Chopin, harumaki, wine, and fantasy

droplets and leaves fluttering
lost and found in the evening wind
a harmony of petal and dust swirling around
in little jetties, as cat jumps down from the chair next to me

poor Caroline, crying and playing Chopin
alas, the song ended all too soon and my mood was struck
struck and beat, from jocund gaiety to chilling awareness
of the pain in my wrist and the rat-rat-
rattling of windowpanes

beams and trickling off again
a spring day and a winter night
far from the heat of the gas danbo

away, up spritely, up rickety stairs cat
runs, in leaps and bounds with the furry
tail bobbling after mischief and to see if anything
new has fallen from the kitchen counter where she cooks.
and me in my blissful solitude, blissful without
phones or wires or signals of any kind
only me in the home of a muse again

how long has it been since we met last?
three years; three long years when I was
setting out to the place of your blood you hardly knew

then six storied months falling I was falling
falling through myself and breaking any branch
on the way down
tumbling into darkness black
tumbling through a rabbit hole into another
society from which I may never emerge
no, the languages and foods and customs that
cut me, scared me much more so than they should
until at the bottom of the glade I found my way
into another wood with mushrooms to eat.

wooden chairs and silken pillows
a palanquin of allure moving
just ahead through the crowd climbing
yet climbing upwards and ho,
to see the next ridge in peace

and tripping over waterfalls
slippery rocks in my path set
not by others but
by my own limitations

but Sundays always came and I was fed on omelets and rice
rolling around in blankets and cigarettes
running with you to catch a train

trains roll and sail here, on rails and through the air, through the fancied dreams of men crying for expression through the heart of a money pumping bear, through a place of civility and debauchery, a place I lost a few dollars.

as much as I damn myself the spring forgives me and a winter of bloodied knuckles and stained oxfords are washed away with the cherry blossoms. throwing one small yen at a time and wishing to treat fellow man, myself, with respect.

winding up and down, making such careful strokes on paper, on paper, where things are cleaner and safe, things captured that I’ve longed to chase, for quite some time. around, swinging around, in a vacuum of impatience. so be patient, and let things come. let them come as they should on their own and stop trying to force so many flowers into bloom. if I were to only close my eyes, and let the reins go slack, so we could be one and another, together and as we should. as God intended, men not beasts destroying themselves but noble evolutionary things, majestic stags astride a briskly flowing stream of time. loops and curls, vines so ensnaring but nothing more than so many brushes, so much foliage to take in with the land. the land, the land that has taken me in.

I want to stop speaking of want, to only be and exude serenity. to weep the kind of emotion that is clean and beautiful in men, the kind that leads others to see themselves.

but life is fast paced, it is a rambling machine, gears and wheels long out of control, oh but a wild ride to clutch and to gasp before a crash.

and still, still quiet. still awash ahead of me, overtures of what one may become, preludes to the greatest unfinished things of all humanity. it’s dreams, cranberries, and fried, melted over crackers and honey, delicate stouts lined up for consumption like so many raw materials, refined in the minds of men to be something much more than just sugar heated with water, oh no.

and the plates clattered upstairs, so softly, a time for me to think but not think behave but not behave, as we all should or would under any similar circumstances. I will overcome these weaknesses, they will be ironed and pressed, as shirts prepared by the cleaners for Sunday. for that’s the day I’ll assume to make so much of something out of nothing. something I’m quite famous for. for now, is nothing, but something.

haiku for iwamoto
falling grace over
did I win today? unknown.
God save me from hate.

the simplest pain
is often the most wonderful
please let me die here.

are you so alive?
I wish to be just like you
please tell me your dream.

thinking alone, you
your skin is so wonderful
I hope to be close.

the glass collects no dust when at another woman...

Jazz bird

nice glass, old friend
how have you been around with unseen?
finger plucking picking while I was away
the glass collects no dust when at another woman’s lips
sweet and sliding sultry down. so many looks
through sunglasses and cars on silvered rodeo drive
it was moving, moving through homes and stereos
played on every corner store
the song we listened to together, together
it was singing about USA
it was singing about backyard boys
alleys of grass and unmended fences
a city of window lights amber not white
left on with lovers holding hands
packaged in every brand
sold on every stand
that kind of Nashville jazz that sells
sells well into the night from college stations
past bus depots and wandering drug stores
left behind every fogged window
just getting together
in another key, another state
the people we’ll pretend to be tonight
just you and me
you and me and the music, the music we’ll love,
the music to remind us of that spring,
the spring when the piano sang and the bass hit forty

back and down into your eyes so deep and brown on a face of happiness
left sailing, wishing I’d look back at you
just one more look before the check
one more look to say we’re together
together forever just the two you and me
you and me, and the piano and the music
the kind that melts, the kind that rolls
the kind that falls behind slipping ice cubes
in a steamy bourbon glass
hungry for dry lips
dry lips that move, move and smile
curling slow around my face, around my face
and waiting for you, waiting for me,
waiting to finish this poem
so we can kiss.

It’s another Saturday, and another day to...

Toys with which to grow disappointed in oneself

It’s another Saturday, and another day to the office. Yesterday I was so exhausted that I could barely make it through the last episode of Jubei-chan and the Lovely Eye Patch without falling asleep. As much as I tried to get up at seven-thirty, it didn’t happen and I dozed until my default “Oh shit I’m late for work” time of 9:29. Of course on weekends you pretty much set your own schedule, so I took a little time chatting with Amy and one of my neighbors on the way out to drop off the trash. I probably would have gotten moving a lot sooner, but I was waiting for Sagawa to bring me my latest indulgence, the Konica-Minolta DiMage 5400 II. This film scanner was consistently rated both domestically and abroad as being the finest consumer-level product available.

Being logical or too much like my father I’m not sure, but I’ve grown into the habit of seriously working over the ramifications of anything over a fifty dollar purchase. I compare ratings, prices, and seek advice on Usenet before ultimately making a choice. Unfortunately this usually takes several months thanks to my schedule as it is, and much pined for products may disappear from existence by the time I resolve to actually make the purchase (like the ill-fated Panasonic GS400). Now that I think about it, most dated consumer goods seem to fade away around February or March, which probably by no small coincidence is the end of the Japanese fiscal year. Out with old stock, and in with new plans.

In any case, I learned from my experience before and knew I’d have to act on any slim remaining chance to get the scanner after it ended production and the outlets on Kakaku started drying up. So when I found three left in Rakuten’s home shopping store, I pounced on the chance, despite it being a hundred dollars more than the average price from two weeks prior. What this amounts to is a much needed shot in the arm for my photography. Film and lab exposure are relatively cheap, and now I have the advanced edge I need to push my source quality higher (theoretically) with smoother tones and deeper contrast. Then again, a high profile tool can be just the thing to show you how much you really suck on your own. Five thousand and four hundred dots per inch to confirm my inability to correctly focus and set the aperature.

[No, the above images were not scanned in.]

As it is often said, “Getting there is half...

The ride

As it is often said, “Getting there is half the fun.” That has always been the case, from the first trips in high school driving to Brunswick down 340 to the last Kintetsu line train in Nara with Yuki.

I need more of this and less of nothing but work, and episode of anime, and a hopposhu. It’s buying nice beer, it’s yakitoriyas and meeting friends on weeknights.

Spring wind blows and I feel light. Why all of...

What was I doing?

Spring wind blows and I feel light. Why all of the sudden do things seem right?
The possibilities laid out for me like a feast of adventure. I am a free man with no limitations. Is the dream I’m looking through that close to being real? Can I really live on a life of training and learning? Can I search for so many things and find rewards tenfold?

The innocence and excitement of a child, but wisdom of experience and a body that serves me so beautifully. How can I further shape my muscle and mind into a breathing tapestry? An epic of revolution, curving around in smiles of expression.