Remember when we were in Tokyo?

- The robots-

All the stars:
toy plastic cars
that urge to come and go.

- The tragic
novelty
of neon blood
stains.

An eulogy
over a pile
of darkened broken bones

the misfit of
glass
in the break of
a smile.

And there is
flame
blue green white
flame
lighting the cigarettes
of every
well-intentioned
devil
that chooses to walk the street, every
devil
that chooses to laugh
instead of surrendering
to the meditating light bulbs
of the endless corridor
where all the love
turns into
blurred make up
and
tired handwriting.

The wind is high
fresh
and sound.
The flesh is made out
of Ginza’s
shopping bags.

The quilt
of the mind
and the hammer
of the
heart
are
fed
eternally
to the electricity
under my knees.

-The haze-

Your breath
perceived the incoming aircrafts
stopping
in prayers
for every fraction
of their noisy flights.
Every atom of your will
gathered in peace
defeating the beauty
of the static sun.

My hands
warm against your want;
our lips
cotton dreams
woven in a red and white
unrehearsed
play.
The afternoon spoke
slowly
whispering
revealing jokes
of unthinkable
blasphemy.

The careful leaves of the sakura
lifeless, fearless
sheets of grace
hovered as the cranes
who love their nests.

Both our eyes
both our hearts
knew the matter
- living matter
that delivers chills
like childish kills
to our back
when the city's
furious kiss
hits the
unwary snow.

-The saints-

In the funny
peaceful temple
we drank water
so it would
purge the soul
(even though
all our thoughts
meandered
turning old
the cobblestones
of loneliness).

The happy animals
who roamed free
asked with
humble eyes
while
they sat about -
when will the firmly rooted heart
wither
drowned by the fearful tide
of the cutting night;
when will the hands become useless tools
meaningless weights
instead of
cosmic knots?

Pass the atmosphere
where the air is brief
we could be forever
wrapped in lightness
and white
but in here
despite the prayers
the clapping
the incense
the faith
- plus, the
firm demanding
of the adamant
earthquakes -
all we can be
is a half.

- The crow-

A bird
against the light;
the streets eager
for the easiness
of meat.

No peace -
nothing in the pace
of history.
A centipede
with a million eyes
roams
watching every one
of my
infinite sides..

Is it pain
is it sadness
that I speak to
when I wander
right onto
the photograph
of your
warm reeds?

- The river
keeps on
not unlike
infinite swords.

My wrists
ache
under names
I can’t regret
and my walls
all carry
messages
in complicated
ideograms.

There are so many faces
in only one smile;

so much waiting
in an airport
where there are

no landings

and where
steel concrete iron wires glass hurt

compose the best
of a confused
whilst everlasting

landscape.