tanka string

 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

never met a man 

crying with a 

handful of fine sand—

im not that interesting

some woman 

from Hawaii

walking through this midnight lobby 

wishing people would disappear

married too early

all of my dreams 

put in storage—

wilting tulips 

in a darkened room

its been five years 

and manman's ghost 

still hasn't visited me

pausing in my day 

sadly thinking 

i'll never see manman 

leaning on a walking-stick

insecurity in me 

like the light cry of an insect

somewhere in me

ebbing and flowing 

my memories being sucked

into a black hole 

i fall into a sleep 

stained in exhaustion 

jotted down several senryu 

before grabbing my things

and heading home 

through cold darkness

in this dark room 

the warmth of shadows

that are both familiar 

yet different to me

enjoying drinks with friends 

an older gentleman 

stares at me 

with twinkling eyes 

on a crowded train 

always huddled against 

these flesh-colored seats

no one says a thing 

in the corner 

of a crowded afternoon train 

ignoring everything 

i think of rain

...all apart of being fed up 

some nights 

i fight the urge to return 

to my promiscuous ways 

a mean thing to do...

hanging up 

in my ex's face

think ill have soup for dinner

making weird faces 

in the mirror 

its really been years since ive 

had a good cry

tears are interesting

i think—

tonight having my black tea

without any sweetner

right now

too tired of these hotel people 

going in and out 

of the elevator 

outside at the smoker's bench 

a chill in the dark

can't put a finger on 

what im thinking about

how long has it been 

since i've laid in the grass

forty-three yrs old 

forty-three yrs old 

birds playing in the sky 

under the heavens 

man moves 

man creates and destroys

scratching my forehead

at forty-three 

i no longer believe the fairy tales 

that used to make me dream

a rifle-shot deep in the night 

and there goes 

my imagination 

spilling out a scenario 

learning to absorb 

the moments 

when life is calm 

and nothing's happening

_____________________________________________

leaving washed clothes

unfolded ...

an old friend calls

about dinner

insurrections

and coups...

these days humanity's darkness

blooms wildly 

climbing into cold bed

my runny nose

reminiscent of a loyal dog—

quite sleepy 

this moment 

and this moment only 

broken show plates 

and my dark steamed tea

unopened emails

room desperately needs airing—

warmth

while reading Goethe

feeling quite rebellious 

briefly i try on 

a pair of high-heels...

nah, it aint for me

silently raging against 

the portrait of Mona Lisa...

'quit smilin' at me 

you crooked bitch!'

saccharine-sweet laughter 

from the bleached blond...

hardness of her eyes

fucks up the image

'floating world, o, floating world....' 

ending that lil tune 

i get on 

the nighttime bus

out of the old willow barrel 

all the senryu 

i've made about nothing 

and everything 

like peeling back the layers 

of onion skin...

watching him turn into 

his childlike self

'now forty-three...'

and that's as far 

as i get 

with that specific thought 

for a moment 

considering going 'Flexitarian...' 

this bottle of Metamucil 

is extremely expensive