Quiver

by Ken Yoshikawa

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about

This the first album of poetry released by Ken Yoshikawa.

credits

released March 30, 2019

Recorded by Brian Bauer at Shady Pines Media in Portland, OR.
www.shadypinesmedia.com

Released with assistance from Igor Brezhnev at Lightship Press.
www.lightshippress.com

Album Cover Art by Tess Myers
www.tessmyers.com

Track Art by Ken Yoshikawa
www.yoshikawaken.com

license

all rights reserved

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about

Ken Yoshikawa Portland, Oregon

Ken Yoshikawa is a shin-issei/first generation half-Japanese American poet-actor from Portland, OR. He has been active in the Portland Poetry Slam community since 2014. He loves blue chicken taco trees and resents punctuation and grammar at his convenience. ... more

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Track Name: A Ghost Tale of Two Cities
A Ghost Tale of Two Cities

Nagai means ‘long’
like a flight from here to Tokyo,
like oooooooooooooooooooohs of a ghost.

Nagaiki means ‘long life’.

Naga-ame means ‘long spell of rain’,
which to us may as well be home.

The [i] in nagai is the dictionary form
of the unconjugated adjective.

Ha! Whew!

Hiroi means ‘wide’,
like a turtle shell;
like the audience of a well made film;
Hiroba means ‘plaza’.
Hirobakyoufushou means ‘agoraphobia’.
It’s a wild world indeed.
Dear, Hollywood,
I wonder if you know this.
I wonder, what with
cowboys drawing colts,
knights slaying no-goods,
spies harboring secrets,
or pirates spilling pearls,
when they’re rolling across the floor –
I seem to think you do.

So, if nagasode means ‘long-sleeve’
then hirosode means...?
I think you’re catching on:
a place to keep your aces.
So you know Nagasaki means ‘long cape’
like a bitty peninsula. Right?

And Hiroshima means ‘wide island’,
it speaks much for itself.
There is an order you must understand
before you can make language dance.


But that doesn’t have to matter, right?

We can say Nagasaki means ‘long ago’,
means ‘half-life’,
means ‘forgotten’,
means ‘rad’
means ‘long point’
means ‘stick and roast it’.
I mean I think you know what it means
to stretch anything until the meaning changes.

Hiroshima really means ‘follow the light’
means ‘pretty skies’
means ‘mushroom spaghetti all over your pants’
means ‘relieve your shadow of its body’,
But that’s just between you and me,
in this space.
It’s a wild world, because there’s order,
because more than words actually tear
when they are pulled the wrong way.

When you give a child a hero, and then
you take it away and then you change it.

Worlds break in ways that make not a single sound.

You seem to put Scars where they don’t much belong.

It’s OK. We can carry the weight, but the joke is still on you.

‘Cuz Nagasaki means ‘magic man’,
but Hiroshima still means ‘a broken heart’

So do your magic, then.

Take a mold of our face
and throw it away.
Take a scalpel,
strap it to a white curse
I mean a white cursor –
Whip it in a bending confuser bro cam –
I mean a rendering computer program –
Photoshop your way through the mouse maze
getting lost for cheese in the complex
of raze down, erase & spray paint.
Color my house white, please.
Color my house white, please.
Pick the locks with CG.
Fix the bones in our face, please.
Wait let us try.

Hiroshima means
wide eyes and a pika pika houdai
a “waaaaaaa are, sore, kawaiina, kakoiida”.
Nagasaki no longer means long eyes, but long nose.
Hiroshima: not wide nose but wide eyes.
Let me introduce you
to the beautiful ghosts
of two deleted cities:
Nagashima & Hirosaki.
Where haunted of defeat by military superiority,
that the white victors
are not just stronger
than us
more wealthy and intelligent
more beautiful
than us,
they’re actually just better
than us.
The best way to reinforce supremacy
is to have our enemies defeat themselves
and forget why they’re doing it.
So,
Scarlett Johansson,
you are exactly the Japanese woman
Japan has been waiting to become.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
It has been too long. The work, too long.

We can actually be you now.

But, you can’t speak the language.

Easy fix.

They will take your fancy images, remove your voice, make you silent, and then put Japanese words, Japanese souls, Japanese ghosts back into the shell they built to get over our annihilated lessons in humility.

But what about me?


Am I the now unaccepted byproduct
of a loser’s complex in a global world,
with wide eyes & long nose,
Japanese words and US passport?

Nagasaki could mean ‘long precedent’
But, hey, I can stretch anything to change its meaning.

Nagasaki means ‘long game’.
Means we’re coming back for what is ours.
Means you are running out of excuses Hollywood.

Hiroshima means the bombshell bombed this one,
Means cheap thrill have high costs,
Means sex sells - tried to sell –
Means you couldn’t sell our childhood dreams back to us
because you can’t take for keeps that which was never yours.
I mean, you just seem to break what you do not understand.


The magic man in dabble land will wreck himself the most.

Remember now?

I am become death, the destroyer of worlds?

Not I.

No Hollywood, I thought you understood.
I am the Little Boy, coming home,
split, hungry for a hard boiled egg in the fallout.

You are the ghost
in the shell of a very Fat Man,
falling
falling
falling.
Track Name: [A Name Involving Bones]
[A Name Involving Bones]


[An interesting fact about bones.]

[A curious extension into a secondary fact about bones.]

[A sideways yet informative plug for calcium consumption and bone health.]

[An encouraging piece of advice to eat more spinach and milk.]

[A peak statement declaring the importance of bones.]

[A resolving axiom-conclusion equating bones to friends.]

[A declaration that I want you to be my friend.]

[An invitation to my dungeon.]

[A statement of hope that you’ll accept the offer.]

[A lovely description of the levels of the dungeon:
the decor! the treasure! the magic loot!]

[A dismissal of the definitely-not-monsters in my dungeon.]

[A harder dismissal of an example of a definitely-not-a-monster-and-most-definitely-not-a-metaphor-for-my-male-insecurity-,-anxiety-,-narcissism-and-a-compulsive-need-to-control-my-life in my dungeon.]

[A statement encouraging you not to worry.]

[A generous gesture of spanakopita! More Calcium! Yay!]

[An encouraging gesture of strong bones, where strong bones mean good times!]

[An embarrassed admission that I’ve been caught.]

[An apology.]

[A confession regarding a secret.]

[A playfully shy dance around the secret.]

[A gathering of self meant to generate tension and anticipation.]

[A presentation of a quest: to heal me.]

[A captivating depiction of a sad, lonely child locked away deep inside my psyche who’s scared and lonely, unable to reach out and hold anyone long enough to feel cleansed, wanted, to feel a part of something bigger than himself.]

[A helpless cry that I need someone to do it for me.]

[Advice that if you do take up the quest, that you must come well armed: with magic armor, a party of trustworthy companions,
and rope to tie me down lest I run away.]

[An apology that I keep running away, deeper into my dungeon, through the hydra pit, the goblin kingdom, the Drow city, the shark infested underwater volcano.]

[A statement of gratitude for loving me, for following anyway.]

[A statement of hope that you’ve built sturdy bones, because I’ll need them.]

[A description of my inner sanctum: of me, alone, surrounded by the bones of everyone who tried to reach me, heal me and keep me.]

[A statement of gratitude for bones, as they are so often my only company.]

[An enthusiastically interesting fact about bones.]

[Another enthusiastically interesting fact about bones.]
Track Name: Kenjimoto Sonnet
Kenjimoto Sonnet

A white man dubbed me Kenjimoto-san
Ere first we met; a firmless kid, I swift
Embarked with his delusive marathon.
His slaver’s heart, full insecure, I’d lift
And validate by not confronting; fool,
I played his Asian Leprechaun; I charged
His power plant of Babylon, his tool
Collected, surely sharpened; by’s enlarged
Cruel sense of truth he’d weld to nails, hammed
Me in the calves, affixed my will to doubt
In silence, by ill-wisdom: hypnocrammed.
Long gone, I see since Fate had pulled me out,
He of true power was a parody;
My name is Ken and it means clarity.
Track Name: In Love with the Universe
In Love with The Universe


I’m in love with the Universe. I’m talking spiritual magnetic.
Like I’m INTO it.
Like, SO INTO IT, IT’S INTO ME,
IT’S IN ME.
Like 7 years old and face first in my toes, ripping off my nails with my teeth.
Ouroboros smells like the bacteria that grows under your big toe.
I’m talking choice cheese shit.
Like $25.00 a pound, 1 second relief for anxiety.
I’m talking Diddy Kong Racing on Christmas Day:
Mom’s in the kitchen making dinner and U2’s Sweetest Thing playing on a CD-ROM.
The lights were gold.
The lights were gold.
Solid gold.

Like an angel incarnated as a magic tick hanging from my fingers, that believed that maybe I can finally crawl into a peaceful hole somewhere full of blood and drown.
I tried to find it on my mothers elbow skin, tugging like a bus handle or a bouldering grip so maybe I could climb into her heart.
But my mother, see she’s a Taurus and has good boundaries.
So the tick retreated to my knuckle,
built a castle out of calloused meat,
invited me in to drink shots of straight dopamine,
and raised its flag for ten years.

Until the siege.
In a room with a bald man and a pendulum in my hand.
We’d done this before, except for DnD using trance to taproot the subconscious for characters.
I was holding a 6 inch chain with a crystal quartz,
I just had to hold it,
hold it and look at it while he asked me questions.
If it swang back and forth it was a ‘yes’
and if side to side it was a ‘no’.
Why let my voice get in the way?
So simple.

I don’t know how tell you what I don’t fully remember.
Like the sunshine in December
Ken’s not here send back to sender,
Each decibel a step toward the splendor of surrender
Man, I see you right in front of me, an image that I render
With parallel assemblage of my fleet subconscious medicine,
thank God that you’re amazing and this shit, man.

The edifice you built in me proved parallel to Daedalus,
but this was necessary in a sense to heal the nervousness,
the endless chewed terrain in space you terraformed
in case you had to skate along the rails that you paved within my pate,
and it was great, I do confess,
but i wonder if the point was to convert my doubt to sure-why-nots
and all my nos to nothingness.

Query:
Does Kenji like girls? Left, right, back, forth?
Does Kenji like boys? All gone henceforth.

Was it nature, medication, or hypnotic nomenclature,
a bug deleting data, dejavu of no adventure,
the ever subtle use of clever methods and accessories,
of sensory subversion through the entropy of memory,
erasure of your boundaries,
a backdoor to the foundry,
until it all floods back within a reverie.

A flight that you can’t feel
The feeling you can’t change
Suggested range of healing is too strange and needs concealing.

But it worked! How the fuck did it work?
Thank you? Fuck you?
What did you put in me? What did you put in me?!

And what’s the trigger? Secret word. The lock.
The key that hacks the clock.
Undock device whose use precise makes ripples like a rock.

Heavy. No. Forget it. No. It’s paralyzing.
Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. No way.
Sandbucket.
Arm’s up.
Sandbucket.
The handle, watch it go over the hand onto your wrist. It’s heavy.
The lower the hand the deeper the land.
He said sandbucket. The keyword is sandbucket.
As deep as its reach
Return to the beach.

I’m done. Break the pattern. Break the pattern.
Time doesn’t work anymore!
I’m just %1000. I’m angelic, right? I’m that God-sent kinda shit, right?
The good good. Not biting anymore.
But I’m still this piece of shit.
Kenji, be kind to yourself.
Not biting anymore.
Kenji. Be kind to yourself.
Kenji. Take this pill.
Kenjimoto. You’re good to go.
Track Name: This Bird, That Bird
This Bird, That Bird


This. This I am this. This. This what is this feeling? This all here leftover. This not gonna smile hard. This smile. This smile not gonna be hard enough. This not smiling hard enough. This I want to tell you this. This I do it and I wanna wanna wanna. This feel. This but why. This scared. This scared to feel. This actually. This right here. This air. This apathy and bleak shit.

This old round of similar metaphors. This metaphor. This round thing. This sharp sharp thing. This spine. This drain. This fire. This broken thing. This baseball bat. These chewing mouths and quiet dull eyes. These eyes. This room. This almost tears. This now. This not now. This is why. This so damn close, dammit, dammit. This dammit.
This cut caution tape waving just so. This so. This dab ‘n wa wa. Those perfect bricks.

These breadcrumbs. This bird. This bird. This perky fucking bird. This perky perky picking bread bird. This bird. This piece. This piece. This piece. This piece piece piece. This bird. This bird. That bird. This can’t string six proper fucking words together bird. This birds can’t smile, bird. This I have no idea what I’m doing, bird. This can’t keep this shit together, bird. This bird. This so goddamn bird. This bored. This bored bird. This bird. This I’m this bird. This not that bird. This no. This can I stop now? This how about now, bird? This why. This please. This again? This flippy hair. This flippy hair wind. This flippy flippy hair wind. This try harder. This make effort. This sweat. This please no sweat-sweat. This chirpy, chirp, chitter right. This never, never, never, never hit it. This now never why this fly-fly.

This is why. This roll o’ dice chamber. This clickety click-click. This close. This sick to my stomach. This same old shit on the radio. This radio. This tonight tonight. This I’m not a program. This not every bird gets a name. This not me I’m a knot and gonna tweaked, tweaked. This tweaked. This tweak, tweak, tweak. This tweaked. This stop. This this. This pour that on my head. This that. This that. This that. This run. This crack in the pavement. This crack in the pavement.

This pavement. Pavement. Pavement. Pavement.
Track Name: In the Eyes of the Devil
In the Eyes of the Devil


Have you ever loved someone who was mired in the pits of Hell?
And when you reached down to pull them out, did they look you square in the eye, grip your wrist & drag you in with them?
There is so much God in the eyes of the Devil.
His were blue and they were beautiful to me.

You see, before I met the man who was my master, I felt the only way I would know real love was by pinning myself through the throat to my high school walls like a lonely poem.

I imagined the world passing by would squeeze grief through the punctuation & at least make a little puddle in that cave I had dug beneath my good grades.
With my ear to the floor I could hear something beautiful underneath the stones. But, I snapped my finger nails digging for it.
So, I sat there waiting, hoping computer clicks and poetic drips would drop by drop erode a hole through it.
And one day he was there, as teachers tend to be.
He taught me the codes to hack my underworld and could really hear what I was saying.
He watched over me as I went and knocked on Mama Ayahuasca’s doors to infinity.
I mean what would you do if someone handed you the psychosomatic jackhammer of mantra meditation?
Hell, I got to work and it was fucking amazing. I was incandescent as bit by bit I actually began to break through the base to the core of me.
He was my friend, like a father. He was my cul-de-sac guru.
I gave it to him, bag and baggage.

You know, at first there doesn’t seem to be a suitable metaphor for the way a scared and needy young man can blindly love a cunning and charismatic maniac.
But, of the things he taught me, you see, he gave himself away.

He taught me the art of fly swatting.
You see a fly, though disgusting, is a magnificent creature in the way it perceives time. Perhaps by its being so small and by the quantity of light its brain can process, it pretty much sees the world in what to us is slow motion.
So when you go to swat it,
it sees your big stupid hand encroaching like a bulldozer
and just steps right out of the way.
But, if you move
very

very


very slowly,
it won’t be able to tell you are moving,
until you’re just an inch away.
Then, you wait
until it is cleaning its wings
and then abuse begins with cutting the little strings that lead you home and tie you to your friends. Then come the daily doses of moldy weed, hypnotism, and a line that goes a little something like this:

“Kenjimoto. There’s only one rule. Never lie to me and look me in the eyes. If you have to lie, look down. If you lie to me and look me in the eyes, I will know, and I will burn a fucking hole through you and destroy you.”

There came a time when I realized I was lost inside a jungle made of smog in my little cave I dug beneath my good grades. And in that place where my little puddle should have been, there stood an oil rig. As I followed the pipes, they led me to a straw stuffed into my master’s mouth. He sucked me down again, again, and told me that I owed it to him.

I wanted it. I didn’t want it. I wanted it. I didn’t want it. I wanted it. I didn’t want it….

I could fill this story with a lifetime of words, but the only one I needed was the only one I never said. Stop.
For him the word “therapist” already had its pronoun built into the equation. Stop. He knew it. Stop.

In this kind of Hell, the only way is through. Stop.
To pull the stake from my throat, fall to the floor and watch the poem land beside me. Stop.

He was a gift: the perfect example of the kind of person I will never be. Stop.

Have you ever fallen in love with yourself while you were mired in the pits of hell?
And when you reached in to pull yourself out, did you smile and say “What took you so long?”
There is so much God in the eyes of humanity.
Mine are brown, and they are beautiful to me.
Track Name: Dear Bridge
Dear Bridge


Hey crossing, do your stones remember home,
asleep as Texan, Pennsylvanian?
Say ‘hillside’. Make them reminisce as chrome
and steel encrunch them while we take the eon.
Or did we whittle down their memory?
We told them, blasting sand, that home is use,
as bones that breach our mind and reach to speed
our life’s commute to glory.
We took them, taught them, stacked to then produce
this bridge, just like these words here stacked to read.

But I keep walking away from half built bridges.
because I can’t stick to the blueprints
because I tend to dig too deep,
don’t know where I’m bridging to
just want to feel like I’ve arrived.

Thank goodness I just work with words.
and not on any project people must rely on.
I don’t want anyone to rely on me.
I know I’ll always walk away
to quell this shaking need to be OK,
that maybe then I’ll no longer be
this moody baron, so scared
he couldn’t pull himself together
to be the hero he knew he could become.

There’s always something in the night that I call home,
like I was mined from it.

Dear Bridge, the darkness always fits my shape
when I can’t seem to fit the world.
I don’t know where you’ll take me
so this time I’ll float beneath you.
I do not want to be delivered to some other side.
I want to be just held exactly where I am.
Track Name: Star-Fin Sonnet
Star-Fin Sonnet


The star-fin eyelid sea monster peers out
Behind my folded lungs unto the dark;
With slippy hands begins the climb from doubt
To bold dexterity, but not a mark
Or clue presents the way, so sits to stare
With beady quasars at the shadows own
Prosperity, itself of gudgeon care
To preen my jejune guttering and groan.
What is this pale drudgery to wake
Into a coward world with parsec hope
Only to parasite the clock, forsake
Unknown adventure just to safely mope?
But, dearest gup, you are my favorite heart;
My form your reef, the night your work of art.
Track Name: Down the Spiral
Down the Spiral

What if
the energy required to accept yourself exactly the way you are
equates precisely
to that required to change for the better?

Say this includes your cowardice:
the hours still spent
drowning in the broken sluice of your emotions.
Not a truce,
without a notion that the daybreak deluge
can be tapped without assumption;
understood without compunction;
standing tall without defensiveness;
no less the sense when your confidence
got shaken and undressed to serve another’s spiritual ends
to buff his spiritual lens.
“Finally,” he said “something you are good for.“

When he told you to dance and you did.
Jigging till the sense of who you know yourself to be
dislodged itself.
Then, floating in an empty narrative:
your eyes tied down by repetitive imperatives
as prayer hit your heartbeat like a sacramental sedative.
More spiritual phrases out of context of their heritage.
You were clawing for a culture, but really just afraid to live:
afraid to grow your own,
afraid to own the potholes in the road up to your home.

Because you are made of light, right?
There’s no room for fear.
When you are made of love and beauty, perfect like a sphere,
there is never need to fight, right?
Your heart is in the clear.
Sure you are holy, or you’re wholly insincere.

That’s what you’d think, since you hid behind a veil.
I want to know your bravery, but you’re afraid to fail.

So you wither down the spiral,
unable to answer wisely all the viral whys behind this guise
of feeling sorry for yourself;
of needing someone else to tell you how to live your life.
To play your part and pay blood tithes
in space he made sacred,
but twisted to mean what took place you intended.
No wonder you lost your way.
No wonder I lost myself.

The moment came when the body from whose blood he drew
was no longer me, but the you I’m speaking to.

So when he told me to sing and be free, but I couldn’t.
Caught like a bow-shot doe in the throat.
These wounds that don’t bleed sound like nos never said.
I had love songs for death, but no postage to send.
So when I told him I wanted to kill myself
and he said he would help me,
was he calling a bluff or had he already killed me.

Weakness, I can speak to this, the doubts that I conceal,
but acknowledging reality regardless how it feels.
To say that it’s OK to be afraid or if you stall,
you gain all the momentum used to rise up when you fall.
I’ll understand if you go quiet speaking not a word.
There is no hope to force you into happy, that’s absurd.
Track Name: Samurai Sonnet
Samurai Sonnet


So you would like to be a samurai,
Put on the battle armor, wield the sword;
But you must understand ere you banzai
You'll have to swear your life unto a Lord.
Do you have loyalty enough to kill
The instant of their charge whoe'er they mark;
Or are you here for power and the thrill,
A culture tour to dally in and lark?
If all the years of training, cruel stakes,
Austere and grueling life of meditation,
Allegiance, ritual is what it takes -
To sober slay thyself - such preparation
Alike then ow'st thou to the people's name:
The heritage from whence the story came.
Track Name: An Elegy for the Helplessness Blues
An Elegy for the Helplessness Blues


So I was playing this priest who prayed all his life to God:
just so much time and energy.
And then perhaps in the most peculiar dream,
one day,
I came upon a man sitting at a bench in this lovely park. I asked him who he was.

He said “Why I am the Lord your God, embodiment of all reality.”

“Well, dear me,” I stuttered.
That so simple a person was so magnetic and at peace,
it must be true.
“I have prayed all this time and praised your holy name so many times.
I thank you. Thank you.”

“Great, great, great” he said. “Why are you here today?”

“Well, Lord” I replied,
“that’s what I’d like to have asked you now myself,”

“Well, are you alive then?” He asked me.

“I dare say so, I am, thank you.”

“Well, what the flying fuck are you talking to me for?”

And he really just gave me a moment.
In that moment, I, I just couldn’t say anything.
I had nothing but my open mouth and his open eyes. & snap!

I woke up then upon my knees realizing I had been in prayer for the last ten years in reach of what I found.
I had it: the Moment, the Opportunity, and nothing.
All my time wasted on a blank.
The Golden Chance for which thousands and thousands have labored on and died and with their bones built traditions on their calcified remains, ever building farther and farther, making myths out of daddy issues.
And I could never let that moment go. It stuck with me.

I went to my father and apologized until I made a fool of myself.
And then I got angry at him and told him what I thought of him right to his face. I said “Fuck you! You wasted your opportunity to build the future with me. You have only brought your own ruin you motherfucking Greek tragedy. Fuck you. Fuck you!”
Until I was hoarse and ever more a fool.

But I felt good.

However, I could still never let go of my lost opportunity.
That I was the lost opportunity left to chance without proper care,
a stutter for a human being.
And I cried.
And I cried and I cried, until I could cry no more.
That’s when I started raging.
Raging at the seams that held me,
I was ripping the clothes off my back.

I picked fights with cruel people because I thought: you’re wasting a perfect opportunity to build a future for yourself.
More nows: more of this.
Because the more of this means you may just get to see that smug motherfucker on that goddamned park bench again.

And one day I picked the terminal fight, I guess.
Can’t say it was the wrong fight when it was for the right reason.
Everything rolled and hurt.
It was confusing: so many not colors and not shades of black and white. Which way was up or down I wasn’t sure.
Only that when I came to I was in another bloody park,
and there was this most peculiar lady sitting with me there.

I said: “Well who are you then?”

She answered, “Why I am the Lord your God, embodiment of all reality”

Well I blew up, crying out “I have fought tooth and bloody fucking nail to get back here again. Finally, thank god! Fuck you! Fuck you!” I cried.
I was such a fool.

“Great, great, great” she said “But why are you here?”

I stopped and was caught,
and I fucking stuttered again,
my mouth agape and hopeless right before her open eyes.
Again…
all this time and all the risks and then again
so stupid, so stupid.

And she was very kind to me because I there began to cry.

She asked me like a misplaced child, “Well, are you alive?”

“I, I think so. I’m not so certain now, to be very honest”

“O. Well, OK. Come along then,” she said.
“Let’s see what we can do about that.”
Track Name: Heaven
Heaven


This fly is buzzing in my room,
whirring past my pen.
I arise and aim to quit me of it,
dancing to a bitch slap waltz.
I want you to leave, I say.
Showing it the door, it doesn’t.
It hangs by the lamps on the walls,
as I lay on the floor
wondering about a life of
Kaleidoscopic,
Sugar-famished
time warping
buzzer prayers.
It’s just hungry for the light
like so many words and eager fools:
to hover on the line in that moment of attention
in service to some great wing of eternity
as a single z in the endless hum.
I turn on the hallway lamp to shoo it out
and it leaves
indeed photophilic for some hope this sticky summer night.
Buzzing through the glory of this wide, wide heaven
of vaulted ceilings and clean dishes
till I turn out the hall light,
close the door,
and tend to a book.

Yet it wasn’t long till it returns.
It crawled, faithful, through the crack beneath the door
knowing there’s more to life than shit and sugar,
into a place, into a realm that would entrance its soul
yet all but else refuse to nourish it.

O ecstasy, you sly god, you.

Between the choice to kill, catch, or herd it out again
and trick it to a new horizon
I write, astounded, –
after all these weeks
of stretching my lungs around my feet
and balancing my heart atop my head,
swallowing my mind again
till I am drunk on riddlesong –
that I find a muse in how this fly wipes its eyes that never blink
in what seems to me relief.
Sure I can let it be the fly that stayed,
but, little fly,
Soon
I will have to turn off heaven
so I can go to sleep.
Track Name: Quiver
Quiver

Quiver
for the moonlight
in our palm lines,
a library of star signs;
a chamberful of salt remembers each kindness,
while true faults make maps for lost pilots who forgot how to stop:
not to hear and respond,
but to listen and bond;
that there’s less at the top,
but more in the silence.
Take good note and file it,
but more than just save it,
to savor the feedback as lilacs to leylines;
aligned by the facts, hold back what reacts;
when lost becomes labor,
charm demons with violets to vapor.

No matter what’s happened, remember there’s still air here.
No hope is vanity once put to action;
even if it’s breathing,
the physics remains the same in any language

夢見、弓矢
愛情避けるな
今日の鏡の画面を我慢より
空気の甘さに合わせ。
破っても宜しい。君が十分。見ろ
山の横にある二百個の曇神
あの優しい嵐ある
この悲しみ洗う為、
So let it.

I’m talking in my sleep, because my heart speaks Japanese.
And I believe in you like I believe in gravity,
which means I don’t understand,
but I know you’re there
to watch my step
though I may still fall,
but your soft eyes accelerate no problem at all
and I wake,
right next to you,
with a quiver full of moonlight
and my gratitude.
ありがたい
Good morning.