My mother is Japanese, my father white. But my father was never in the military and she was no war bride. My mother is from Los Angeles, my father from citrus orchards and almond trees outside Sacramento.
My mother is Japanese, my father white. But my father was never in the military and she was no war bride. My mother is from Los Angeles, my father from citrus orchards and almond trees outside Sacramento.
Russia is blessed, for a group of Russians/ witnesses the end./ One from the gas company,/ formerly of the Ministry;/ sufficiently senior/ never to have acquired/ the demeaning capitalist art/ of charm.
I fall in love with/ night time people; the clerk/ behind the counter, with his trucker cap,/ his tent-like Megadeth tee shirt.
Bungaboo Kana cannot know the story his life will inspire, cannot see out of that hot cab filled with sound to the well-lit stage where Richard Dreyfuss will accept an Academy Award for his portrayal of a big-hearted ape mailman.
I hear the dead wish they could decide what we dropped in the ground: blood or wine or potato chip fragments, a left-shoulder toss of salt. Catch you in the eye. Better to leave behind for them than for gods or the devil.
And you in mind through all the apple rings the unseen villains ever-carboned into other/ leaves the distant notes interminably arriving – their tonics splaying outward over table/ runners echoing the chiming the nothing talk in the attempts to mop it up...