Tag Archives: poetry


strick bristle tongue bash
the park is full of your noise
thick in sweat and stares
the mind fights to keep in what others shut out
I am a vagrant and an idler
but a poet and a romantic
come invite me to tea say I


Sweet brown tender, wrapped up in a cloak of my senses like a gently fading blanket, the smell of sweat and liquor crushed into cotton sheets. Perched on a collapsable stool, I comb my fingers through matted hair, savoring the reverberation in every pore on my scalp. This kind of mystique is the mortar in my foundation, running through every fibre of my identity like Italian marble. I can still taste each delicate pluck of your tongue, a slowly evaporating lozenge that oozes amphetamines to my throbbing blood vessels.

The terminal nature of our torrid affair threw gasoline on the flames of our passion, and the heat left burns in my memory I pray never heal.

The Diamond Sutra

I must be as smoke on the mountain: ever changing yet formless, natural and unhindered yet the product of my environment, one part of millions, unnoticed in its simple beauty, gone in a matter of moments, spread with peace upon the wind.

Practice kindness and charity without attachment and you can be fully enlightened.

-The Diamond Sutra

The outer rim

Music has a purpose than runs so deep you couldn’t dig it out with a thousand shovels.  It leaves marks on your heart so deep you couldn’t scrub them off with a thousand brushes.  It can be your companion, or your teacher; your drug or your daily bread.  You can alienate those all around you, or bring them together tighter than spun gold.  The music can create is well as destroy, die on the radio or live forever in the hearts of the believers.

What will you have it do with you?

Portable synsthesia

Electrons, light, sound, current.  Time and power flow like a river, through the ageless forest and branching into streams of my consciousness.  The beat unheard but felt in the wind.  A source long rooted, the branches that sprout through my mossy dreams.

Kind of Blue

Menthol cigarettes, chianti reserva, Miles Davis and sandalwood.

Sometimes life slows down, whether you really want it to or not. Maybe because you need it to. Maybe because that’s all you can take.

I rode my bicycle home, slowly, and took a shower. I rinsed out the cans in the sink and put on an undershirt. I slouched down into the sofa and got my deal handed to me straight by a Chinese girl. I’m attractive between my forehead and my mouth. I’m quiet.

I sat down at my desk and thought about modality, I sat down at my desk and thought about ego.

Why don’t I get a girlfriend? I cook sometimes, with spices. In China big televisions are cheap, but in Japan life is good. Work is good, the city is good. Lots of things are good.

The scales are blue and in a ten-measure cycle. My life is blue and in some kind of cycle.

Life is kind of blue.


What is it that calls to me, that simmers through my heart? Is it the bass? Or the treble? Or the smiles on young faces and the flare in every eye? Trucks, tents, and incense; grass, rock, and sky. The sweat between cotton fibres and under tousled hair. A light unseen, in a wider spectrum than any machine dreams of. The beat. The anticipation. The flow. Shake and froth, the filter sweeping while it cuts. Dusk melts pastel candied skies, my skin crawls through sound check testing 1..2..3..

Abandon your manmade shells and slide into the twilight– naked, alive as you were first born and radiant as the gods intended.

Welcome the softly loving night.

Rally roll wonder fix and fly

Does something tribal call inside of you? Not as men and women but as boys and girls and something deeper than that. Like the fire that keeps you transfixed with drunken awe, some sort of primal power sits on your eyelids and jerks at your knees. Colors fall and repeat, noise rattles off of aluminum and quakes through mud. So stop and start relaizing those emotions rooted deep under the topsoil of your soul. This is the time to break free the soft flesh of youth inside of the yesterday you.

Lantern slep fall my heart,
skin splits open and breaks apart.
From inside another you,
moving back to whence it grew.


Strawberry Swing

Woken up in the morning, there was a fragrance hanging on. There was a painting hung in my heart and a melody strung around my head. I’d be asleep for so long, I’d nearly forgotten it. But the sunshine and the flowers were calling, and I ran outside barefoot to meet them.

They were sitting
They were sitting on the strawberry swing
Every moment was so precious

They were sitting
They were talking under strawberry swing
Everybody was for fighting
Wouldn’t wanna waste a thing

Cold, cold water bring me round
Now my feet won’t touch the ground
Cold, cold water what ya say?
When it’s such…
It’s such a perfect day
It’s such a perfect day

I remember
We were walking up to strawberry swing
I can’t wait until the morning
Wouldn’t wanna change a thing

People moving all the time
Inside a perfectly straight line
Don’t you wanna curve away?
When it’s such…
It’s such a perfect day
It’s such a perfect day

Now the sky could be blue
I don’t mind
Without you it’s a waste of time

Could be blue
I don’t mind
Without you it’s a waste of time

Could be blue,
Could be grey
Without you I’m just miles away

Could be blue
I don’t mind
Without you it’s a waste of time

— Coldplay


A clouded sky, under a twenty-thousand foot canopy of still grey. Towering, slim evergreens reach across the ceiling like well used acrylic brushes. Moving without sound with expectation, with so much determination with direction, with longing, with cold dispatch. Explosions of color in water, slowly diffusing into starkly back lit glass. To do everything with purpose, and gravity.

To do everything… with purpose and gravity.

music. photography. art.


through a lattice of shade
from an autumn sun,
the joyful youth of Tokyo

blades of tall grass and smiling faces
sunglasses, blue jeans, and cigarettes
the air is damp with vapor rub incense.
bass ricochets through trees and
rattles in concert with sub-way below.

staring at my thumbnail I realized
the primary difference between
photography and music: time.
I’m sweaty sunk in that celebration–
the weekend a 48 hour drag
on a glorious 4-D joint.

on being, on dancing

on being

what is techno what is love?

to illuminate or fade, so many choices at instants in our life.
unthought, unspoken, unfelt, but in the pit of our souls a gear is turning.

yes today was x, y, and z.
tomorrow I will do great things and be songworthy
but no… yet no…

now we are faced with a challenge as always:
to burn, or to fold.
tomorrow is uncertain, now the blood of time is within you.
so ignite! so shine!
so give every last drop of your beautiful broken life to the stars,
for only in this instant will they weep for you!

on dancing

pulse until you drop thrive shake and spin
do not listen to the music!
run ahead of it!

you already know the next four beats, this is obvious.
they have telegraphed themselves into your brain,
you need only to complete the sequence.
it is a game of chess encoded in the rhythm of raindrops;
you have no choice honestly except to submit to their will.

Again in Sendagi

Today I am like the weather.

This morning it was sunny, but the forecast was for it to grow overcast, with a late chance of rain. I knew it would be poor shooting, but I had to go. There were some things that I had to do. The last time I came to Sendagi, the weather was much like this, but colder. Haruka wanted to attend meditation at a temple, and Zenshoan was one of the few inside the Yamanote line that had service. That Sunday was much like today, time spent alone at the beat 50-yen arcade, and in the park, with some empty beer cans and a full mind. My adventures around Tokyo have changed somewhat. The problem with experience is you expect everything, and you’re jaded on discovery. I could wander for six to eight hours just riding and taking pictures of every fascinating thing I came across. Now I have a hard time making a continuous drive, it’s just pockets of concentration forty-five minutes apart. Using my film camera makes it even worse.

I filter out the mundane and excess on the rare. I’m thinking again too much. When it’s new I’m left to nothing bt reaction. And I think that’s where the best of me surfaces.

I could go to the zoo. It’s only 3:15, I could be there by 3:30, it closes at like five. I could look at the animals and think of their life, thinking and find some of mine.

I want to go to the zoo. I want to go to a baseball game. I want to live, live and soak up every riveting real experience I can find. I am too stagnant a human. I waste too much on things I’ve done and felt before. Familiarity is nothing but torture. Miyagawa-san says I do more in Tokyo than anyone he knows. I feel I do nothing. The more I breathe, the more sunny, empty days I spend on the tatami by the window, the more I feel every bit of it is rushing away from me like the tide. I thought about going to see the ocean. Maybe the sea has some sort of solace for me. Yano-san says those that take their own lives are the ones looking for answers within, but find nothing. The answer is not within, but [all] about, he says. It’s serving others. Is that what we’re for? Is that really the stuff to make one healthy and alive? And so my wandering is nothing more than repetitive mental depressants? Am I so addicted to the poison of my own fantasy? I sang at a karaoke bar in Ohshima. Christ.

I should call my grandmother.

I see colors, the colors as no machine can. As no other human can. I see them for all of their indescribible beauty and die slowly alive, on a bench, in a park, in a city, on this star earth.

This park is my temple, these arching branches my ceiling, this bench my altar. And I am prostrate, a breathing sacrifice to life.