Over (T)here

Over There

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Momiji

Mt. Yotei
Momiji

Momiji is a tight street
         dressed with red paper lanterns
               wood paneled windows
                     and clay awnings.

It is the sandalwood
         lit
               to guide the dead,
                        a scent for safe passage.

It is Mt Yotei
         the volcano,
               mostly dormant,
                     that doesn’t let you think
                           when you look at it.

It is a warm thermal spring
         with mineral laden
         wooden boards
                  reflecting upon themselves.

 It is the Japanese maple leaf
         who falls off with the wind,
                     sometimes,
               or it folds up and over and into itself
               like soft leaves do.

Momiji is a laugh
         to itself

         and is the Mirror Lake,
               frozen,
                     under four meters of snow
                     with bright thick daisies
                     along each edge.

Momiji

No. 38

No. 38

My legs are crossed on the floor.
I haven’t sat at a table or desk in three months.

It is , simply , not a Japanese thing .

With a bored set of eyes , I examine a large ashtray with thirty-seven cigarettes .

that is ,
two hundred and twenty-two minutes ,
that is ,
twenty-two of which
I spent thinking I shouldn’t smoke cigarettes.

I have charcoal filters in my back pocket ,
soiled teeth to kiss with &
a rotten scent on clean clothes :

This is the extended price of fitting in.

Sensai

Sensai

An old church choir finds me in a damp alley hiding from the concrete everywhere of Tokyo. For the first time in three hours my anxieties subside.

For a small second I do not breathe, do not move, am only a set of ears and a heart hung amongst a clean,
sharp C harmony.

An ambulance siren fades into the choir. Overtakes it. Fades out and into the sound of an airplane pulsating a quiet roar with the wind. As the plane clears, I notice the church choir has stopped. Chairs shift and a loud voice, made foreign by the thick pane glass, shuffles the holy group back into the world.

An old lady emerges with a dark blue dress garnished with white lace ruffled about her hands and neck. She is wearing pearls. Today is a Friday. She walks slowly toward me, eyes locked on her simple black shoes. I notice her smile. Eighty years of practice have perfected each muscle. She moves closer with a small handbag with a thin bamboo handle. The bag is quiet upon her arm.

She finally sees me and allows her smile to widen and her head to bow. A welcoming. She, unlike myself, is not worried about why I am here, instead she accepts that I am and continues past me. I quickly ask her in Japanese how she is feeling today, “genki desu ka?” And she, more quiet, stretching her smile to accommodate language, says yes. “Hai,” she whispers, and continues east through the alley.