Sign from Kumano Jinja

why covet your life,
man of firm futility?
why long to become
what i long to escape from:
a raw heart grated
by ugliness close to home;
the temple bells' sound;
that tense, imperfect balance
as the conscience pulls
the soul in two directions;
and to die at last,
after too long an effort,
in acknowledgment
of one's inability
to reconcile them?

could it be the same feeling
as catching a glimpse
of plum blossoms in the snow?
of a young woman
who will come home an old one?
of a thin-spun song,
perched on a simple, strummed chord,
of severed togetherness?

anyone would

Why must I send forth
great, wailing sobs of anguish
for people to know
that I'm a bit unhappy?
Seeing a sad thing --
anyone would be sad, right?
If I say to you,
"I'm angry with you right now,"
why not believe me?
Don't make me terrify you
to prove that I feel.
The corner of my mouth lifts;
my nose flares slightly;
my eyes stay too wide too long --
with these already,
with the tension in my hands,
I've said everything.
Am I invisible? Or
am I unbelievable?

平治物語の平重盛へ

Under the broad wings
of the fame-soaked butterfly,
when did you, young man,
learn the confidence to speak,
to contradict a father?

*

He keeps no promise,
if evil is done thereby,
forswears even gods--
but his father's foolish vows
guards to his own destruction.

*

The tall, light red roan
and the burnt orange laces:
they are only yours,
but the butterfly roundels
are much more yours, and much less.

Tanka (for Tametomo)

A thousand ages
may have come and gone by now,
yet see on my skin
the name of those who died out
rewritten in bold colors.

Utsarpiṇī

Last night, in my dream
I saw faces I never
touched, never took, and
now I have awoken; I
have still not seen them
since the life before I died

I know what they were—
the bone-deep tolling
of the Gion Shōja bells:
the cold, beaded dew
on the morning glory bud

Now, for the first time,
as has so often happened,
the morning has come at last

To Astraea

I don't understand
how the universe doesn't
grind to a dead halt
under the measureless weight
of its suffering.
Could there be a counterweight?
And it is just inertia?

Enough

I can't believe, but
I want to believe; I want
to, I want to, I
want to, I want so much and
so, so many and
always, and that there is how
I know there is good,
because I want good; I want
to be good, I want
so much and always, and that
is exactly good enough.

Late

In spring, the orchid
spreads out its skirts in defiance
of the seeing sun.
So, too, the lotus turns its face
in summer to God
from the muddy waters.
The chrysanthemum
conquers the eyes in autumn,
bold, indelicate,
settling into its due:
adult confidence.
But I reserve my judgment;
I watch with small hope
to see if in late winter,
at last, the plum tree will bloom.

already

I do it again
and again and again and
again and this time
like I always have
and like at no other time
I want and don't want to stop
She knows what to do
because somehow she figures
she knows right from wrong
It's really not that simple
It's complicated.
Of course, she doesn't think so--
and fuck, I like that.
Already I choose my words
slowly, already
her firm-formed disapproval
guides my decisions
already her pity calls
for me to serve her
and shames me for serving her
and makes me delight in shame

Tanka

Today's sky is flat;
the clouds lie close, uncurving.
I stare and wonder:
Is it flat for all who see,
or is it only my eyes?

Tanka

I open my eyes
and see the creatures in me,
all of us trapped here.
Surely this body is mine,
and surely it is not mine.

Tanka

On the gravel road,
I thought if I went barefoot,
my feet would callous.
I felt them grow uglier
but stay still tender and bleed.

Still

I am a beacon,
writing my rage on the sky,
and I am a still,
freezing in the mountain sunshine,
converting fury to tears.

Tanka

Black ink, white paper
begging me for my words:
but I have nothing,
overcome by the beauty
of black ink on white paper.

Entering the City

The sun is muted,
smudged over by the gray clouds;
houses huddle close:
piece of dreams of success.
All of these people
have their own destinations;
I do not know them
and am free of their knowing.
This is the city
I have taken to be mine.
Everything in it
is beautiful and unknown
and breathable through each eye.

Reading Cities' Names

Reading cities' names,
I just got punched in the gut.
All of these people,
all of these streets and houses:
I don't know any of them.

Tanka

Now I realize
I couldn't say I love you
because I didn't.
Now that I know what love is,
I have the freedom to lie.

By now I know what this is about.

Go on being hurt.
I need you to keep breaking,
again and again,
so I can keep fixing you
(so I can keep fixing me).

And then everybody would be safe.

When in the evenings
I dream of my happiness,
I dream about you.
I dream about you dying,
bleeding in a ditch,
a cold, slow death all alone.
And nobody cares,
and nobody looks for you;
it's terrifying,
and it's humiliating--
just ugly enough.
But that's pretty terrible,
wishing for that stuff,
and if I had that power,
I wouldn't cause that.
I'd choose something so much worse:
I'd choose to be free.
I'd wish you were never born,
that you never lived,
that you never existed,
that you changed nothing at all.

Tanka

Why would you teach me
that it's wrong to tell a lie
and also teach me
that it's wrong to tell the truth?
All that means is I can't speak.