tanka string

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 the smell of desperation 

no haiga accompanies 

any of the senryu i write ---

stale beer is a thing

knowing i should be asleep

all these untouched books

clutter up my space

behind black-out curtains

alone with my thoughts

feeling Takuboku´s spirit

each unpolished mirror

propped up against the wall

some days i avoid staring at me

two days into my forty-third chapter...

embracing the way 

my life doesn't make sense