Its been a long time...how it slips away
like a little tuft of snow
gently dropping from a frozen ledge
and sitting silently in the cold
waiting for the sun
~Tabibito Shimizu
Tokyo.
Nothing really changes my pace like Tokyo.
Every minute is valuable and everone is valueless.
Herds of autocrats storm through human-sized hamster tunnels
like polite wildebeast in stampede
single mindedly slicing off seconds from their daily commute
and without passion or hesitation
jumping on and off magnetic elevated high speed transport pods.
Filling the nights with blazes of neon red
as blue waves of sound call undirected feet into alleyways
or behind closed doors
where the jazz that rotates around the insides of this plaster mask
finally cracks the glaze and washes out
~
Australia is gone...left alone with its imagery of kangaroos and eucalypt breezes, with baby blue skies on the edge of the world. After all, thats what I decided Australia is: a desolate shore on the edge of the world. Penguins go there. And people with nothing much else to do.
In ways its a haven; the pure dream of societies now far behind with population and economy problems. Few people, vast resources, strong currency.
And the white bristling sand
makes its arch on the bay
under sprinkles of stars that not many see
and the poly-petro chemically glued glass panel wall
protects red skinned Britons from the sweet salty seas
as they eat pork-mutton meat pies
in designer jeans
-
and now filtered by distance and a sprinkle of time
my sieve gently sifts through the good and the bad
and I`m forced to re\read all the writings I have
to find any meaning in my abrupt flight
and there is one I love there
whose hair like the down on a black swan
would sit gently on my arm
as we lay in peace through the silent days
at the edge of the world
A dove who I left
with her broken wing
and my inability to do anything
to help her to fly or get back on her feet
sometimes this free life
is so bittersweet
Divided into two
I am collecting my pieces
my heart is so cold in the rain
Japanese
the river, the bull-thrush, the chorus of green
as bamboo-ish whispering of six unknown trees
pull me back into Asia
180 degrees.
