There is a forgetfulness
To pride that
Will never be cured
By stop signs,

Cold-culled footsteps
Telling you to
Step back,

Traffic stops pointing you
In opposite directions.

"Pride"
Is but a matter of here
And hearing—
Of hear and now—

Of watching the tail ends
Of mufflers blow
You off with exhaust
Smoke and choke
On their spit—

Honking at your pride
And unsure gait,

Leading you into alleyways
Sprawling with brightly
Colored graffiti,
Pink painted faces, misfit

Tongues and a silence
Uncharacterized by
The glamour of the city—

Only this
They deem yours.

Dear Gwen Stefani Circa 2006,
The first music I chose to like that wasn’t
just my mom’s tuning of the radio was

Your solo CD, the first and best of two, which
I made sure to get on my twelfth birthday, after
I made sure to get my first kiss.

We were not rookie sixth graders anymore,
In soggy bathing suits teeming with pubescence,
So I publicized my plans to plant one on

Yeorgios Mavromatis, the new seventh grade boyfriend,
The first boy to buy me jewelry I would not like,
The first boy I used to make myself infamous.

Our hallway bottlenecked with twelve year olds,
Alone we sat on the bed, legs dangling above
The stained beige carpet. The kiss was damp and boring.

But the crowd that pressed at the door was an ******,
Surged voices told me my dad was walking up the stairs,
I arched around to throw the boyfriend in the closet,

My father caught me, and I wore the walk through them
Like your scarlet lipstick. The album of
My first kiss was not passion, but gossip.

I’ve seen you in red lipstick, bindis, and blue hair,
A pink wedding dress, and a Platinum Blonde Life.
I knew you were making art meant to publicize.

The songs and the clothes and the Harajuku Girls,
The boys and the clothes and the Children’s Theatre,
The day I made a scene was the day I knew.

Catholic guilt and couture gilt and creative goals
Took two West Coast girls, only twenty three years apart
And turned them into people you paid attention to.

Tell the ******* truth, Gwen Stefani, bleach blonde vamp.
Questions stack up in the recesses of my mind,
A renovation’s trash pile of drywall dust.
You changed me, but there are things to clean up.

Did you just take a break to remake your image
For swarms of chubby white suburban pre-teens
Swarming in packs at the middle school dance?
Are those the only bees you could catch in your hive?

How did you meld and mold the Harajuku girls
To fit in the camera’s crosshairs or to walk
the thin line of a New York fashion week runway?
I must admit I still have my bottle of L.A.M.B.

Was the woman who screeched she was Just a Girl
Just floundering for fame? Does this happen to
Every mid-level artist? Will my inkwell turn
To the blood of an easy fan base too?

I wanted you to be my mother, but you picked
my platinum model sister as your favorite.
But will I still become you, even though I know
You’re false? Your press coverage can’t reveal the future.

Black tar lies spew from US magazine covers
Eyes dark, I gobble them up in violent shudders.

Have to confront her
People pass, smeared oil paintings
But oh there she is

Surrounded, but alone
The frenzy moves in catacomb
Public twilight zone

Monks whose ears have heard
The sage advice of Buddha
Walk shoeless, smiling

Temples adorn sky
Like regal glimmering gems
On Earth’s diadem

They are exquisite
Sanctuaries for roaming souls
In need of counsel

Cherry blossom drifts
Afloat on gentle zephyr
Sweet breath of summer

Babies with big eyes
Peer up to the mountains
Sensitive spirits

Here the animals
Are totems of other worlds
Made accessible

Through deep reflection
Which surrenders the soul to
Deep primal chaos

The forgotten ways
Lie dormant like volcanoes
I await the first

Fluid eruption
Of lucid lava, making
Me awake, conscious

Grand mythology
Dwells in these magic islands
Centuries of tale

In Harajuku
The market awash with style
Romance in neon

****** dresses
And lace umbrellas, dainty
Adorn boys and girls

Wild self-expression
That dandy philosophy
Embodied in style

Land of monks and youth
Japan a portal, doorway
To past and future

Where temples mingle
With technics and skyscrapers
Strange modernity

On a beautiful autumn morning,
she wears RouRou
Chinese delights.
impossible hair by Tetsu,
court wigs and military dolls.
street walk the catwalk.
fashion flown.
Takeshita Street in Harajuku.
cross cultural synthesis.
a full spectrum of colours.
urban purity.unmistakable.
haute-couture
a balanced fusion
of reality and dream.

I see a rosaceous sunset view,
Turning slowly to night so blue.

Sounds of day change into night;
Sunlight replaced by neon light.

In the air, there is summer's breeze,
Unlocking many memories.

Everywhere I look I see smiles,
All dressed up in different styles.

Beautiful faces on bright screens,
Displaying stars, products and scenes.

I stare in the pink mists of love,
To the glowing faces above.

Each place I go I hear echoes,
As the chilling summer breeze blows.

I walk around in these places,
And encounter many faces.

Someone is sunken in their phone,
While smiling, standing all alone.

I see the city's blood; racing cars,
Shooting off like luminous stars.

From inside and outside chaos,
Sugarcoated in lavish gloss.

Colorful as Harajuku,
Or shining like Shinjuku.

So much people to speak and greet,
On every corner of this street.

But no time left to say hello,
When everyone does quickly go.

Would one of them have time for me?
Their true face, will I ever see?

I guess not; let's keep them in dreams,
Where they are adorned with moony gleams.

Where would they be, the sweet lovers,
In streets? In the breeze of summers?

It does not really matter much,
I can see the trace of their touch.

How else would this city be lit?
There's love! It's darkened without it.