tanka string

 unfastening

button and zipper 

another 

faceless john in 

the alley's darkness

on the ground

a brand of cigarette 

my moman smoked—

cabbage simmers 

quietly on the stove

the daughter

ive never had 

grown now...

arranging the sash 

on her prom gown 

finality—

in this sage-burned 

apartment 

boxes filled with things 

ive completely outgrown

im told to 

arrange all of my stories

in 5-7-5-7-7—

my daughter's dark hair 

pressed straight for church

another midnight

confronting my pain...

always this 

soft dance between blame

and taking accountability 

drinking...

the amber color of 

fresh whiskey 

strangely enough i think of 

Takuboku and chuckle to myself

shifting sea: 

tonight i meet a man 

wearing a 

pomegranate colored suit

at the local jukejoint 

juxtapositions...

Amelia Fielden says 

tanka are 

quite fragmentary...

burning old love letters

the answers 

to most of Life's questions 

have no easy answers...

picking at imaginary 

loose threads on my shirt