mollusk

on the margins of his property  old pond where we talk and...and...and... chocolate i shouldn't be eating  an older woman drives a beat-up Toyota today  in the back of closet my old prom gown— lavender flowers yellowed on the kitchen table stopping by the corner market  will he appreciate London Broil for dinner tonight  like a genie in bottle  he disappears after first night's lovemaking  seated in a cold kitchen  steam from the coffee my only company i suppose...

airing out dank sheets this mundane life of mine bland soup, on the davenport unopened book  police sirens, old man seen in sweep of headlights  May carp in the pond, an old man's libido awakens kid's red ball, recuperating from a sudden fall  knitting a shawl, grandma's unhappiness in every stitch always unaware arid wind across this parking lot  in notebook literary senryu: often i am hard-headed  cats mating...behind the lemonade stand a $5 bill  slow day at work i find great happiness in this  serial philanderer: chipped China ware for dinner  steamed cabbage on stove too many thoughts swim in me growing tomatoes a brief 'hello' to Mr Kawahigashi  Yokahama harbor nothing ever remains the same im told no wild boars rushing toward us with good fortune ... making sign of crucifix  footsteps of a jobless man  his tattooed body, men are such beautiful creatures  drinking tafya swirling colors i see what tomorrow brings grandkids visiting youthful smile in my bones  c

 apple core on the ground tonight comes and so does nothing 

 Izumo rainpour carrying dust from other town on work shoes  rise and fall  of ships in harbor— humanity is wearying persimmons reddening  his laundry left  unfolded  chilled wine  finally glad  to be home  'humanity, humanity!'  labormen arrive  well after 10 pm  night's face  in the window... i too am bored  quite exasperated... still those clothes  tumble in dryer whiskey  he sinks deeper  into his mood sea-side town... my children love  the ocean's tongue quiet breakfast  even the camelias  stand aloof  what i know today won't know tomorrow  yellowed grass  willow-barrel sake... 'for God's sake  leave me alone!' thinking of Caligula... madness seeps  my tea backyard football  still  something doesn't seem right  black birds  cross white moon  my lovelife stalled hotdogs tonight... do i want  children  descending elevator  speaking to  the nice mother  microagression... 'my, your well-spoken  for a Black man' black grapes the dark eyes of 

daddy preening like flamingos... coming to terms that  its too hot for mint tea /

 sudden thought "what happened  to moman's  leopard-print jacket..." what a queer thing  / on a whim jumping up  to run down  this hotel hallway for no reason / wondering  if i should write my tanka  in three lines for a few days... / three-lined tanka... thinking of Takuboku and  wondering what he'd be doing right now  / poetically bored today  taking another quick walk  outside in this godless heat  / sometimes i want wings  just like that Tinkerbell chick... 'chick' such a disrespectful word  / at a hamburger stand  locking eyes with a stranger  his girlfriend's piercing scowl  / afternoon— lately there's been this numbness that won't take a hike  / a man quite obsessed— with the bending of willow trees an untold story  / in this climate  no belief in 'happily after ever...' ordering a Caesar salad  / took off my glasses  blinked for a moment and again i am simply a 'he'  / organizing office papers  brief thought of Sharon Tate..

working hard this afternoon  not to  swallow several  Snickers chocolate bars - from  the window watching kids  play  'freeze tag' - song of frogs and this heat tomorrow ill bury myself  in ice

slow drag of this afternoon pacing  the hotel eating  a crisp apple  . shelled peas in a bucket tonight she plans  to leave him  . fingers  in the fountain sometimes feeling like a distraught woman  sometimes not . dinner today  two crisp apples  and water... wondering how long  i will live  . in  this dry heat red azaleas  sweat off their redness . planned cleaning  tonight after work... will this mundaneness  open up to wonder . buzzards... called 'karenkro' in Kouri-Vini... some days i feel like  carrion  . colorful *papiyon— the music  of tanka of senryu  escape me  these days  .

protest protest... a slight cough  from the earth  hotel tedium witchin' hour approaches slowly 

bag of marbles— this evening  a summer rainpour  and cancelled date dark tea  in a ceramic mug  dark night  expelling heat shopping for clothes  a trip  to North Carolina  with a new friend dream of moman... drafty twisting hallways a dank smell and walnut wainscotting  with a congregation  of lotus flowers  i tell him how uncommitted  i am to 'us'  étoufé simmerin'  mémær hums  some Creole tune  sugar cane harvesting season  replacing a light  in the foyer  this marriage starts showing cracks

 getting a manicure nothingness beyond the periphery  sea anemone—young woman disappears midmorning  elevator music: if only life could be so simple  meaningless banter  she spreads avocado over toast what is a koan thousand-armed Kannon 

 redness of spider lilies intersection of santiy and madness rattlesnake  rests under my tongue nightfall  curve of reason  in my mind  always autumn  impulse— a young girl lives  in tree-roots  construction debris  on a night-walk  Campbell soup can  tea candles... small breeze disturbs lilies in my stomach inky black— no memory of time  before birth  aching neck... avoiding the eyes of  thousand-armed Kannon  beach-side villa  in sand all of my discarded darkness ordinary river my body curls up becomes something else universe's laughter  water lotuses  crimson blush  scrolling on the phone  whiskey's brownness deepens  winter plum blossoms  i am amicable i am virginal  orange of carrots  death's eyes are bright. are kind cumulonimbus clouds  struggling to put on pantyhose  re-typing a paper  nothing...discontinued thought  red-red lotuses... careening car on the lonely road  menacing darkness  something  impregnates me  reading her haiku... cheap notepad  full of words  s

one lined senryu: taste after taste of latenight coffee empty beer can in he comes sweaty and irritated saying something inaudible an ex-lover's awkward message meeting a new man lunch at the new ranch  ballpoint runs out of ink the coffee tastes burned  flora and fauna everywhere this world these peoples  priceless China plates bubbles in my sparkling water

endless pacing  the man i help  i find myself attracted to  gloominess deepens— orange blossoms  accompany  our break-up  grabbing a taxi  settling against the leather i yearn for the 1970's  words of forgiveness to a killer— foamy waters  surround my feet  enjoying black tea and a cigarette... night's balminess  walks with me too  enjoying *tafya  we speak about  bayou folktales  and our men  * sugar cane rum  "little boy ... do you like white flowers? i like  your father."  always passing  that stone Buddha... he always seems preoccupied stone deities— moving from  holiness to holiness this warm afternoon  woman's pretty hijab... waiting in line  at the grocery store  fingering my pearls

dying moths in the backyard  the girls  tie each other's hair up  with bindweed drinking  sparkling water tonight  in prayer  nothing more 

 my libido engaged the scent of mulberries  apple butter apple blossoms i enter twilight  skating the curve of insanity a train derails  my lover's breathing a mother's disinterest  butterflies rise and fall humans emit a fragrance  evening glows bed-sheets retain their whiteness awakened after midnight curve of his bare hip  starting a fire: July leaves a nasty taste in my mouth  base of Mt Ewa a shuttle to ocean-side resort  tonight's happy drunk-song i am what i am  veiled this morning in confession a slight faux-pas cherrywood's tangled flame a woman brushing her hair bread-crumbs on the oil cloth slow morning slow me  stepping over broomgrass upstairs grandma's dress mannequin  seething ocean writhing darkness only i stand still  laughter of a nude model Life's philosophy escapes me

 noon shower: sensual each soap bubble against your chest kitchen gossip: our womanness in dark dark coffee deprived—a woman unable to give birth  unmarried man: dogwood ignores me this afternoon  blackness of cell-phone most days i am bored  cotton field: soft shudders along my neck  bending cosmos more than a woman  more than a wife afterhours loving—folding your boxers in afterglow 

let us bend words buffoons  recklessly de-boning them  skinning them wrapping what we can  in emptied skins  let us give birth to perfumed newborn entities  capable of  making new days 

black man put aside yo fragile manness pick up soil and grab rain cuz i really want you to love me string affection up Japanese-lantern like and mummify healthy commitment

coffeeblack laughter bubblin' up  eyes like white swallows we talk of  our childhood remembered things  now wrapped up  in bone' n marrow to be passed down  to our kids

with Cassandra's  abilities i watch what you will be i remember your deformities  worn proudly your makeshift manhood always  a stumbling block this afternoon in a cassock i pray whispering leaves in noon sun

how sad it must be  to hold fragile manness  lust many women  their weeping bodies  under you. when i look at you black man, always against anything soft anything nurturing i turn  into a wall  and confess  tears

lamp turned off shadows  have long fingers

my daughter crossing herself  Catholic-style  just like  her *mémær *grandmother

'Race...' much like death something that is but no one likes speaking of it

devouring chocolate before the poetry reading uninterested  in many things 

koi ponds  and pagodas... buying myself  another  lacquer fan

my kid's face tearstained another History exam  marked in red - like kids i make myself hot chocolate outside temps soar to 100+ - spinning leaves across the street the lot unmown and somehow authentic

rum forgoing the making of a decision  red anemone—purposely sinking—our relationship  narrowness of senryu world—mewling cat—this afternoon in red poppies my blood quite jealous thoughts—Gordian Knot—worthy of Alexander evening workshift—over me—Sword of Damocles  tea steeping—what is there—to look forward to routines—i cringe with each—sunrise  last of Crown Royal—mailman—flirts with me dogdays:—distinction btwn senryu haiku—be damned unaware—what Zen is—shell of a mollusk 

 walking balmy wind  words are tangled within me 

 streak of airplanes  dissatisfaction my new companion 

 baby swallowtails laughter of a stone angel

 wintering in Spain  again trying on the mantilla 

upheavals... leaving  those white dishes on  the table - trip  to the 7/11 a wino  with clear blue eyes - year into the marriage new baby... life enters  its  B-side 

 monday workshift...traces of sunday in my footsteps whippoorwills: i become a whirling dervish  nothing sacred about today: ordering catfish for dinner rm 108—meeting him this assignation feels funny  general mgr fired: the day bare's its teeth  alone—coughing for a bit—still alone ... college campuses—mind's of youth—slowly corroded gifted liquor—gathering dust—sloped horizon  baby's laughter—i am reborn—washing dishes  ebb and flow  of day.... amber of the beer with pagan laughter—dislodging—an old bullet requiem for Tituba... erasure of Salem women  sea-side inn... another sliced pear with cream  wearing pink shoes... Tinkerbell's jealous of me moon's big eye hatred blooms in my womb  do i swallow afternoon... leaving a thought unfinished  summering across town... open/close of double doors  maman's old abacus... not much of inheritance left  orange juice too strong— seeing his blood flow underskin  china dolls arranged haphazardly... laundry left unfolded 

 [Teeming With Koi] a tanka set side pool  teeming with koi  chocolate woman  in a yellow dress indeisive...indecisive - on the counter *maman's sewing sissors  Johnny is now  thirty-nine years old and  touched by war - now dead all of maman's hatred a shadow festooned  over kids, grands and great grands

 1. A bit of a note to myself: 'try to be less harsh and exacting on yourself, oh; and give yourself a little more patience. Though you're forty-two, you're still growing and still learning...' 2. whiteness of Zoloft... 3. I keep hummin' the theme-song to "M.A.S.H" for some reason. Its oddly comforting.  4. My being Queer is something that isn't talked about much. At least it isn't discussed among my friends or family. It has always been the unspoken, (sometimes unacknowledged); but quite obvious 'elephant in the room' type of thing. Often I'll catch myself wondering what Life would have been like had my parent been fully accepting (out-loud) as well as my friends, family, and society-at-large. I knew I was 'different' when I was six years old. It was instinctive, maybe even intuitive.  5. Watching the camera's, catching sight of some kid riding a skateboard. I never learned to skateboard. I was a nerd as a kid. I loved read

 aged lantern for a time wearing daddy's jacket . cobblestone... the paternal line  extinct in me

work... hysteria rises despite whiteness of Zoloft

whispering child... golden brown  of pancakes 

[Happy Hour] a tanka set happy hour somewhere a mother  ignores  her  child - black umbrella... homeless woman slices through this heat this heat - battered hat— daddy's returned from work his sullen face distinct

lettuce on counter won't you tell me anything i want to hear... . sweet corn and the taste of departure . with sliced apples honey  and my discontent . at my best... i ignore a whining  dog  . Cold War... blushing slightly  when you look at me . medieval churches exorcising this angst from humanity .

rambling about senryu in email... my only excitement . busy last few days on and on  this world floats . thanksgiving prayer whispered... Zoloft—a heavensent  . felled traffic sign reaching for my knapsack  . edible arrangement: ive grown weary of my own self . reading Proust... on and on  i equivocate  . dead Beta fish...having grown cynical about humanity . stone Buddha's chipped nose—sea of honeysuckle

[Rememberance] a zuihitsu With amazement, remembering bits and pieces of life on Willow St. Fig tree in the backyard. Two giant pine trees in the front yard. Remembering moman’s (mama’s) set of brick-red “The World Book Encyclopedias 1956. Mémær (grandmother) in the kitchen making boudin and other Creole delicacies. Memories on top of memories.  It was always a long stretch of road. I hated walking it but loved riding a bike (or my bike) on it. I remember wind running its fingers through my hair as I zipped up and down the street without any cares. Those were days when I was the freest I’d ever be.  Pot of pork’n beans simmers on the stove. White rice in the cooker. No man to love and none to cook for… [Things That Produce Sadness] A single hyacinth on the table. An untouched magazine. Several new Kindle books unread. Text messages—ignored. Phone charger that no longer charges. Abandoned kids. Two friends on the outs. Chocolate stain (or any food stain for that matter) on a shirt. The

at  the edge of town a few secrets tossed  on the wind - rainsoaked in and out of a dark forest a little boy leaves traces  of his blackness on leaves - powdered sugar on dounuts... Sunday morning and instead of church i go to bed

 1.      Seated in the back office watching those kids eat breakfast. I can’t remember what life was like when I was a kid. Most times, a part of me wishes I could be young again. Free, without any cares; and still taken care of by moman.  2.       Moman’s been gone since 2019. That’s been five whole years. I told my therapist that it all seems unreal. Told my therapist, I didn’t think I’d properly processed any of my emotions surrounding moman’s transition. Intellectually, I know she isn’t here. That vacuum though…it never closes and there isn’t anything that can fill it (at least that’s what I believe).  3.      Vaguely remembering what life was like at 6110 Willow. That street where I grew up. We grew up in moman’s childhood home. I’m the only child who remembers Mémær (Moman’s mother). She was such a loveable woman. Such a pillar in our family. I often wonder what life would have been like if she hadn’t transitioned herself.  * Pacing these hotel floors tonight…watching the same ho

desperately seeking...rotting pear on the counter  - rising steam...workman heading home from overnight - more news: i ignore ringing phone...then what - parked cars in a wet parking-lot stirring oatmeal 

morning  comes with rain... smell of bacon and rising fatigue makes its appearance - always  the maternal line that passed down things... my father wasn't there - swaying  of tall cat grass this morning i feel  something's gone

      For as long as I can remember, at least for the last ten plus years; I've been told that I have stories on the inside of me. I've been told that there are books upon books within me. That I have been commissioned to write them and tell them.      For me, when it comes to prophecy or forthtelling, I find a part of myself yearning for a word of insight; an utterance that pulls back the curtain of the future and gives me a brief glance into what will be. There is also the other side of me—the side that feels like many prophetic utterances that I've received; haven't come to pass. Of course, I've been told that more-than-likely the way I expect a prophetic utterance to appear; is NOT how it will arrive. I've been told that the prophetic word probably did come to pass, but because it wasn't the way I expected it to look or show up; I missed its arrival. I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm a divided person when it comes to prophecy. One part craves

taking time out to exercise  my blood sugar slowly  comes down 

in a thick night wind turning flowers and i hear the breathing of darkness - wearing a cold shirt a man with a  feral smile waves - cool water where we wade barefooted... no one else is here

a crowded bus passes by  its lunch time  and folks move  with purpose  - on the shelf dusty figurine of a Japanese samurai i unpack  all my 'baggage'  - pool full  of fresh koi today i am  baptized in this  balmy night air

i walk down streets in heat of day aging is reality and one that i hope against - mother's face on the cover of the obituary  pinned to my wall... afternoon heat - i can't hear moman's voice  anymore  i am no longer  a little boy 

under a hot moon  the scent of that moon  vanilla and  pine needles  - peeled potatoes on  the counter  its a pleasure watching  him cook  - another cigarette and more  tepid coffee tension stains  his broad shoulders

feeling like kids we drink from the water hose in the backyard - buying slippers a woman and a man come along  with luggage - someone  pacing  an empty hallway in the staircase smell of weed 

 hot night  all i want is people to  get somewhere  and be still  - message left unread in my phone... ice in my Crown has melted - pawlonia... unfamiliar with that... my copy of 'Genji' on the shelf untouched 

feathers  from a mountain dove a bouquet of  scarlet dahlias... i continue to age  .

big-eared dog passes me by  somewhere in the dark  hearing someone's cough  and a lighter lighting a cigarette . another night at the job... praying  things settle down  and remain peaceful . eyes  behind glasses have seen  two World Wars and  discrimination rise and fall  . surreal evening  a shirtless guest getting  a container-full of ice this hotel life begins  . feeling  strange around these words... trying to arrange them  in slsll according to convention . always  a ringing phone  and no one  on the end... overnight begins sluggishly  . under  the eaves a wasp's nest the bee hive in my heart trembles slightly  . for a moment  standing in front of  these leaf-like  electric doors... night steps in  . scrubbing my hands... the film of day clings stubbornly  to my fingers . under  a dog moon... strolling the hotel property this balmy heat stains the pavement too  . as usual making eyes at every man  that passes summer heat blooms . a lone man  cutting across  a parking lot