urban hitchhiking and underestimated mythology

as i walk through boulevards 

and the sun begins to mount its way

back to Japan,

there's a slower consideration

in the boiling pavement

that lies beneath all my wishes.

the further away i get

from the subway station

the more the ground seems to breathe.

homes get bigger and plentiful;

no signs of the newest addition

of gray concrete, straight lines and estranged facades:

instead we get artistry,

a roof filled with ancestor's best intentions

mirrored lines and cracked bricks

to bring out the lemon trees

and perfume, peeking in from behind the fences

a sense that there's still some soul left

to this part of town

that for so long i felt like it could never belong to me.

as i stand on top of the bridge

i see how the sun fights back the windshields

the speed of sound coming in waves

and how much space

is still left

to dream.

i want to remember these streets by heart;

recite every name like a mouthful

so it'll never lose the quality of being misunderstood;

auxiliary to the greater good,

the final steps behind the highway:

the soft tissue behind the grayed out, green 

areas sold to the highest bidder.

july 7th, 2007

  intention is what drives the pulse

a kiss on the forehead, a subtle reminder
that what's not shown is what's worth
another night inside 
it's like waking up and outside seeing snow:
an event so rare,
eyes fall flat unaware;
the shape of a burning candle will guide
the coming and going of souls through the night
it's the tease of the times,
sprinkled with a soft laughter,
a running gag for the morning,
an entire universe built just for
the myriad of people looking outside the window
hoping they will catch on snow.
it's mid july,
i remember the embrace which could keep me sane,
the radio playing unequivocally remorseful lyrics
soft-toned presenters announcing time of the day
it's not the coldest time yet
it's not the thinnest my patience has ever been
i'm still wondering if outside i'll catch the soft peaks
or if i'll run down your mouth
trying to catch a glimpse of what's inside of you
i'll run around the old oak tree
retrace my steps in the ice
breeze will collate through the door
and no bone will shatter but 
the chest I sleep upon goes on and on and on
rumbling around in my thoughts
the slippery tides that hold us in
a reckoning of sentiment
it's just my desire is as big
as losing the shapes of trees
in the fog above.
my love is so immense 
i could break down engines
and shatter them
in stone cold fragments
of history.

what is never forgets; what reads is never the truth

maybe i’ll write a letter back to you
for every year my wrists keep aching.
i might have felt my own tears down the drain,
somehow i misplaced the feeling for the afterthought
the sensation that is only brought along
by the offender in an argument.
that feeling of relentless causality,
a means to an end with no good reason, 
other than to call you mine, yours, or the ‘love of my life’.
seems like an absurd thought, too big to tell
the difference between what’s realistically my life’s journey
and the desire to belong, in a second, 
behind these closed doors,
through paper and paper,
to the one to whom these feelings are addressed,
the one that will, out of many,
find my fears and my suicidal strategies to care enclosed
in an envelope of forgiveness;
maybe to make amends,
or to recall in our past lives
how we could sit next to the running river with our wet 
soles and tired glances.
which ever that destiny may be for either of us
it’s the eyes that see behind the cracks in the wall and tear down the remnants of 
dried out skin,
it’s the mouth shut close to keep a secret untold,
a stillness that could defy even my own integrity
framed in a picture
with a look i’ll always remember you for.
maybe our next letter is a goodbye tale,
the romance shattered to ashes.
in any case, i’ll keep my pen ready
for when the time comes and i’ve run out of photographs
to remember you for.