The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
A woman shouts, <Stop!
I’m just right there.>
Pointing.
<Dangerous to alight here,
In the middle of the street.>
the driver said.

The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
<Drop me in front of Citibank>
I said.
A taho vendor is serving a lady.
<How much?> I asked.
Twenty-five pesos.
<Give me one.>

The car ran over the cat.
I am on the right side of the ride.
In my mind:
<The city could be cruel to cats.
So you better know which
Is right.>

A Rorschach test
I took while on the car
On the window
Ink blots scattered
That need my gathering
Those memories
Are black pebbles
Along the seashore
Of nostalgia and mal de mer:
My self-portrait slowly fades
As the vehicle
Flies fast.

Seeing things in pairs:
Two laborers waiting,
Puffing cigarettes,
Early for work.
Conversing behind the glass,
A couple sits face-to-face
At a convenient store.
Their hands, each hold a cup of coffee.
I saw a sign:
Half human, half horse.
I know I am near.
I see two “Caution” signs
Set aside, inside our building.
In my presence, the door slide
Opens, and then close.
The way I open myself
To the possibility (thus waiting)
To that day
When both our days open,
Then close.

The road where I passed today
Was not the same as yesterday.

The driver took the shortest route – the easiest.
Moulting:
The snake shedding its skin.

Changes, I said to myself. Changes.

There were three of us left inside the vehicle.
Two faces I am familiar with – that of a woman and a man.

Science’s skin  lapping that of religion’s

Stitching of the skin – woman.
Cutting of the skin – man.

Now, I’m thinking of Africa.
Now, I’m thinking of Jews.

I told the driver to stop on the other side.
I lifted the lock, raised the door open, and went out.

Waiting for an idea to struck:
An idea -- that a mouse should cross my path,
An idea -- that a cat would sit on its favorite spot.
And I would say: It’s too early.

The sky, after reading a letter from the sun, blushes pink.
“Look at her skin,” I would tell you, “pink.”

Reading is listening. We listen to what we read.
Reading and listening to their voices:
Their voices have their own skin.

Irezumi.
Traditional Japanese tattooing – an art.
I remembered you. And your skin.

She – the mountain woman.
Perhaps, they can make her a National Artist.

The living art.
The living skin.

The gate of the chocolate house
Opened, and its windows of truth
Were opened to all.
The speckled bird from
The sea has just arrived.
It flew around the backyard tree,
Sizing up at which branch
He will take his rest.
My eyes rove like the bird’s eye
Shifting views:
From the gate,
To the windows,
To the speckled bird,
To the sea,
To the branch,
To the tree,
And to the bird’s eye on the mirror.

The pavement glistens
While the taho vendor meanders
Answering the sun.
Four sparrows (or finches?)
Jump instead of fly, nonchalant,
While I look at them.
A bottle of water
Plants its feet at the intersecting
streets leading to white flowers:
Garlic flowers
Prodding me, Eat your breakfast.