how to

there's instructions for every breathing detail

in a life of one's own;

a place to place the placings in your head,

a bathmat,

how to fold fitted sheets.

something inescapable in a lifetime of mirrors,

uneventful wandering,

around days and days and days

seeing how old houses are torn down

for new apartment blocks to be built up.

i will miss my neighborhood as i grow old,

it will escape me faster than i will ever be able to retain it in my memory.

the winds will change, 

the voices coming from the bathroom window,

the way the sun sets.

all of it will also die with me,

as i go, no remains of a life well lived.

it bears without saying

that my best memories will always lie together

with the sunsets, sandstorms, moonless nights.

none of which have ever been 

instructed to be mine.

we have grown to appreciate all that's calm,

and whatever's withered and falling.

the ground that breathes

 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 high way:
the soft tissue behind the grayed out green 
areas sold to the highest bidder.

the fatal nature of seasickness

 does the black moon help you reconnect with your closest self?
have you closed your eyes lately,  and felt
a never-ending coming and going
of seasickness
that can only be explained
by the fast movement of the seasons?
I’ve tried to explain it to myself:
i’ve meditated in place
sitting down
down on my chest
legs out front
on my feet:
      nothing.
there’s no stopping what’s near me
if i open my eyes big enough, maybe i’ll catch a glimpse
familiar sweetness, a mossy rock in my childhood heart
even the winds of trade made of salt and bones
will feel like new momentum 
renewed enthusiasm
enough to keep me going 
for like, what, 20 more years?

the corner shop

 do you think as you get older
and you start to see the signs of wear and tear
you will forget about me?
i have not seen you in years yet I dream,
I dream of a day where we accidentally lock eyes,
you see my face resurface in your old memories
just like you thought you had forgotten.
i have sat by the window at the bar
that I first visited when I was looking for you,
hoping that in any of these faces
I see myself and I see you.
how do you look? did you lose weight? 
did you lose your hair?
it would be so easy to find out,
I can always come back.
it's been ten years waiting for a moment to happen,
and i think i could wait ten more.
if the wind reaches you,
i also hope my words come with,
that they whisper in your dreams
that I was once someone,
not just a face.
the day i conquer that distance
i know something will die:
you'll never just have the time to bump into me,
take the time to sit down,
grab a coffee,
listen.
maybe we'll look at each other and wave,
briefly my hearing will stop,
i will run out of breath,
and look stupid.
nobody has your face,
your demeanor
or your voice.
nobody looks like you,
i'm not expecting them to do so. 
years will come and go,
I'll be sitting here,
never forgetting,
always understanding
what separates me and you
is a dimension of time.
if I'm lucky,
I'll see you in my next life.