mollusk

an early morning of writing poems -- downstairs another argument  between drug addicts 

pungent scent of navel oranges  a breakfast of silence  not really sure how i fell  a man i do not know  stares at me intently on the bus  his eyes cloudy gray of a coming storm  afternoon walk to the city park  everything in me craving the sharp coldness of Winter  leaving the coffee mug in the sink  no lover  and no child brighten this house  visiting an old park  seated on a bench  writing in the glow of a slowly setting sun  the old woman  passing by for a third time  glint of sun off the shopping cart she pushes  manman what exactly do you see  in the afterlife?  has  Emma-ō been kind to you 

downtown  in cheap district  moving slowly  from store to store  unsure of what i want  in and out  of this house of mine  too cramped  yet there are bottomless shadows  im not fearless enough to explore 

i know nothing about flowers  or snowy mountains ... let me peer into a human's darkness a cool morning  when i leave the job-site "we miss you Sandy. we miss your turns of phrase" passing an overturned park bench  bits of litter... this tenement life is something else  was told that love is the ripening of peaches... climbing into a cool bed nothing but the whiteness of a dream mid-Fall moon sugary white  i too want to glow with  an unearthly inner light passing the bus stop  tonight a homeless woman adjusts  and re-adjusts her shopping cart  trading emails with that Norwich woman  what do we do with these  broken lives we've been given the 'somethingness' of this life  how quickly i pour minutiae into oblong shaped tanka  standing on the balcony  wrapped up in a thin robe  smoking a cheap Black & Mild Samantha Sang crooning about emotions  the Bee Gees accompany  my cup of tepid coffee no man to w...

choppin' cucumbers  domesticity  settles in waves aerobics— unsure what the holidays  will be like  buying Christmas lights  sweep of fabric on the wall yellowed silk fan trying to ignore his strident tone

 no sounds in kitchen  save mémær cutting up onions and greens for gumbo  iron fences separated them... mémær said  dense cane fields separated us  from freedom  another night walking to work... tonight i am sleepy... in my head  the Creole word for 'sugar' weep over Hiroshima  over Apartheid and Holocaust... tea's grown tepid thinkin' of Humanity's sins  taking off his robe  walking back and forth naked what is this  sudden mood im in a quick shower  then quickly dressing  tonight i will work overnight for the second time   one bonbon then two a guest here'n there  then a welcome silence descends on the hotel  unsure how it feels to be hated  because of ethnicity... in long line at grocery store  feeling reckless  ive gone up to his room  in the darkness  fingers fumble with pant's zipper Takuboku  on a small island  made up of white sand  flirting with crabs nev...

slight bitter-sweetness of persimmons, home alone. there's not much on the tv. i opt for my playlist on Spotify. the 'he' i shld have, is nonexistent...not sure how i feel about that.  in a dark field  decaying body of someone's child  my coffee  tastes quite scorched

in the space of two minutes  the amount of times  i've thought  of drowning him  in the silence  sound of wall deodorizer— watching the clock, waiting  until food order arrives what is 'tanshi'  over a pasta dinner  listening to him pontificate on why my poetry isn't Japanese  on this night this Wednesday  returning home  cats are suddenly things i despise  sip after sip  of some cheap whiskey  the handsome legs  of some Latino laborman passing by curled tendrils of some vine  arriving home tonight  quite unsure  of what i want  going to bed a Sudanese lullaby plays  in the background in my dreams  Ryokan´s tanka  read while enjoying the taste of too-sweet navel oranges quiet morning... my child questions  manman Earth about her health  uninhibited... the coy ways these words  dance into an oblong tanka  up and down shadowed streets men with painted faces and...

 shift wrapup... job spits me out into the night comb through hair... no teeth  im left aggravated  homeless family  slipping sixty dollars  into outstretched hands son feeding gerbil, senryu curls around base of spine overnight shift—dark watersnakes swim in/out of me

flowershop on the avenue, my child is on the spectrum  unfinished poem, rejection letters more poetic  tapping foot...giving this workshift a cold shoulder 

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 

fading twilight, night's breath smells minty there's questions i don't ask myself, tarnished wall mirror tired of hotel guests, no reason to be nice pale breathing, he is soon to be dead under pecan trees entering the afterlife quite smoothly like aged witch, slowly conjuring Fall forth ètoufé for dinner, denim jeans across the unmade bed reflection in dishwater, night ends abruptly as it began another guest arriving his Giaconda smile and veiled eyes full of things i want nearly 10 pm mouth watering at the thought of Vodka i'll buy after work home from work glass filled with Smirnoff i roam these dark Dallas streets sometimes doubting myself... rush of emotion wrapped up in self-loathing quite ready  to be off work drinking and slumping over in a deep doze tonight no impulse to pour my happenings into the skin of some haikai verse kids of this soccer team filling up my lobby doing what kids do... ready for home realizing im a hoarder again i print up pages of someone...