as the light disappears
at
the sunset horizon
like all sensation
save your
sadness
persisting as perfume on
a hot
summer’s day
come with me
to be together among
the black
stars and
celestial dreams
come with me.
I still have
my son his child-
ren my brothers and
sister & the memory of
another to bless, kiss and hold
I stay
in divine
supplication.
no? I shall wait for you then.
Last Dream
in a courageous fight . . .
he slipped a-
way
peacefully in his sleep
do we dream as
numbing death
crawls up the legs? do we
writhe
in the pain of
enlightenment
or drift into shining joy does peace thaw
frozen death
like a warm
rain?
Or does regret drizzle the mind
with black paint
until sunlight crashes
into the
western horizon of
the Buddha’s gaze with no end question
on the
lips?
a last dream:
the crying blue ocean below a young
blue sky
above
balancing on a railing between while
oka cleans the rice of grain swish and swirl
like white pebbles
caught
in a Naruta whirlpool.
a sea creature erupts the surface
a monster spirit’s
guttural
voice
belches forth and
I fall
into the blue below
gasping for the blue
above drowning in
water until
a tender callous’d hand
grips my collar
and pulls me
up
to the indigo sun.
a last dream:
ayoung boy
dances or tries to dance
to the scratchy records
on the RCA
the rough-
hewn splintered walls of an
internment prison
rumble
with the shuffling feet
and sweaty hands
on
the backs of frayed summer
dresses a handprint,
a stain
but the couples glide to the music
“My son Hideki he had first time dance to-night at Hotel.
He said to mama, ‘Mama, I made dance to-night’ and he was very joyful. We are just smile.”
matsujiro watada, Minto, BC 1942
the walls fall a-
way as the recordsong
crescendos
and the forest
trees march to
the musicmarchinginside to hug
the
children in
a leafy embrace.
the last dream:
a cat, a grey-brown cat
mewing goodbye
as their truck pulled away
from
the camp
he sees it through tears
and the cat melts before his
dreameyes
did he dream a
last
dream? did okasan
in her coma? did
dad
in the ambulance on
his way
to the morgue?
dark thinking eyes closed
for the last time
and
dreams evaporated.
The Dinner
a hollow
pocket
hovered
around the dining-room
as dinner was served.
my
brother
loved to play host
back in the day
he always brought out
an adequate bottle
of wine
my father called
him kitsui with money
he always stored away the bottles
any one
brought as a gift.
kitsui
but i should have appreciated
his little gestures his pockets of
generosity
but too little much too late now
his wife sat
in his son’s renovated kitchen
to eat by herself in the company
of turkey carcass
stuffing, canned cranberry
sauce and sushi
in the company of her grief.
a flutter of spirit hands
in
hushed room-
corners
he
once asked her
to come with to where
he was going
she
refused of course
but i wonder
if he is calling her
towards his
grave their names are together
on his tombstone
her facial muscles
slacken as her sadness
emerges into the
light
and
her legs
drag
as if gripped in place
by gravity or hands
grasping
her ankles.
i wonder as she
refuses direct eye-contact
as only the perfunctory
spills
out of
her mouth
every time, every occasion
she blames me
(i know) for his passing
how i
refused
his demands of money
of property of title
kitsui until
i held his outstretched
hand as he poured out
his regrets, his guilt, his
sorrows in rebellious tears,
defiant
tears
enraged tears
with
black tears
but did i forgive?
his wife pushed me aside
to comfort to stop the
drizzle of
a crying
rainfall
i could only watch tearless
— my self lacking pity
i carried his coffin of stones
to his final resting place
a place
a fair distance from our
parents only scorn and rejection
as his last act on this earth.
his parents were never
my
parents
he never sat at holiday
dinner tables unless he came
late
by himself
in the company
of turkey,
stuffing, chow
mein
perhaps i should have been the brother
reaching out for
the sake
of family
but i was not.
the holiday table is laden
with heavy
dishes of thanks the relatives
laugh
with joy and remembrance
stomachs soon swell with dis-
comfort
and satisfaction
he would have been happy pontificating
on
some obscure opera while his wife
turned a deaf ear while others sat with
eyes glazed over
but that was us for a time
now we partake of plenty
while pockets of guilt, pockets of
shame
pockets of sorrow
grow into the shadows
and corners of disappearing family.
virgin moon
in its
first quarter
the clear (liquid) light
droplets
of light
bounce
and splatter the companion
gameroom
with a wish (as we all
wish):
to talk one last time,
for a day, for an hour, a minute
to sweat
out
answers to hear why
he hated me
why
he loved me
and as the revelations seep
into me
perhaps i’d
find it was my fault
or that nothing ever was the case.
a third of the candles extinguished
and
the
conversation draws near.
100 Ghosts
In the corners and cross-roads of the Big Smoke
(thank you Bunji)
A Silent Rain
When a sliver of light
becomes a dagger of night,
the hour of cantrips
and incantations glows bright.
the Big Smoke sings
a kind
of Blues in the key of Waits:
against the steady choir
of
traffic and sirens,
I
slumber
in the breezy dark,
but not asleep, never asleep.
life is too short
(claims the cliché) for Poe’s
slices of death to interrupt
and the rain comes beating
on the roof in waves of
tranquility and sadness
against the glass
dripping over eaves and
soaking in-
to
the ground
sinking in—
to
the plateau of fantastic streets,
i escape the self-doubt, self-
loathing, the knife of
self:
(the fear of being found out,
the
vanity of the hack writer)
images of melting colours, barking dogs, a loving
baby
touching my shoulder in an effort to comfort
the hour of cantrips
and incantations begins.
crying, absolute breakdown, without motherly
love
kiss the
mouth of phantom lovers
(wide open
eyes squeezed & tight)
rivulets streaming
across
cheeks, nose and
chin
with the realization
of what is and
what
shall be, i
awaken
to the rain gone
silent
I am alone in bed
with the memory
of magic and
the streets
continue
to sing.
Suicide City
On a copasetic night
of cop beatings,
street meanderings
and wanton love-
making out
against a moist brick wall
osamu jumped
from
the Bloor Viaduct
hitting the asphalt
not surviving even
a moment of
clarity.
Tim Horton’s at
2 a.m. dave
thinks
about
what he will do
tomorrow
she’s in a coma
the stillness of a stroke
in her brain
no chance of survival
no glimmer in the eyes
it’s best
one shot to the head
and she’s gone
and then dave is gone
moments later
lives become headlines
you want to die?
I am 60 a declaration
of time dwindling
only
20 years left anyway.
I am alone what’s the
use?
the paralysis
of analysis
a philosophical desire
for nothingness
to sleep. to feel nothing. to
see nothing to be no-
thing
but your dreams?
loneliness
looks for company
in
a city of 5 million
the coldness of
skyscraper white & black
buildings the decrepit lowrise
and tired
Victorians
featherlight garbage flying down
anonymous ominous alleyways
the bodies pile high be-
hind
the small prim hotel
behind
Dundas & eternity (a portal to another
reality)
to die of exposure is a kind of suicide
on wintry
nights
of cop searches and social
worker pity
when loneliness provides a reason
to leave. to feel nothing
not even a
dream
Lisa
As she
lay
die-
ing,
her mother, as
all Nisei mothers
tend to do,
en-
treat-ed
her to choose
a religion
“You’ve got
to have a funeral somewhere . . . ”
all the relatives
will be coming all
the friends I’ve got to make
arrangements:
food, flowers, the minister . . .