those songs are always about somebody else

I've told myself not to be so worrisome

that life is what happens when I am not
paying attention

the dirt underneath my fingernails

the way my hair flutters in the breeze

the avalanche tumbling thousand of miles away

the laughter bellowing in an empty stairway

the shudder of breath upon a doorstep

the clicking of keyboards in another's bedroom

the realization dawned that time, that emotion, that next day

is irreversible

is irreplaceable

a marble statue carved of stone  
fluttery etches in malachite graves
sweet fertility frozen once roamed
this marble statue a beloved rave

wisps of cloth transits deposits stone flesh
slivers of cloth entails upon breath
sleek shoulders rising abreast
hence majestic tragedy rendered afresh  

ivory veins, a ripples of waves
cracked splintered  hopes endeared in stone
lost imaginations wandered restlessly, now shaved
for historical miracles etched forever away

come home to a room
scattered elements and leaning towers
a pile of ******* wrought askew
as the linen bunches waves of the hour

dusty sunlight filtered through curtains
an artist breathing of thoughts gone vivid
papers pencils books and parcels nothing retains
as the artist pours over the jar of living thoughts so livid

time etches timeless, unguided and unforeseen
pastels and paint, words and typewriters
they all glitter in the eyes never to cease
like stars afar in galaxies aflame and brighter  

the world shuffles by, smacking their lips
as the artist pours over the jar of living thoughts
they may even close their eyes and fall in a ditch
no worries, this artist would rather not

the scattered papers smudges of visions
coffee cup stains and food wrappers remain
a reason there's an invisible division
between the ******* who don't

and the ones who do, unconstrained  
*sit tight

A blistering, scorching day
Air a delicate buoyancy
A rattling, raspy day
The breeze scents of pollen melodies
And clatter of crystal-cold lemonade rays
The Earth swoons with boundless fertility

I don’t need life insurance
I need a life ignition

Where are the keys?

I see the pavement,
it's so close up ahead
can feel the engine revving
the cool, sweet wind
flickering past the window
or the headlights flickering
on the curving, wet concrete

I can taste it,
the salt in the air
can hear the music singing

I can touch it,
feel it,

I just need the keys.

tying, tying the gnarled roots
into an entanglement trudging in
the waking shores,
its weathered cords of fiber billowing
over the decks, slithering down the masts
straining against, straining to withstand
the gusts of havoc, the blackening ashes
and twirling devilish gazes,
the net born of roots, deep deep roots
straining against the current
of worming doom, trickling from
gashes which scar like scythes upon flesh
and poison down throats,
the net of gnarled roots are knots
tied of eloquent artistry,
and still they strain,
still they are just...
*knots

Cascading torrents of flower petals
Rose golds and melody pastels
Sending gazes utterly transfixed
To the touch of ivory memory
With my feet in the air
And a head no where to be found
Hands transcended into a ***
Of earth and dark cool soil
The base of the flower
I picked the petals off of

old, old withered hands
grasping the edge
of a red handled rake,
old man stands upon
lone green hill
lavish under sweltering shadows
and swaying stems
of daisies, lavender and petals
the hue of burgundy cherry

lone house on a hill
spotted passageways
out into sweet oblivion
where the sky and earth
greets with hello,
this lone man stand on a hill
raking as he goes

the pebbles in the grass
clutter like trinkets
ringing affectionately,
                                      simple land, simple hands
he mumbled solemnly to himself
trying to lead him to believe
the day she left
was not the last
he would smell her perfume

dark, curly locks
piercing gaze of sapphire
greyed into wisps of smoke
ashes swirling in the wind
her hair rustled in the wind
chocolate brown and olive glimmers
and the slightest salmon pink
painted on her lips,
                                         smile like in still pond water

his heart aches melancholy,
raking the pebbles left in his garden
the one he nurtured for her
of dewed lotus and blossoming peony,
twirling bark of ancient sakura
showering the garden with cascading petals,
almost like snow, shining in the garden
the way his heart ached
for her sweet voice
                                            only sound of trickling pebbles

chrysanthemum dotted golden yellow
spurred in sweet dance with the lilies
bonzai trees twisting, elegantly unfolding
over the expanse of the bowdoin,
unfurling like in memory
the way her words would spill
like spilling sunlight at dawn,
or the way her steps
carefully planted from stone to stone
across the trickling river bend,
currents adorned with that
of galloping salmon,
the color of her lipstick
                                                     so long, lovely song

the old man could no longer
see wide eyed,
his grip faltering with fatigue,
raking the pebbles in directions
line meeting line, like the rhythm
of his frail heartbeat,
eyes tired and dull
long shadow after his frame
a thousand butterflies fluttering
in the slight breeze,
mumbling to himself
                                                    lean on, one of me
believing she was
still watching over him,
smiling and caressing
his sore arms,
breathing through
the beauty in the garden

I’m so homesick. I miss the sound of the language, the feel of it…I miss the adventure, the beauty, the kindness, the presence of belonging. I miss long city walks at night, when the skyscrapers could be seen for miles and throw lights on the pavement. I miss the subway, the simplicity of walking from one place to another and watching the city whip past me as I stand, humming quietly as the rail tracks bump underneath my feet. I miss the feel of the language reverberate on my tongue and hear it chiming in my ears. I miss the generosity and rich culture. I miss the humility and simplicity; the ambition and indisputable threshold for righteousness. I miss the strength, the willingness of an ear, patience of an oak tree and the composure of respect. I miss the jagged horizons of mountains loom with calming familiarity with spectacular array of greens; and I miss the way the sky flower into a spectacular shade of pink at the break of dawn, speckled with yellow and deep orange. I miss gazing at the ocean, admiring the restlessness and salty wilderness I find inexplicable. I haven’t seen the sea in over a year…I used to see it almost everyday. I miss the delicacies, the delicious combination of rice, fish, vegetables, and more. I miss the mesmerizing subtleties in the culture, in the system and way of life which proves to be far from perfect, yet which is one I belong in. I miss Japan…Tokyo, Yokohama, Iwakuni, Aomori, Hokkaido, everywhere. I miss my home.

sway not to the fresh wave of sea's reprise
           fly, gallop, shrieking with delight
                        do as you must to prove your heart
                                   still jitters upon the sight of striking lighthouse

a collision propelling to the imagination of afterworlds
twirling, crying out at the spiraling dizziness
ignited the wretched fire in the pit of his stomach
painfully the pinpricks settled to belittle and mock
to sneer and to gloat as the giddiness of his steps
rattled down the cobblestone street under
the yellow-waxing moon,
he howled grandiosely, dripping golden-honey
of his joy, his laughing wild ecstasy
the cold seethed and glittered frost on the stones,
unsettled this scene untold,
wondering how this young man
had room to grow,
he took a breath
cheeks burnt with fall's amber
and sprinted down the cobblestone and slippery dark
shrilling without intention, yelling indefinitely
and he ran without notion
and maybe that is what we all missing
from our lives,
a little weightlessness

it reaped the embodiment of practice
teetering on steep deprivation
from that chastising realization
to retain an enigma spilling
all over the porcelain floor
laced with veins of blue inked vines
a ringing not of pouring water
splashing all over the carefully polished stone
with that of dust motes made gold
from the shafting sun,
it was the feeling of loss
it was the sensation of pain
left alone in the far dark corner
swept to the far corner of a home
yet the water brought it back to the light
and all of a sudden
fear didn't hesitate from
the lone, lone fig tree
which grew and overtook
the construction of man,
crushing the porcelain
and splintering woods against stone
this lone fig tree of perfect,
indestructible bark
caressed pain and loss,
saying "I will not move away"
and embraced pain and loss
so then the once perfect bark
crackled and became streaked
with scars and gruesome knots
yet the fig tree cared not,
remaining still, knowing vulnerability
and becoming compassionate
suffused into beaming rays
knowing utter peace needed
a place to rest without being rejected
and thus became the trees
scarred to mourn with sleeping incapacities

a lonely figure
a collaboration of concrete illusions
a chilliness brought
a darkness cascading over
as a lonely figure stood

tiresome, a bridge stood
a single street lamp
casts its waxy orange light
a single shadow
never to be accompanied tonight

each breath sharp
a shower of vapor ice
jacket nestled, collar popped up
nose snuggled tightly
away from this chilly fright

it feels like the darkness possesses
a wight of its own
the night presses everywhere
through gaps in words
and curves in the alphabet
try not to seethe too deeply
in this mystical dream

each step falls
and echoes cynically
distant concrete lovers
illuminated with solitary rubies  
a single car passes by
and like this
under a pearly ash glint of moon
another night passes by

maybe my lips can't exactly mouth what wonderful thoughts
drift in my head, but you see my head is always drifting
far away to fantastic dreams because that's what I do
when reality is too ******* hard
so just water a vase of lilies
and heat a mug of tea
that's what I can do
when my words
have been
used
up

when a time comes around
people will continue to come and go
just learning how to shift
aside from the vanquishing sink hole,

when a time comes around
of ruffled hair streaming under sunlight
lingering thoughts floating
where ******* have touched,

when a time comes around
with sweet, beckoning ears
drinking in the chime
of morning sun rise and messy covers

when a time comes around
where a pocket of sunshine
unfolds, spilling all over
the bedside dresser, sheltering
our nightmares

when a time comes around
of late night strolls and twinkling lights
lazy rivers and soft jazz music
a time where I can smile
as if entranced in a dream

a lovely dream

slipping away
passages of time
slips away
down through the canyon rock
where the forever makes it yawning gait
and the weight of the fossils
forces down upon the lightless tunnels
where the urchins and sea shells
learned to sing
in their petrified state,

where the smooth stone kiss
where waters were once a rushing estate
and eyeless fish swim
not knowing the difference
of light and dark in the deep lake
echoing fathers, weeping widows
silence endangers the sanity
echoed into a beating soul
forget not the smooth takeaway winds
nor the shoreless wager of nighttime gin
a mammoth cavern performing unspoken
hollowed out by all that is forgotten

array of sun ray's demeanor
golden liquid entails the spur
partaking in parts of cerulean glimmer
the water trickles south of exalted runners

runners in berserk, runners as dreamers
those who wade through froths of character
concluding perchance to dig deep and climb
resonate mantras whose song have declined

no strings attached but to one's universe
solitary stars daring to dream in rhyme
concurring melodies in worlds not blind
so that their words may wield whatever in divine

Hello

Introduced to those
withered marrow knives
carved from the bone
of noble beasts and wights

Bathed in the moonlight
Cut the ropes
binded to my feet

I would very much
like to walk the fire

serenity encompassing the shy masks
masked marble stone with the sliver of gold
two slits and a mouth to taste
those withering syllables left decadently on shore

masks, masks drinking roaming with haste
jumbles of words unspoken and texts never sent
interiors slashed as desire gathered and clashed

how long can our masks endure to the last?

last sip of golden beams
quench the sunlight with aching feet
last time stepping out the auditorium door
I swear, you were a great actor amidst the despair
last time you'll lay your eyes into another
getting lost trying to comprehend the dots
the last stroke of fear eradicated the moment
the fastens are unclasped,

fall
     tumbling
                     flying
                               spinning
                                              exhilaration
                                                                ­   clarity
                                                         ­                     weightless
as the mask becomes of no more
something like vertigo,
sudden visions of peripheral miracles
and yearn to feel your own cheekbones

Maybird, today you thought
Today you thought
But I think not
On whether you dwelt long on that thought

Maybird, a sublime spring
A sprinkle of blue
A shower of roses
Today you have thought

A clinking of ice in glass lemonade
A rush of waxy pollen
You thought, today, Maybird
And I thank you for that