From the series, Japan Poems.
There is no journey–
Only myths in which we fit
our lust to wander.

From the series, Japan Poems.
There is no journey–
Only myths in which we fit
our lust to wander.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Mottling, scars, green,
elements blend, fade, reseed–
Where was I, what, when?

From the series, Japan Poems.
Every crossing
moves in step with homesickness
for places unknown.

From the series, Japan Poems.
The world breaks daily
to reform your perspective–
Vision begets form.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Zen, and the art of
postcard from no known sender–
You, too, are passing.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Empty streets beckon
to breed favored solitude
among vagrant dreams.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Dilapidation a stunning aphrodisiac
for the soul hopelessly in love
with time’s obscene touch
and lusting after erosion
as a blatant course
of conjugal intimacy.

From the series, Japan Poems.
The old water pump
remixing Basho’s pond frog
makes a vivid splash.

From the series, Japan Poems.
Summer day, parched plants–
Kettled filled with cold water
borne by the old man.

From the series, Japan Poems.
It is true, you know–
I fall in love too easily
with the grayday jazz
of blue rustscabbed stairways
entreating vision and lore
to initiate a dream sequence
worthy of ghostly passage
without tracks or due cause.
