prepared by absence

prepares the artist’s

formulation—

like the first knick

in an apple when the peel

starts to coil away.

Inspiration

prepared by shadows

prepares the mind’s paranoia—

like the loudness of small sounds

in a room occupied by one body.

Hunger

prepared by thirst and taste

prepares the hand a story—

like the stomach’s need for more

when it is already full.

Rage

prepared by heavy deceit

prepares the craving for revenge—

like a recipe for a known meal

with the wrong ingredients.

Emptiness

prepared by pouring out

prepares form—

like a drinking glass fills,

but not all the way.

Space

prepared by silent volume

prepares a loud story—

like insanity’s hidden desire

to recreate what has already been

an artist’s formulation.

            Japan went under.

 A tsunami killed thousands

            you killed only one.

 The newscasters said it was “Too bad.”

             You said “Too bad. I’m gone for good.”

 I should have known the air down south would do you no good.

            Meanwhile the President is heartbroken

 and helicopters have been landing for days-

             nothing has really gotten better.                                                                     

 The American Japanese people aren’t well

            because phones in Sendai aren’t ringing.

 So many are missing.

            The panda from the WOK sign is floating down stream

 and white sheets are curling from windows;

           the stranded still wailing for help.

 Here, they worry the market will crash.

            Ties to Japan are choking the nation’s neck.

 We, too, may plummet. 

            In exchange for luck we are lifting drenched paper cranes

 from brown waters while California waits for slipping plates.

            You’re bringing back the arrival of spring with charred skin,

 while it is still winter here and the world falls away.

            The air in far off places is damaging.  Not luminous,

 but looming like death upon us, falling down, drifting along

             dragging heavy things with it.  The air is

 liquid now and there are problems with cooling down

            as everything heats up.

one small and one larger –

I remember the epitome of sounds

derived from desire and lust.

Through hollow wall apartments

an echo awoke us to our own shadows.

Forms on the wall pass like city traffic,

idle then gliding across, then dissipating at the corner.

Enough to remind us that whatever we were

was merely vibration through voices.

Light transcending, movements stilled by hesitation.

(Yours not mine).

*

Subtle movements through provocative means,

a hand reaching for another’s backbone

is only a desperate gesture,

broken when the reach is over

and re-established when longing returns.

A body opens to another then closes

when selfish consumption brings pleasure.

As if iron pulse and dry milky breath

can succumb the body when all

the air has been sacrificed.