S.B.T. 367

right or wrong

Appreciate the sun, even in winter, as it melts the icicles before your eyes and later pulls green grassland from the soil, promenades with rain in a ripening hoe-down, and fruits, sweet, crimson and golden dance at the harvest masquerade. Yes, adorning silver platters and ming vases and everything down to a peasant’s wooden bowl. Everything is manisfestible, it’s a manifestival! So, my dear one, what do you need?

S.B.T. 366

stretch

you're holding your face too tight, miss lee whispered

scent of jasmine breezing past 

one won

ders if a compassion like that could be

organic or occupational 

or thespian - sigh, 

2013 is the year of expectations and so 

in yoga-ing whatever

i want to 

pass past 

threads treads

   thru a sieve

see if any residue will burn 

like incense or like coal

and it's a fluid backbone i'm after

to bend in skins and breathe exhaling 
more-ons and less-ons

for goodness sake

and a back ache

happy 2013! yay!

S.B.T. 365

why she left japan

"isn't it the rest of the world, not me, that is so stupid all the time? 

forget it, it's so crazy, so i did 

this 

and that 

and the other thing" 

an overlong story follows

my communication style 

a tender mix of culture, perception and past experience

apologetic fastfood salad somewhat healthy served through a window,

driving away, a prim white bag crinkled on the chassey,

the headlights beam on shiny sparkles in the road, dew-kissed diamonds 

set in coaltar a nourishing resin of mother's womb over silver wiring

carefully hammered 

hexagonal treads

embossments

"since diamond is extremely dense, shouldn't it be used for making windows and bridges? can anyone please just invent something that percolates perlicates replicates diamond?  sheesh-b'geezuss (and other not so pretty words)" spoken doe-eyed and convincingly

ribbon curls of dark hair hold her face in a tilted frame, her chicago russian lips and the sounds that come out of them - the way they create an abstract sculpture-in-motion to zero in upon as they speak with their story while they are the story.

mobile statuary not like miro, a marble madonna from the vatican in a tiny apartment  .

yonder marly kurosaki, jamaican on the maternal side and son of a highborn though fallen educated man whose clan lives in the country up north where there isn't a lot of public transportation.

"2 begin with i had a defensive bias on numerous issues related to city/countryside pros and cons and went over the list several times but i moved with him anyway and then deliciously engineered another spectacular disaster that i couldn't be blamed for, my usual 'i love lucy on overdrive' sort of escapade for the 21st century"

'if i can get back to tokyo

all-of-a-sudden-fast and take refuge

with the bf, and or the other guy

find another job teaching

english, baseball, nature, fingerpainting

(a bruised exotic fruit in a polyglass bowl)

this kind of s**t happens a lot'

"i just havent gotten it yet even though i know

 these things are importantly interwoven i still

can't see how anyone would resist twisting the threads

of fate

for -  i dunno -  a good glass of champagne or something

like a bathtub full of it maybe haha

ha ha ha

"i'm thinking about going to law school," she says about midway into the story. a gold threaded tassle, tossed to drift and swirl in slow motion over her dramatic soliloquy full of vibrant spirit and too smart,  an acceptance and pisshurt cocktail is served throughout and all in all, remarkable.

"i couldnt even get a bed in shinjuku" she laughed so in a blink and because his mother was driving her nuts about certain charms the old geisha section had abandoned, and her own mother was calling her overly often about the tsunami even though she was hundreds of miles away from where it happened,

she packed up, left her furniture, and got on a plane the next day

she left japan