poetic fragments op. 51

Uu

Only what I could say: uu
Because the new crop soba was too delicious on the bamboo steamer.

It could be all right to say “great!” or “fuck you!”.

But it’s uu that passed my lips.

I ate all the noodle.

The essence of uu

Cannot be expressed in words.

But it has a decent meaning: wonderful.

Uu

Also passes the lips

On ejaculation, you know.

What?

Also at the deep end?
uu uu uu in the mind.

Somehow

I feel full only from uu.

Sobayu (hot buckwheat water) please.

My looking at a menu

Before a soba shop,

Welcome!

Said a cute girl in a white overall apron,

Like miss Obokata,

Having a big Japanese radish.

It’s so okey

To enter the shop.

By the way,

What do I want to talk about?

Of course,,

Uu.

About the sublime origin of uu.

Try to say the converse of uu.

It’s aa indeed.

Is it jeu de mots of A and UN?
Aa,

This coming down.

Words’re innocent alienations.

If uu becomes uu(宇宇）

To a big gently-curved sword,

If uu becomes uu(羽羽)

To a hsien with winds.

If uu becomes uu(右右),

To ask God to help,

These never owe to uu.

Slipping out uu,

At that moment,

Mankind perfectly alone.

Uu,

That’s a murmur by the cosmos.

poetic fragments op. 50

Fridge

Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai qui tu es.

It was just after the French revolution

That an ancient French person said so.
Ce que je mange
Is now in a fridge:
Cocombres by Mr Sakamaki

Tomates by Mr Gotoh
Citrouilles from Adachino.

Every social relation
Starts from eating with.

Liverty
With cocombres.
Love
With tomates.
Hatred
With citrouilles.

In the fridge

Tiny tiny
Pieces of
The earth.

poetic fragments op. 49

Words of birds

I really get tired of
Human words.
Asking back murmured words is

Also annoying,

Listening to
Pride and servility in words is worthless.

Words of birds are my favorite.
They are pure and orotund,

And have neither polite, humbling, nor respectful ones.
That’s because birds have no classes like us.

No need for them for
The art of expressions of overtones
with accents and intonations.

After all their words have no lies.

Words of birds are my choice,

Though I can’t pronounce regrettably.

Hearing them doesn’t make sense of their real world,

Translating them into human words.
The language is in the first place
The translated thing,
Benjamin said.
Nature is a language,

Morrisey said.
Nonetheless I wonder what the truth is.
Listening to the words of bulbuls,

Lying spread-eagled on the tatami floor in early autumn
Like this,

I find the secret of the world:
Being is sound.

poetic fragments op. 48

The black water tower

Why did I have
A wordless angst feeling
At that time?

Why was I unhappy?
The water tower looked whole black
Against the sun light.

My father used to bring me
To the primary school near my house
On Sundays,

Putting me on the back on his bike,
Before my entrance into it.
The gate remained open unlike today,
I had nothing to do but
Look this way and that.
Because I was so young.

You are a primary school student next year.
My young father was maybe happy,
That’s why his voices were tripping.
You come here every day from next year.

I was looking up to the huge water tower
On the rooftop of the school,
Behind my father,
Having a blue feeling

As if I were forced to leave
The paradise.
The tower―
a huge, black, strange, and biting-into thing.

When I think back,
That was the first malice of this world.
A monstrous, rising-up, and all-black thing
Without a smile―
This is violence itself.

50 years have just passed
Since that time.

So I’m not afraid of the tower.

Instead, it dwells in my sprit,

And I’m fully a rising-up, and whole-black thing
Without a smile.

My dead father says,
pointing at the tower,
“a crape myrtle in full bloom.”
Suddenly
The flowers start glowing
As in this moment in that moment.

poetic fragments op. 47

Akineton Serenace

Back to the people

They mean me

I’m already back

Take a look at

The old cherry tree

In the wind

That’s me

Mad flowers
Bedevil you

From today

You are the cherry

You don’t have to suffer any more

Back to the cherry sky

Removing all the tubes

From your body

The dying grave
Had an epitaph:

Akineton Serenace

Both hands and legs

Changing into the haze devil

Nice and great

To live in an old barrel
Among the people

Feel pity

Without love

So said Diogenes

poetic fragments op. 46

Dinner’s ready!

How many times on earth
Have I heard these words for me?
Then

I’ve tried to count.
And I stopped soon.
The number is
Nearly that of my life days.

54 years 8 months

Namely 19971 days

It will come to 20000 days soon.
20000-times dinner’s ready: it’s so great.

And 19971 days

Those things, these things, such things:
They have happened in the days.
That person, that girl, that guy,
That rascal, that idiot:
They have been somewhere in the number.

Yet only without me.

I’ve not responded yet
To almost 20000 callings.
Because I’m always someone else
In my dreams.

poetic fragments op. 45

Impromptus

Remembering
That time,

Lush gingkos

On the field.
I was waiting
Under one of the trees.

I can’t remember now

What I was waiting for then.
But someone was performing
Impromptus by Schubert
In the music room.

Cicadas were shrilling,

So that was perhaps in August.
Everything was so clear
In sounds, shapes, light and shadow.
And I

Was waiting under the tree more distinctly
Than what I am.
By any chance,

Waiting for what I am,
What I am in a vague way.

poetic fragments op. 44

Paris, Tokyo

For a long, long time

The faces I can’t see,
The screams I can’t hear,

The wind I can’t feel.

I’m seeing but I can’t,
I’m hearing but I can’t,
I’m feeling but I can’t.

I have no eyes,

No ears,

No skin.

―I’m a tiny stone.

The new moon

In the deep November

Is a jet-black void.

Now an invisible hawk

falling toward it.

The tiny stone:

A dry tongue.

poetic fragments op. 43

en Himi

les montagnes invitent les nuages

les nuages répondent la mer
les mouettes s'amusent à la mer
la mer balance la poésie

samedi, le neuf janvier

poetic fragments op.42

Pink noise

The galaxy deeply in my ears

Revolving like crazy.

Penetrated by the monotone sound,

I’m lost in a maze.

I lose my grasp
On this place.

At a crossroads in the maze,

Planting a flag saying,

“The charity for the recovery from the Great East Japan Earthquake,”

An old man edging a knife.

The sound sounds nice
for the ears of the galaxy.

He eagerly growling,

Achime ohhhhhhhh oke

Achime ohhhhhhhh oke

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The old man sharpening a knife.

By its silver blade edge,

With his conjuration

I get an urge to be pronged.

Yet God already died,

So the emperor probably died too.

Shishishishishishishishishishishishishishishishishi

Jihhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

You react to the same sound. It’s called pink noise.

Pink noise:

A really pretty name.

Nevertheless

My galaxy so cruel

That hearing the silver voice
never comes to good things;

Getting horny to rain, having a hatred for snow

Eager for the water of Sega well, Sega well.

Don’t drink only water so much.

The old man has dived suddenly

To a train of Shinkeisei line.

He mimics the dead under it.

A young station staff
Chastises him fiercely

With his loud voice as if reaching another world
Everything has already indeed

Reached this world, I suppose…

Aishi aishi

Aishiaishishishishishishishishi

Now I remember,

A long time has passed

Since I was called my name lastly from my dead father.

This time,

I call your name
Light, sea―

Women named so.

poetic fragments op.41

Letters with a green ink

I can’t recall

The colour of the mind in October.

During I smell
The north wind

Which sounds zelkova’s leaves,
The mind turns inside out for the moment
Like fallen leaves on a road.
And for the time,
The colour of the mind
Returns in that time.
Surely that time was.
It must be me

Sometime, somewhere…

It’s hard to indentify
The colour.
But it turns
In its fine colour.
It differs from anymore
Pain, anger and taste
But is “someday, somewhere.”
My writing with a green ink
Like Umberto Saba,
“Someday, somewhere”
Is not green.
It’s a nameless colour.
The colour makes me uneasy.

poetic fragments op.40

Burning rabbit

The breeze of summer

Has colours.

Sprawled,

Ear of wind, blue

Feet of wind, yellow

Breast of wind, navy

When my daughter was in elementary school,

She showed me her painting

Of a rabbit painted red all over.
“Why red?” I asked her.
She said, “ he always eats only carrots.”
The square and box-shaped rabbit is
Somewhat funny,

Somewhat sad.

And finally,

Death ashes came down on the city.

My wife and daughter

Left home.
The rabbit was fiercely burning in all red.

I know

The breeze to the rabbit.

That is uncountable burning wind of sunset

Which is born with uncountable leaves

Of summer zelkova trees.

poetic fragments op. 39

Counting blue cars

“A Christ driving a blue car,”

My friend says.

Insane.

Insane as he is, he can count.

He has been counting blue cars
On a crossover bridge

Before a Lion’s apartment building

For quite a while.

Why blue?

Why cars?

Those are mysterious.

Yet blue cars are certainly running

On Route 6

And he’s insane…

Actually

I’m a Christ.

I went insane, resigned,

And my family broke up.

I have such genes like these.

Genes are the cross.

The cross is the cross

Only while human beings exist.

We make them the cross.

So many Christs today:

Counting blue cars.

poetic fragments op. 38

A road, not me

Robert Frost sang with a sigh,
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.”

I’ve never been willing to

Take a road unlike him.

I’ve been always taken by a road

Which was not radiant in the least

But was under a bright evil star.

Hence

I have no regret paradoxically.

Taking or not taking a road

never has made me what I am.

From beginning to end,

There was not “me” but “a road.”

The road was
Grassy and in leaves.

It was both summer and winter.

Two roads diverged in a wood.

poetic fragments op. 37

Sunflowers

There is a space of sunflowers under the neon of pachinko.

They are spindly, but have small-sized beautiful yellow flowers.

Night sunflowers are also pretty good.

The rover is running about on the Mars.

It’s so good.

Terrans are rushing about on the earth.

Only the sunflowers’ space

Is faintly still.

The neon

Makes the moon far.

The pachinko,

Poetry far.

The cicadas,

A home far.

Terrans are also returning today.

Loneliness is to have the home

To get back to.

Sunflowers;

All they turn violently to the other side.

Being refused by the flowers,

Fukuichi, Fukuichi

Under the neon,

Is the way of cats.

haiku op. 318

the mirror
in the midnight

autumn thunders

haiku op. 317

already talk in
an autumn voice
women

haiku op. 316

October sunlight
includes 

the past

haiku op. 315

a spicy curry

the last day
of summer

haiku op. 314

the summer's gone

women
made out of memories

haiku op. 313

the empty sky
over the vacant street

August