city life

In That Japanese Town Again








In That Japanese Town Again






I was there, too.
Sipping on a medium mug

of American-bought green tea.



(But it's been steeped in for so long.)





But if you try to question
how bitter it tasted,
well, it is not that bitter
—in the greater scheme of things





(Tho', screaming, in my dreams:

"If the Japanese withstood

bombings from the skies
like no other,
then why can't they
go through this one?")





Theirs, once again,
are framed signatures,
like household items
in Kyoto; after funerals that
were faced with protests in the state;






Preservation at its best,
equally interinvolved with caveats

—a newer testament in the Eastern front?




So long, cultural values.



So long, moral values.



Farewell, spiritual values!








Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 10.25.2022:

 

1.  Replaced the word Conservancy with its more appropriate word designation for what I was thinking about by the time of its inception (I was mistaken at the proper word usage to mean the preservation of Japan's traditional buildings or architectures or, definitely, its own heritage reflected in many of its natural landscapes, notwithstanding its built environment (rojis, satoyama, Takayama City, et al).

 

2.  Reedited form, despite being a free-verse form, just to make one long line to not stand out

awkwardly from the seemingly uniformly ordered poem.

Unconventional Breakfast Rituals (American Norms)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unconventional Breakfast Rituals (American Norms)




Coffee

that's just so freshly
brewed—


none other than

by
yourself,


once you stood up—
self-driven



American
morns—or

silver afternoons,


a nice mug for it..

(or some type of vessel)


accompanied by one's favorite 90s

music lineup & something for

the ears,

(like determining unduly cast away earworms)


during

the last week of September
and for the months after—



..could be an enjoyable sip



(farther, once more, in our roundabouts)



could be a nice start








Author's Notes/Comments: 

3rd Reedition (10.08.2022 [06:20]) Added the following, or beside the poem's title, as its subtitle: (American Norms).

 

2nd Reedition (10.08.2022 [05:56] )  Free verse was restructured by moving "—" in [deemed] more appropriate spaces because of its affective quality, like (perhaps) a function served by a "caesura" that could mean a lot, or contribute to,  the conveyance of the verses' very expressive qualities (in or by themselves).

 

Reedited (09.30.2022):  Added more content and more delineated tropes and shaped a more grammatical English in the mix up against one's switch between paradigms (of the vernaculars held or modified as part of one's evolving cultural history or embedded linguistic indentity).

Bound

Bound by the cities

Bound by another one's pity's

Expect a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen

 

And I'll take you as walking money

I see you as a pretty big funny

We and I, all have found our place

And you my dear, have barely found a face

Bound to me, and to my briefcase

I'll lend you a smile, but you're a secret disgrace

 

Find the comfort in another's eyes

But in reality, another girl will have them hooked on their clever disguise

Find a place to be

Or expect not want to be seen

 

Stuck in a rut

With no qualities, not knowing what

Who are you and what are you in this city?

Gone and withdrawn, alone and all shitty?

Expect a place to see

Or expect us to be mean

 

For you are bound

What goes around, comes around

You are stuck here, forever with me

With no voice, or founding plea

 

For you are bound

My slave, to paint my sacred ground