Could I tell you,
That you were supple
as the string
that guides the long days
and the careful nights
the musculature of the mice
that comb the fields
looking for the loamy place
there we sat

Could I tell you
That you were the soft
gentle breeze
that tousled my hair
angered my nose
upturned
and sneezed
no compliment to give
yet constantly
there

when I hold a ruby in my hand
or a pearl by your ear
it is you I see

I cannot guide these words the same

I will machinate
But never create
the same feeling
you gave

The soil does not loam today
it is still and packed
at long last
it rests

The sun is high
the fields filled
the roofs shackled with doubt
the sadness that enters the valley
with the foggy morning
and leaves
an empty dusk

with but the sparking ruby
of Mars
or the twinkle
of Venus
and I am all at once, lost.

I am not smart
I am the amalgamation of smart

Were I not in love with you,
The rivers would run dry--
The grass, grown gold with age
Where hills rattle with the cry
Of those blades

I would I were in love,
And float upon your mists
Travel to far lands
And lost to all your minds

With you my love,
I would dance
Wither my voice away
Calling upon your name--

The pungent fruit of tropics,
The shining jewel of cave
Your voice guides me as a dog
Garnering the scent

I would lie upon the fields
And tell you how
Humans are like tulips

Bright buds dancing in the wind

You smile, and it was good.



Love I will span the gaps between the world
I will fill the empty oceans
With thoughts of you
I will leave no electron unturned
No atom unexcited
In the prospect of knowing you

Do not give up on my spine,
On my bones,
On this calcium

On vital thoughts
And serious winds
Do not walk away from the field
And leave them in the rain.

What is my job at end of day
All hand or claw will clench my teeth
and make the enemy of me
Sicken with the thought

Yum and dumb
I am Kerouac at Verdun
I rhyme and dine
and live and die
and speak and shout
and sputter and cry
and happy
and sad
and glad
oh man


oh man when upon I reach that hue
somewhere between vermilion and due

east of where I remember clear
Santa Clara and Oakland then

Everything shifts into red
I've been in this maw of waking dread

Since half past eleven.

Coming out and going in,
Breathing
IN out
back again

Waiting, waiting
Slumber soon
Awake again,
Back at noon

Roll and roll repeat and pleat
I cannot write ******* sonatas or Beethoven I cant even rhyme a ******* word to itself with all this technology nobody will hear me

Soon it'll be me
Staring down the nebulas
The contortions of the sky
The stars that wander by
In my eye
Bright
And almost divine

Just practice nodes
Trailing the wheels
Rotating per Fortune's minute
Decisions

This place
The vessel I will abate
At moments end I feel the hand of fate
RIP and tear my string from the yarn
And born again
Somewhere in the galactic arm

The pleasant south wind
A family of oak tree
waves to me goodbye

Why do you whisper, green hands?
Why tell my ears they have soul
Why tell them,
anything about the world.

Who do you speak for, Green Man?
Who says these sinners are cold?
Who says they may just got lost down the road...

What do you grow there, green ******?
What filthy soils do you sow?
What can be glad--be glad to give no more...

When do you see it, green land?
When will we see it alone?
When we will know, we won't need cry no more...

How long to get there, green hand?
How many seconds to go?
How will I know,
My world is on its own...

She is as the sky--

A deep blue rock, a castle of sand and silt

A crag of Susanoo's ancient fire long-cooled.

In the valley, the withering Nihonjin

roam about in lorries and trains

between the wafting fingers of smoke beside the station

A Gaijin stands, fiddling an e-cigarette

the burning of it makes hollow his lungs

and his breath is guarded from the freshened air of a summer's morning.

The clouds flank the snow-capped summit

and shield her face as a bride's veil

He watches the men in the smoke-filled cubicle

their fogged eyes empty of the promise of a time long past

the bloodshot sclera

Their ruined caldera of hope.

--He remembers the Statue of a man in Ueno

In the rain, as if his eyes wept

the reflections of the streetlamps upon his somber face

and the battlements of concrete and plastic.

A grain of sand, sifted monumental from the summit

Once again,

the station

Tokyo is a massive heart, breathing the Hime of the old and the ached promise of hope

left as Miso at the bottom of a bowl.