mollusk

two days into my forty-third chapter... embracing the way  my life doesn't make sense each unpolished mirror  propped up against the wall  some days i avoid staring at me behind black-out curtains  alone with my thoughts  feeling Takuboku´s spirit knowing i should be asleep  all these untouched books clutter up my space no haiga accompanies  any of the senryu i write --- stale beer is a thing up and down shadowed streets men with painted faces and the smell of desperation  uninhibited... the coy ways these words  dance into an oblong tanka  quiet morning... my child questions  manman Earth about her health  Ryokan´s tanka  read while enjoying the taste of too-sweet navel oranges going to bed a Sudanese lullaby plays  in the background in my dreams 

 grind of a work-day, laughing out loud suddenly  . no expert...i hate sound of double-doors opening  . no poems in days, he looks good from back  . no 'shrinking violet'—this senryu world keeps floating on . Autumn promises to be warm, despising climate-change deniers . around the body, cosmos leaves—another storm is coming  . lunch-time rush: strange eyes of sidewalk preacher  . invited to haiku workshop, in between yawns...nothing nothing . only 7:30 pm, 'Bonsai' such an interesting word i think . reading 'Frogpond' June 1978—no thought in manman's head . empty bed, your scent buried in your robe

 over a meal  of steak and potatoes mentally condensing the mundane  into five lines . during  our argument i dramatically fall to the floor like  Lady MacBeth  . Victorian water lilies in the backyard trying to trace the footsteps  of my fleeting childhood . desiring  only quiet i continue  folding  paper parakeets . a dramatic shift in our relationship  lately  i've been looking at his shoes with contempt . dust on the lobby's faux  potted plant... no children  .

 quite jealous, another man waves good morning to me  something sensual about scent of cut grass, im strange 

fighting back yawns. i count down the minutes until my colleague will arrive and i'll be off. another yawn and i pull a muscle.  finding it difficult to wrap my tongue around  these Louisiana Creole  words 

pacing, too many thoughts running length of my mind mundaneness—food for many senryu on whatever comes forefront sound of elevator descending, stifling another shallow yawn man pulls luggage on wheels, still breakfast not ready fascism—trying hard not to spoil this Autumn day expulsion of refugees sand in the walkway of home aged priest's laughter something congeals and moves and... plyboard against walls saxophonist too much out of tune passing lonely train  as nightworkers  get off early  morning  team breakfasting in the back office suppressing yawns and the acidic  taste of boredom soundless my footsteps up and down hotel stairs this  early morning this morning  aged woman  washing down  the tombstone of  some gone soul family  loading up their car an early morning game the kids  can barely wake up these days  i come  bringing a curse of  a worried face  about most anything