at the mall even when times are tight. Even the Spanish-speaking maintenance worker is able to have job--cleaning the mall toilets where faggots hang out. And that's how money flows in America.

In this US Presidential election year, where RACE has become an campaign issue, my question is "Was Govenor Spitzer an equal opportunity employer? Cuz, you know, once you go Barack, you never go back.

photo: Danny Woody performing at JZ Club, Shanghai, PRC. March 5. jz
Danny has sung on stage with The Doors and Janis Joplin. He hasn't touched a drink in 28 years.

photo: West Lake, Hangzhou, PRC. March 4. jz

photo: Take it easy, dudes! Shanghai, PRC. March 3. jz

Someone told me the other day to stop imagining.

After all one can't always be inventing and doing and expanding and
collaborating- that that wears off over time. I read an article in defense of settling. Most of life is spent doing mundane tasks, such as taking out the garbage, not changing things or going places.

My naivete is wiser now, "I prefer not to."

Just keep your head down, stick with the status quo, take no risks, don't challenge anyone's perception of "who you are supposed to be" with who you -really- are...remember, take no risks, don't ever rock the boat or do anything beyond pablum because, sakes alive! You don't know what might happen. Shackle yourself inside the snow-globe of suburbia. Buoy yourself in right here and right now, then press pause.

"I prefer not to."

Risk is a four letter word. As are can't quit and fail

And it really means you choose to be dead.
Then you live as an atrophied image, going through motions.

Inaction, yearning for the memory of the black, crisp-edged shadow that shows how you had, still have grace and strength...except the sun can't make a shadow out of what is not there, and instead you fill that emptiness- the blank page with no apparition, by refining your inner melancholy.

"I prefer not to."

It would be, "My Life as a Lionel Train Set"
One circle, one set of circumstances, painted all pretty, but nothing ever opens/interacts. The little plastic people and scenes flank the engine and look impressive, as if to make us somehow all forget this is just a dinky model train, in the basement. One not going anywhere not actually bringing anyone or anything, not changing direction, or exploring, just circling, endlessly. The most you ever do is go "Whoo-wooo," puff a little bit of smoke at Christmas. The biggest change is buying a new piece of scenery or replacing the caboose.

"I prefer not to."

“What is your purpose in coming to America ma’am?”

The passport inspector wanted to know.

I stood slumped and silent at JFK airport draped with certain facets of my
life. The answer was not obvious to either of us.

To him, I was an odd bag lady. On my back hip, the black computer bag with the laptop-because one needs to a conduit with which write and to share ideas, on my front in the brown canvas mailbag filled with a wide bundle of essential papers.

Essential is wholly a matter of perspective- the slim folder of legal and bank documents the would be difficult to replace was far outweighed by the other items in the bag, spiral notebooks, folded-up pages and assorted sheets of loose-leaf with stories and poems in various state of shaping. Also some discography of Ms Mitchell, Mr Cash, Mr Dylan and a friend simply could not be entrusted to checked baggage. In my left hand a red and white candy striped soft bag contents one cat, somewhat noisy and in my right hand a hard case with the acoustic guitar. These were the items not to be trusted to the sea shipment and moving boxes.

Following in straight lines behind- offspring, then my mother, like security guards who made sure I followed this route and did not take some connecting flight. I was draped with certain responsibilities.

I suddenly felt like an immigrant grasping for words in English.

Mute, because the thought would not connect to the sounds I was supposed to make. Nervous, because there was an expected response, somehow I would flub and this might cause a problem and more questions, in addition to the cat offering, "Maow, maow" on my behalf.

Twelve years of life in one place closed by a fourteen-hour flight back to exactly where you started. Now why would one do that?

Except everything had changed about the woman who was arriving, from the parcels she held, to the name she called herself on the passport- retroactive to maiden form. I looked at New York the starting point to reach other places, and to make a life by my own terms and no one else's. I came because I had things I wanted to do, choices I had made and decisions I believed in.

Much like my grandparents who came before, I also had no set job, but a lot of hope and determination that I could make a life in America. That I wanted to give my children a chance at something else and this place, New York where my family lives made practical sense.

I tilted my head to the side and said something equally parts fact and
pablum. The return comment after he stamped the date was, “Welcome home.”

Somehow this was a distinct discomfort in the second word of that phrase.

Who said it was home? Who said the journey was done and I could unpack and call it a day? I thought of the trip as just beginning. But one does not disagree with inspectors. And the people behind me were starting to shuffle uncomfortably. Very well, Kennedy airport would still be there and another day I could take planes to other places.

In the two years I have been back, I still refer to myself as “currently
based out of New York.”

The boys know mom likes to get on planes and see places. Most of my closest friends require an airplane for us to sit in the same pub, knock glasses and share a drink. But I kind of like that.

In a way it feels like I am on an outpost, a pier that holds a ship, and I think more about the ship than the pier. Always looking for new places to sail, spending days staring out at the sea, instead of putting the boat in a sealed tarp in dry dock or dismantling the timber for firewood or a cabin. I need to be able to go. Motion and action is an essential part of how I live my life.

New York is "home" in the sense that yes I own a house and a long term fixed rate mortgage. My job is here. It's home in the sense there is a yard and I raise the boys here. It's home in the sense that you can look up my name in the residential phone book.

But in my mind, it's a between place that serves a purpose.

Somehow I feel more at rest when I am walking or standing outside on the ferry, then anywhere else.

This is where I am right now, but it is not where I mean to stay. Then again I don't know that I ever want to stay in one place. I kind of like the experience of walking on and on.

And the ferry boat that I often take to and from work is the "John F Kennedy." It is the oldest of the fleet and called by many the most dependable. It has long wooden benches and the widest deck of all the boats. It was one I took as a little girl in my father's Ford when cars were still allowed. It is the one that I like to take most of all, because it is strong and has gone back and forth for over forty years.

Hillary Clinton makes a good point.

Today she said, "We need to make a choice between speeches and solutions, because while words matter greatly, the greatest words in the world are not enough unless you match them with action."

Anyone can stick together a good sentence these days.

Remember that; it’s like a tourist’s brochure, which does not show the broken infrastructure, just carefully cropped sections of the actual destination. The whole picture is in dire need of editing and clean-up.

Words, especially passionate empowering ones, are just the bones, the skeleton that gives an idea its shape. For an idea to be real and sustainable, it needs something more. Muscles have to wrap around and give the idea the ability to move off the podium, a heart has to beat to make the idea truly alive. It is more than tight copy and good layout.

Despite Emily Post’s imploring us to think carefully about what we say and write because it can always be remembered, the spillage of sounds out of our mouths is -not- by definition the precursor to the actions these phrases conjure up in our minds.

Actions are not a menagerie; ideas can be, especially when cloaked with passion, wit and four-color print processing.

I’ve known many people who speak in big promises, with carefully measured pauses and intensity in their eyes. It is like watching paper burn- fierce and mesmerizing. It’s also cheap and it’s easy.

Not the same as chopping the wood and making sure you have enough timber to last through the winter. And that you have also prepared enough to allow fair time for it to dry as well as keep it properly covered. Can’t get mundane necessities across in a 20 syllable sound byte, can you?

The monotony of hard work that brings sweat which provides all the timber, there is nothing sexy in that.

“I worked hard for a long time and paid attention.” Tired eyes and too much coffee, the night shift. There’s no spark in that level of dedicated consistency when compared with the way paper crinkles and burns and folds and makes your eyes flicker.

The problem is, paper doesn’t keep you warm for very long. And the question that many orators are loathe to address is what happens after you put down the microphone?

Does your soapbox get turned over and used to carry things back and forth? Aside for practicing your pauses mirror-side and reshaping other people’s phrases with Roget’s word collections, what are you willing to do?

More often than not, people are unwilling to sweat, especially for the long haul. It’s not “Dry Idea’s” fault for promoting the concept.

It’s just the exception rather than the rule. We would rather say we are dedicated, look up the punchy synonym for “tenacious,” reshape the sentence and call it a day.

No one wants to keep talking policy late through the night, continue to clean up and out the quagmires, and ultimately stay driven in what they do.

Because it is a lot easier to stick together a good sentence, build an intense hope like the Hudson-River-School painting their sunsets, than to keep grinding your ax on through the night…

That would be the shift that only dedicated people know, when most things get done, the one that takes place alone after everyone has gone home to their empty promises.

The search for love can take onto it a determinedness bearing nearly on aggression that can only be compared with a hunt for a very specific handbag. Web sites will be trolled, profiles scanned, assessed, measured, discount taken into account as well as the “lifespan” of the product. Is it authentic, used, what’s the discount, refund policy? This is a serious business. And the women and men that I have spoken with admit equally to a kind of profound disappointment and frustration, but there is a resignation that this is like believing in Santa- not all a delusion, just mostly.

It may be easier and emotionally cheaper to buy a crocodile Hermes Kelly bag in an outrageously rare shade of pink than to locate the exact sort of person with whom you would like to spend the next bunch of years. There is a shopper’s-mentality sense to it all. Friends sharing the pros and cons of whether to commit to the bidding with the next email and another date is much like standing together at the mirror and debating whether you ought to settle for this baguette with purple tassles instead of what you really need.

Eh, just a sec Brute, define “need”?

I do in fact own a very nice shawl or two from Paris, because I thought they were lovely and nice to “have.” But is partnering in an intimate relationship requisite to be a full and happy being? No more than rationalizing spending several thousand dollars on a Kelly purse or a couple hundred on a decent good copy, I don’t see the need.

The question of why people choose to actively pursue relationships hinges on this whole idea. Do you really need it? And then you begin to ask the largest question- what is the point of the relationship you are looking for?

To have children? To have enough income to buy a house? To have help to deal with the children, to be able to continue to make mortgage payments?

In my case I have done the first, twice and acquired the second, once. As for help with raising children, I prefer to deal with that on my own. Thankfully education and tenacity have also allowed me to be financially independent and make ends meet.

So what, then, is the core need?

Is it keeping up with the Joneses by making sure you are one of the Joneses? Or is it more a cultural expectation/assumption that, after a certain age your left hand should not be bare and you should not be alone? If you are not the wife of some Caesar, then you must be a suspicious character?

In our society, to remain alone intentionally is akin to choosing not to own a television set.

Who in their right mind can live without TV?

People can understand and accept a life with no sex (they may lament about it, but it is accepted), but no sitcoms? Can you do that? Who would do that?

Well, I have. And no it is not like being on Survivor. I have the experience of both life with and without marriage.

I prefer the latter.

I recently read an article where the writer aptly described marriage as, “a partnership formed to run a very small mundane, and often boring nonprofit business.” And her friends and colleagues echoed the same sentiment as my own friends did, observing my divorce procedures and starting life on my own like rubbernecking from a comfortable distance, “They would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone…”

And it is true, as more than one friend asked me, in that tone that mother’s have when the matter is gravely serious and it appears someone is about to make an irreparable bad choice, “But how are you going to do it? Career, and raise kids and not have anybody there, are you sure about that? Alone?”

In my own case I felt an obligation to illustrate to my boys that I can and would do this. This Mom was not there biding her time until mascara and curlers would save us from our temporary hardship predicament. I chose to make home, our home. Full in the just right sort of way, showing the boys they have a mom who works doggedly hard on many things, makes rules and expectations of them to contribute to this our place (laundry and vegetable peeling) and still knows how to be soft gentle and read aloud at night. We are a team of a wholly different sort.

After my recent experiences with meeting a few people, while it is a little fun to laugh and flirt a little, the desire to commit to the process is lacking.

I just don’t need that television set. I realize, that for the long term, alone suits me. Close friendships sustain the soul in a comfortable way. I like saying goodnight and walking on through my life.

I have the ability to focus without distraction. Perhaps no one but another writer or artist of sorts can appreciate that aloneness serves as a function of both determination and passion.

Aloneness actually is a "need."

But the days are not all quiet, I have the comfort of watching these boys become their own men. One day they will leave me, as well they should. Then I shall have more time and discretion to travel and write. For better or worse I have always been able to live inside my thoughts.

Call it buyer’s “reality.”

Vini, Vedi, Fini.
Sponte, (desderatio aevum) concredo.

I came, I saw, I quit
Alone, (for the long haul) to that I can commit.

Every Who down in Who-ville liked Valentine's a lot ...
save for Cindy Lou Who, the red headed Grinch,
having known a rare place North of Who-ville,
was caught in a pinch, she simply did not.

The Grinch eschewed this a'more,
the whole buggered season!
Now, please don't ask why, not just yet
only she knows the precise reason.

It could be her head wasn't tilted enough to the right
or perhaps, that high heeled shoes were a bad plight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all,
may have been that her heart was two sizes too tall.

Whichever the reason, naivete or Manolo’s shoes,
she stood there on Valentine’s eve, surveying she-Whos,
staring out around the ferry with a melancholy frown
at the Sephora-ified faces happily leaving midtown.

For she knew he-Whos
whilst taking the subway beneath
were busy now, texting confirmed reservations
to the maitre’d called Keith.

“And they're ordering roses, carnations, oh dear!
Tomorrow is Valentine’s, it’s practically here!”
She didn't scowl, instead fingers voicing complaint
began to type DELETE TODAY, as a mark of restraint.

“I must find a way to keep Valentine's
from coming by table and truck!”
For she knew love lived on schedule
is worse than bad luck...

All the Who girls and boys would wake bright,
then leave early for places to meet.
They'd rush from work early
to go to their sweets!

And then DHL and FedEx men appear as if on cue
with signature-required long boxes
from this and that You-Know-Who.
Then oh, the woos and the hoos!

The, “Oh how he loves me and didn’t you get flowers too?”
That’s one thing she hated the gush and compare,
the braggards, the bradaggio
the smell of discounted chocolate in the air!

Then the Whos, young and old, would sit down to prix fixe.
They'd feast four times over their diet at least, start with love-dove-pudding, then rare hanger-cuts of mass marketed beast;
something the Grinch couldn't stand in the least.

And then, they'd do something she liked least of all!
Every paired Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small
would stand close together, with eyeballs blinking,
standing i-Pods hand in hand with champagne glasses clinking.

And the Whos would start singing!
They'd sing! On with Lionel Ritchie and Marvin Gaye,
they’d sing till the wine made them fall to a sway.
She did not like it, it was not her way.

And the more the Grinch thought of the Who-lovey-kaboo,
the more she thought, “Someone ought to stop this whole to-do!”
Why for thirty-five years I’ve put up with Hallmark teaching us how,
FTD imploring us to desire long stemmed reds, right now!

I MUST stop Valentine’s from coming!...
But HOW?”

The Grinch, alone with her pointy-heeled feet
ice-cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling
“Why should it be so marketed and slick,
gone like a flower that wilts and dies quick?”

“It should come without ribbons!
And without tags.
Love comes on regular Tuesday
without packages, boxes or bags.”

And she puzzled three hours, till her puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something she had had before.
“Love” she knew, “doesn’t come on a card
or with something from a store.”

Her problem, she learned
with a heart so very tall,
is sometimes love is all giving
until you are left behind and that is all

This did not add up and she re-checked the math,
but division and subtraction made a wobbly graph.
Even calculus she had tapped it out that way too,
reconciled only to a pile of numbers that looked more like goo.

Like Horton she gave
one hundred percent
and instead found her faith
became a bit bent

Perhaps the Whos were smarter by being thick
sticking with mail-order hearts and Valentine’s schtick.
To fib to each other with great gleam and glee,
and your gift was ten percent off, also free shipping- yippee.

Like foolish children exchanging pats on the head,
sharing a drink, then each other in bed.
Cindy Lou considered this course with a firm sense of dread,
she would swerve, on her own, somewhere else instead.

She did not stop Valentines from coming
it came, somehow or other it is always the same...
From the top of Mt Crumpit she could cast love away
but her old poems stood shivering and called out "Hey"

"You, now remember, be gentle and sweet
EDIT is a far finer word than DELETE,
STET is something that only Shakespeare gets
and what good is winge and regrets?"

They wavered and wondered how she would choose,
old Edgar's advice, "Be your own damned muse!"
Or the metal heart mantra of, "never again" arms folded
that he-species is bad and deserves to be scolded...

Her friends warned her
to make her heart small as one speck.
A crumb that even too small
for a mouse to detect.

This was the she-Who way, small as a crumb,
girls who did differently got hurt and were dumb.
“Pooh-Pooh befalls you if you're honest and plain…”
they warned her again and again.

Cindy-Lou Who, our Miss Grinch then said,
“This makes no sense to my head
Nay, I refuse. I will not obey.
There must be some other kind of way.”

She remembered the unanswered note,
so carefully crafted, postmarked twice with hope
how she waited with wide gentle eyes
until every word got stuck in her throat.

And yet, she would not curl her heart
into a period, a tight hardball
she preferred to get bumped
by adverbs, semicolons and fall.

Her new thought, prologue is past
“When it’s real, a little bit more
it should give, and it will last.”
AGF

Well, my two New Years resolutions were 1) not to complain about the government anymore; and 2) not to blog anymore. I mean, why should I? Why do anything? So starting in 2008, I've just been oogling the endless stuff on YouTube. My dream is to become the real American Idle and screw the Obama girl.

So what do you think about all this primary election business anyway? Indeed, it appears that plenty of folks around the country are rather fired up--voters have come out in record numbers in these primaries and caucuses (or is it caucii?).

Actually, up to now I've paid little attention so far to all the hoopla over this "Must Vote 2008." I was waiting for the big shake-out--let somebody else do the work.

At least we now know who is left (and who is on the right). My daughter asked me why we call Hillary Clinton "Hillary" and Barack Obama "Obama?" BTW, can you have actually have a black man in the White House? Hey, I think they should paint the place another color besides always being white anyway? The would be CHANGE wouldn't it?

Yeah, the buzz word in this election year is CHANGE. CHANGE is like SEX. Everyone says that they want it, but never seem to get it. And this talk about race and gender? Hell, let's just elect some Spanish-speaking evangelical black transvestite and we'd have all our bases covered.

But instead of focusing on "likablity" or "electablity," let's get back to the issues--like forgotten Iraq. Retread Mad MCain is no spring chicken. At 71 the guy does have years of political experience under his belt. And we've all heard about his tortured days in Vietnam. However, if elected, his notion of America having a presence in Iraq for 100 years will certainly grow more roots under a McCain administration. Call him a maverick if you like, but a Yoda he's not. Then, there is daydreamer Mikey Huckabee, praying for a miracle from God to become president.

For the most part, Iraq seems to be pretty much off the radar screen. This is somewhat because "the Surge" IS working--well maybe. People of Baghdad still don't have electricity. More than the endless War abroad, the immediate problems at home make for lively debate of the rerun of the familiar show "It's the economy stupid."

I particularly don't like being called stupid especially when no politician or economist can tell whether the country is in a friggin recession or not. They just have to look to the state of Michigan where the unemployment rate is over 10 percent. Perhaps that's because neither politician or economist has the possibility having a foreclosure sign nailed to their front door. And how does the government plan to fix the economy in these uncertain times? How about by giving money way with $300 or $600 rebate checks. Just add more red ink to the ballooning debt. One would think this doesn't make sense.

I'm not economist but I do smell a fish. It's pretty much agreed that people who get checks will not go to WalMart to by another flat TV for their downstairs playroom. Many people will use the money to help pay their credit card or other debt. So the troubled banking system will soon get a surge of cash and perhaps the banks won't need to look to Abu Dhabi for a bailout. It's All About the Money Stupid.

I heard somewhere that when all is said and done that by the time election day Nov 4 rolls around, the total money spent by all the "candydates" will amount to over $1 billion bucks--a new election record! All this will have been spent so that these candydates can go around the country smelling themselves, trying to convince us with hot air as to why we should vote for them.

I think of what could be done with that billion bucks--perhaps electricity for the city of Baghdad or a surge of financial help in rebuilding New Orleans. But instead, that money will have been spent on choosing McCain, Clinton or even perhaps Barack. Everyone talks about change, but will we ever get it?

Past is prologue, so you remember and apply the experience of the first time something happened. It files in the back of your mind as the initial path almost like the first island after many days at sea. It sets up the rules of engagement, or a private bar in your mind. I must tell you this first and then the other parts will make sense.

It was a night that was not sought out.

I had happened to stay someplace that he had often been. Unexpected, smiles exchanged, wooden planks crossed. Then a couple of hours of engaging banter: he said she said, she said he said and yes let’s have another and another round of Sapporo and conversation.

Something like the beat of “Duelling Banjos” or “The Devil came down to Georgia,” intense paces complementing one another and that had nothing to do with physical attraction and everything to do with the fire in the eyes…There was no need to dance, the fiddles were our own stories, and we kept leaning in to the conversation.

We touched upon topic after topic, like parting back curtains into rooms that were increasingly interesting and comfortable as the white candle spilled its own thoughts rather sloppily into the aluminium foil cup beneath.

As for the words we exchanged, I could tell you nearly all of them. Except they remain cordoned off- since in its barest way, love is a private moment not ever to be retold.

It had fizz.

I went home and rang my best friend at an impolite hour, spooled on for a good thirty minutes leaving her fully awake, only partially annoyed and half confused about why I so urgently needed to share the details of my evening with this man who kissed my hand and also liked to write.

It was the first time I ever really fell in love.

No, not in that evening, we all (almost) know better than that, we are far more sensible and discerning after we have extinguished several decades worth of candles on a cake.

That night was the first page of finding intimacy and friendship that I thought, had come to believe, only came from author’s stories, not actual exchanges you felt and could remember like the scent of someone else mingled in your hair like a ribbon after the fair has shut the midway lights for the evening.

Oh my. “My you” Oh you.

Fizz is necessary in all matters of the heart.

photo: Singing along at Eastside Story Tokyo. Jan 20. jz www.eastsidetokyo.com

photo: Just Sing. Joanna singing at Eastside Story Tokyo. Jan 20. jz www.eastsidetokyo.com

Silence is an ardently explicative language.

Like an unread letter, words bleached invisible by the January sun it fades hope imperceptibly, but continuously. Extinguishing it in a somewhat protracted manner, through the cruel simplicity of inaction. The comma shrivels to a grainy little period.

Somewhat like Miss O’Hara, you toss your hair back, assess necessary renovations at Tara and greet the gray clouds of dawn with equally steely eyes. No moisture, leave that for Mr Muskie and Mrs Clinton.

Tomorrow comes, and you take the reigns, because there is much to do. And of course, you sit straight and wear gloves...

A black pair of cowboy boots, well worn but rather nicely made, stood directly inside the doorway to my bedroom.

I thought nothing of this beyond the practicality that putting them there would remind me not to forget to carry them into the shoe repair shop near the office in the morning.

The boys saw it differently, as two sets of folded arms swarmed, then circled around, surveying them like the placement of curious, expected, yet somewhat uncomfortable fact.

My 11 year old broke the silence, "So, you have a man now?" His voice had a heavy pause, akin to mine upon reading a not so stellar report card.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, exactly whose shoes are those?"

That I had a better story to tell. No one was hiding in the closet, clutching his manhood, smelling my dresses and trying not to sneeze.

My guitar teacher and I are rather good friends and both have old boots we are quite certain we will continue to have for a while more. We talk about them in addition to how to make chords. So we've bartered, I'll get his resoled (and stop scolding him for letting them fall apart) and he will pick me up a decent tuner (and continue scolding me for singing out of key), since my last one got nicked by an unsavory repairman. Nothing less, nothing more.

But it underscores the fact that the boys pay attention to a lot of things and reminds me why I keep a strict church and state separation between my friendships and being their mother. No one needs to cross into their lives until they are fairly certain they would stay...Parenting those two is not an open role, seeking candidates. The caucus decided a single　woman about 3 elections ago.

Perhaps, relieved that no one was about to fill those boots they returned to more pressing matters, namely playing Runescape.

And I stared at the pair on the floor.

In the entry to my room, no man attached. I remembered when my friend got married she lamented the intimacy of shared closet space and some deplorable sofa pillows that her fiancee had. And tried to think of what it would be like to share my life with someone again. In a full way, completely.

I drew a blank.

I have lived alone for four years, literally and a few more than that emotionally. The only regular snoring pile beside me with chest hair is the cat, and he is uninvited, often unceremoniously turned out.

The idea of someone regularly being there and not taking his boots with him at the end of the evening- shirts folded in drawers, other pairs of shoes in the closet, belongings having a place- this is about as familiar to me as the landscape of Greenland. It sounds nice, but what exactly is it like?

Which is not to say I haven't loved- yes and very much so. But not every story has the ending you would compose- so you look at this fact for while, then find other pages to write.

Perhaps it could be a lovely thing to evolve into a friendship with laughter, meatballs, naps and great arguments till late in the night settled in smiles and regularly interrupted with music.

Perhaps. I have been told I am decent at giving and being compassionate. Then again I was a good waitress, and keenly recall no one wants to stay really and help you do the dishes, prepare breakfast.

But perhaps people are always themselves, and find the comfort in their lives late at night comes from the piles of pages. One becomes contented with quiet and the chance to spend mornings focused on writing...

I still don't quite know. But I would like to tell you about the recent experience of meeting several people and realizing that they would never even cross the threshold of the front door...It is called dating and it is quite unlike Greenland.

Everybody looks different but says the same thing.
I prefer everybody to look the same but speak differently.
All trees have different shades but say nothing.
I prefer everybody to look different but remain silent.

lasting love is a diner breakfast
cheap and plain
on heavy dishes...

My first full time work was as a waitress. It remains something I smile about, because the skills I learned then, seem to make quite a lot of difference to my life now.

I'm not talking about how many plates you balance for arm service, or how to describe the salmon, the veal, or even how to make a good cup of coffee.

It's the art of serving people. And whether or not you tie an apron and stand by someone with a pen, it is something we encounter all the time...

Strangers come into where you are, and if you know how to smile, to look in their eyes, perhaps they choose to come over to your station for a while. And that of course tells a lot about you- are the tables all full and busy like some extended family of aunts and uncles arriving because it is Tuesday, not Christmas? Or is the air dusty and still, preserved like some exhibit in the corner of a museum that nobody gets too or misses?

You learn how important atmosphere is from little adjustments to the light, the music, to the overall ambiance of color- are the tables draped with heavy starched cotton, comfortable chairs. Are the dishes heavy, a good sort of cermaiche, hand painted? It must be as though it were home, albeit temporary and only for dinner maybe once a week.

But in that moment, it should feel comfortable and good. As though elbows were little boys who could feel welcome to pop up, peek out and kick back while the conversation dances like stratus clouds at sunset.

They come, they sit and you learn how to look into their eyes. You give them reasons to fold the paper in half and leave it hiding on the seat, so as not to interrupt a conversation.

In a way it is nearly a friendship- but hardly since they don't quite know you yet and vice versa, but you welcome them enough to feel that should they wish too; the coffee would still be warm and fresh. And there is something lovely about fresh eggs and the scratch of toasted bread grating down butter as the knife forces their union.

They like this thing in that way, please always ask about this, but don't ever ask about that. Wine is Italian red, beer is imported lager and these precepts are as set as fork on the left, knife on the right. The drinks arrive unasked and for a while it's the smile and the banter that drives them back to sit, more than what the boys in the back are placing on dishes then spot wiping with a towel. You make the garnish like a little hello not a nonsense sprig that curtly interrupts the lap of chicken against potatoes.

You help them to feel relaxed, comfortable, gone from the fray and nonsense of the day, the job, the wife, the bills, and just here right now in this moment. A little separate universe that serves you dinner and some sweet milk tea or a little cup of strong coffee with a rind of lemon.

They appreciate the notice the attention as you mind to take their coats or share little updates from the news. It's home it's table, except it comes with a price.

And ultimately that price is empty dishes.

No one stays at the Mermaid Cafe. The way the shift starts and the way it ends is the same. The plates clean, stacked and put away. Use is the exception not the rule. Most hours behind closed cupboard doors awaiting the bustle of the evening. For that little then, you don't get to sit down. So first you hope the guests will come, then do all you can to make them stay, and the whole time you know, it's only a matter of hours before end of shift, empty plates again. Mop the floor and time for bed.

When you walk in for the shift at 3 in the afternoon to set up, and out somewhere close to 1 or 2 in the morning when even the comedians have retired to reruns, you notice the room looks exactly the same, except for the darkness and the only trace of all the guests is gone... There is no permanency to it. Nothing to hold onto as a fact, except napkins to launder. But no trace of them can carve the air or the moment back than how you remember what it felt like, to serve, to give.

In some ways being a waitress prepares you for that aspect of life- the dishes are empty, the dishes are full, the dishes are empty. You learn more of the time then not- the dishes are empty.

So, of course you keep a smile and a pen jauntily tucked behind the ear for when the time comes for them to be full- you make that moment richer than cream sauce, heartier than minestrone.

But you remember, that the waitress spends most of her days standing at the counter, sipping coffee, watching the people and taking notes on it all who needs this who needs that because she stands and serves.

You learn most of life is between places. You season your coffee with memories falling from your eyes and are thankful for a quiet sidewalk and no one to notice how these thoughts recycle like song set lists on light FM where you can't hear a melody and not think- this part of the stanza, this moment the chair was full, the sauce was just right and the pepper mill stood like a talisman, between then and now.

You learn to be more than an empty dish, when the night feels too quiet, as though all the stars have been unhinged from the sky and you are suddenly lost in a world of rough edged objects, locked doors and no one seems to remember outside the confines of your private memories what the hours are like when the tables are full.

AGF

Again in the papers, and the kind of story so bordering on tragic with melodramatic one thinks this is the story that Shakespeare would have written had he worked for a soap opera.

But I must say, in a way I truly feel for her even though she does not garner my sympathy, exactly.

It's kind Hamletesque, girl version, with a little Macbeth and a few terrible episodes of Survivor and some extreme make-over show thrown in for additional impact, then click, click, click go the cameras. And here we all sit watching it on Youtube or for those who prefer not too look so often, via updates on the BBC and even assorted respectable newspapers.

Oops she did it again, and how many photographers follow her and is it an additiction on all ends to see what is happens next- the search for the pic, give the op, somebody file another story.

It would make most of us think about flicking back an impolite gesture to be in a rough place and have it so heavily photographed and analyzed- but who wants to have a photo showing their middle finger in the air, really?

And now "You want a piece of me" blaring on the radio sounds like the over-synthesized mix of someone tear stained with unpleasantries streaming down her nose that has lost the driven to the tragic pathos of overreacting and not quite yet learned a bigger and bigger overreaction doesn't undo anything.

Honey, they've ripped you to shreds, they will continue to do so, it's time to go inside and think this through until you have your wits about you. Cut your losses and move on. Trust me...

But let me try and share from a gentler perspective.

She is likely deep in the claws of depression. And I do mean claws that collapse around her, that dig in and scar. Hoping for a way out, or some way to show she can handle the conflicts whilst at the same time being afraid to really feel, know and accept just how significant they are to her.

She was young and made a lot of money, got a lot of popularity because her music played up that combination innocent versus sexy- I'm naive, but willing to try new things. This intrigued alot of young girls- who like the theme, "Hey I'm hot, but ooh I don't know what to do with it, or maybe I do?" It needn't be said how this raises the interests of young men.

And any girl learning about the tormented world of money and power gets a quick fast lesson in the power lies in sex- what you give,what you tease. The dynamic is always there, some women are supremely brilliant strategists who know how to manipulate with such finesse they ought to give lessons to military generals.

But like riding a horse or playing guitar- when it works- it's sublime, and when it doesn't it's worse than a godawful stench- a discerning woman never plays faster or harder than her abilities. I think the problem is that she bit off way more than she could handle, and the rapid succession of marriage, children and divorce did not help. I would like to encourage her to read some greek tragedies for perspective.

Perhaps what she wouldn't realize is that you need to consult Miss Post and Miss Manners if you want to make a lifelong gig of playin high stakes, and somewhere along the line you have to set up parameters for self defense or self protection that will be lines in the sand you simply do not cross because you remember there are things like- tomorrow and ten years from now when decisions that made you the "it girl," will also type-cast you as a poor decision maker who lost and became a caricature for pot shots but by playing too hot, fast and loose.

She forgot about balance and just ran fast and hard.

So every divorcing woman has the feeling- "I've left, I'm out... and now I'm going to show you all what I am- and maybe a little taste of what you can't have." Andevery comeback career has the same sort of tough edge to it too, whenyou know you are dusting off and beginning over.

I remember well the first night I went out to a pub, and even danced with some friends. One does not make this a habit though, and there are practical Monday aspects of life we remember, after we say no thanks to more beers and another pub at an absolutely unthinkable hour. But we ought to at all times wear knickers in bars and public places- because showing your bareness doesn't make you anything more than remembered impolitely

I feel for her as a mother.

Life has to start over, children especailly born one right after another is not an easy thing to do. Somehow she has to reconcile her career with being there to play catch and it is not easy. But we still always have to wear seatbelts. So, I also am disappointed in some of the choices she has made as a mother because, there are two boys that will grow up and have have images of a person that is there, or not but what was their mother. No one wants to know the court, the court! has decided you can't take care of your children.

But one gets lost in the moment with power or pressure and alcohol and these decisions become a bit less in the foreforent of one's mind. I read a comment by her mother which seems akin to she got what she deserved.

I think Britney is a woman who is pretty lost, pretty messed up, and who doesn't quite know how to get from where she is to some greater semblance of peace and balance. I think she is charging on with the theme we all know of - "If I am going to get in trouble anyway, might as well be a lot...go down in a mess of flames" Or at this point, who gives an expletitive and the hell with it all. And for that I am sorry for her.

She forgot the one thing that women who try to succeed in their lives always remember- you have control over your decisions. You choose.
Your life is defined by your actions, and how you choose to direct yourself.
Though depression is like a motar andpestle crushing through carefully woven lines of logic until the cord- the diection is all just grains of sand that have no wholeness, they just are scattered. (Its a protection against deep deep sadness, by pulverizing the whole sad picture into little pieces instead of the large starkness of reality)

I think she lost control through a myriad of bad choices and now she is left with no kids, a broken career, a degree of tarnish to her reputation that is likely irreparable to to most everyone but her dearest friends- and for what?

For what? For a few more pictures in the paper, showing her bared cold with a nakedness tattooed in hopelessness that is more graphic and raw than any beaver shot ever could have been.

God of the 12-Item Fukubukuro, Pray for us.
Lord of the Designated Driver, Keep us safe.
Buddha of the Inning-Ending Double-Play, Do your best.
Allah of the Foot-Long Hotdog, Hold the mustard.
Jesus of the Giant Screen TV, Send us Breaking News.
Mary of the Choppy Opening, Make markets rise.
Mohammed of the OJ Mugshot, Find the real killer.
Joseph Smith of the Child Bride, Avoid the FBI.
Jaweh of Premature Ejaculations, Give us more lead time.
Messiah of Country Music, Reduce redneck rage.
Lama of Fried Donut Holes, Increase technological fixes.
Saint Peter of the Last Smorgasbord, Pardon Cheney.
Enkidu of Canned Salmon, feed the hungry.
Brother Andrew of TV Bounty Hunters, Forgive us.
Holy Mother of the Cosa Nostra, Make it a double.
Moloch of Balloon Payments, End the subprime crisis.
Ali Baba of the Nevada Task Force, Spare Warren Jeffs.
Lao Tze of Frozen Eggrolls, No Polish jokes.
Thelonius Monk of 911, Support Rudy.
Sri Ramakrishna of Old Stogies, Bring it on.
Maharishi of Apply Directly to the Forehead, Get lost.
Zeus of Nuclear Biohazards, Keep us safe.

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Wednesday, 01/02/08

Suppose, at the Little Big Horn, Custers cavalry had been
armed with nuclear weapons. Just imagine how different the
course of men in the street, the Enola Gay pilot, Jose Canseco,
who at first denied using steroids or other performance
enhancing substances. Entire villages destroyed, millions dead,
Sitting Bull bulked up like a prize steer at a Montana cattle
auction. Babe Ruth didnt use steroids to establish his home
run records. Hank Aaron never used nuclear weapons.

Unfortunately, the same cant be said for Harry Truman,
the first American president who didnt use steroids but
did use the atomic bomb. Who wouldnt like to go drinking
with Josef Stalin, infamous for murdering millions and those
memorable words: The Pope? how many home runs has he hit?
Following the 1994 strike, team owners tried to restore fan
interest by shrinking the strike zone, by incinerating
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and by conducting the seventh
inning stretch in High Church Latin.

Robert Oppenheimer, Rocket Roger Clemens, Albert Einstein,
Barry Bonds. Can you guess which of these men injected
human growth hormones and which denied all knowledge
and responsibility? Fans are jaded, immune to moralistic
bromides, bored by literalism, by beginning, middle and end
narratives. Nobody was surprised when owners diverted
responsibility to trainers, clubhouse attendants and then
the Japanese Imperial Military.

Critics called it a collective failure. Two defenseless cities
totally obliterated, a see-no-evil commissioner slow to react,
Americas finest cavalry troop dead on the ground. Others
called it a senseless war crime. Boom goes London.
Boom Paree. Three MVPs under a cloud of suspicion.

And so the poet is forced to collage together a set of image
fragments, floating fractured percepts along a line of
enjambed syntax. Astrological signs. Book of the Dead.
Coming apart. Caving in. Whos been pissing in my
umbrella stand?

www.tokyopoet.com
Tokyo, Thursday, 12/20/07