Talking of Michelangelo...

For the last nearly three weeks I have been battering my brains against a block of oblivion--trying to see who would give in first: me or the block. I am still here. So is oblivion. But both of us look a little different.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, the title of today's posting hails from T.S. Eliot's famous 1917 poem, "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," one of my favorite poems of all time, whose many lines linger in my memory. Here are the opening lines of Prufrock with its curious refrain:


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

About a week ago, those last two lines, the ladies' chorus, if you will, began resounding in my mind as I was staring at "Takaaki."

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

For those of you who have been follwing the creation of this poem from its inception, in May (2009), I hope that what you have seen along the way is not just the painful tattoo of a poem on these pages, but the development of my relationship to a living person, in a sense, with a graceful form, foibles, peccadilloes, and other features, in a word, my friend: Takaaki.

One thing that I have had to ask myself more than once over these long months was: what are you doing? My answers were always vague: writing a poem. Pleasing myself. Passing the time. I don't know. The last, of course, being the most perceptive and honest answer. This is where I pick up the thread of our story today.

...

Where I became stuck, when last we met, was a point in the story where, after a bit of horseplay between Takaaki and me, and the ensuing waves in the bath, an innocent candle was knocked into the water and suddenly extinguished. Here, Takaaki rose up out of the water, like Gojira, re-lit it, and placed it on a shelf above the bath, where it might burn in peace.

As I am situated in the tub, I am looking up at Takaaki's fanny. Contra Freud, a butt is never just a butt, however, at least not in the imagination of this poet. It may be a cigarette end. It may be a conjunction. It may be the subject of some erotic fascination. It may be a trinity--the union of all three.

It all depends on who that butt belongs to, how we look at it, and how it is spelled [but]. It may represent something else--something far more fantastic entirely.

This is the question we are going to examine in the next few days.

...

Today's additions occur at the end.


Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki’s place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
I ought to add some flesh: tatami mats,
Seat cushions, delicate shoji—that’s
A kind of screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for a nap, or other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
It is customary. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,
Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but serviceable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, pre-emptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—since egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone two keys
Jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, a padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts. Where I may,
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with nude man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
These characters are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader—who is king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed physician
Or a nation exercising caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one estimating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. All suspects—possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—
Did not impress him much. I should explain:
He nodded, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:
Pine paneled room, his holy of holies,
Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—
Slight variation in the Japanese
Uncontaminated evening soak.
Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:
Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,
I felt divine. And it felt very good
To be a god—for that one moment. Time
Itself slowed to a complete standstill.
Not a single bubble burst until
Takaaki’s body settled in with mine,
His feet supported by my upper thighs.
Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make in comparison with love.
“Chutto samui ne?” his lengthy ‘ne’
Seeking confirmation above
All. “I guess everyone is cold today,”
I said, rotating the hot water tap.
His right foot trickled down into my lap
To thank me. “Knock it off, you maniac,
That tickles.” “Turn then. I will scrub your back.”
Takaaki pulled his knees toward his chest,
So I could circumnavigate the tub.
Skin lubricated with white Dove, I sub-
Mitted to his hands. It seemed the wisest
Course of action, though there was—there is—
Iron determination clutched in his fist.

My revenge came following a rinse.
I gripped Takaaki by his shoulder as
I scrubbed. Although I left no fingerprints
Or black and blue marks on his skin, each pass,
Each soapy circle that the loofah turned,
His tan grew darker—redder—like it burned.
“I hope you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you,”
I urged. He merely muttered, “Continue,”
To his patella, where his cheek reposed
Until the buttons of his vertebrae
Began to disappear. Which is to say,
He thought that I was finished. Once I closed
The final circle, I drew a thin line—
A parallel—down the channel his spine

Presented when he sat erect again.
He shivered, like a town, under assault:
Each muscle, from his coccyx to his brain,
Twitched. It tingled. Instantly, I felt
A thrill of strange, phthistic pleasure—
An elbow in my ribs I treasure
More than the Milky Way. “Dame dayo!
I hate when you do that.” “Yes, I know.
That’s why I like to do it,” I confessed—
I coughed—my lungs absorbing half the jolt
Of his swift, thoracic thunderbolt.
The area around suffered the rest:
The rug, the candle bobbing in the tub,
Flame out, its faint hiss worth the pain—the rub.

Man has no more faithless friend than fire,
I thought, as he retreated through the ripples
Leaving me, on my side, to admire
The swirling loofah, chocolate nipples,
Suds rolling from his thorax, joining clouds
Of other bubbles in the bath. Doused
Light retrieved, he stood. He pinched the wick
On a dry cotton washcloth. One flick,
One moment later, he ignited it—
The wick—with a free lighter from a brand
Of cigarettes we stopped to buy in Grand
Central once: American Spirit—
Whose roasted Indian, Chief Silhouette,
Adorns a yellow background, calumet

In his hand, smoking passively, for peace.
His shadow decorates a shield, a sun,
A red one—rising, setting—as you please—
The symbolism of it weighs a ton.
I wash my hands of symbols. In the end,
We assign values to our words, defend
The ones that mean the most to us. For me
The one word is Takaaki—actually—
The individual, not the poem:
The hand which animates those sliding doors
Made of paper. All my metaphors
Amount to nothing, really, minus him:
Just words, oscillations in the air
Which might belong to anyone, anywhere.

Tail waving triumphantly, our flame
Burned brighter, elevated to a shelf
Above the tub: a tiger cub, a tame-
Er creature than Takaaki or myself.
“Do all descendants of the samurai
Have fannies of such fearful symmetry
As yours?” I asked. He twisted and a face
Erupted so demonic in the place
Of his beloved features, it would take
More malice than I can muster—Milton’s art—
Half of the true horror to impart.
But shadows make it easy to mistake
An innocent expression, like a grin,
For something sinister—inhuman.

“Perfidious angel! O, cruel perspect-
Tive—mixing black and white! You create
Chiaroscuro—shadows. I reject
Falsehood, illusion! Depth is death—the great
Deceiver! Hurry, run, erase these fanc-
Y flourishes—these eyes, these candles—dance-
Ing as they dance in life: Lucifer haunts
The third dimension—leads to Renaissance—
The axis of Perdition! Painters boil
In turpentine, and writers stew in ink,
Who rise above themselves—who dare to think
Along the perpendicular. Why soil
Your soul cavorting with the letter Z?
What good is that coordinate to thee?”

Had I a chisel in my grasp to grip,
I’d show you, Satan. But inside my ear
There’s soap. “Takaaki, hand me a Q-tip,
While up.” He does have a fantastic rear.
While other—inspirations—come and go,
That’s eternal. Michelangelo
Chipped thus, at marble, knowing in his block
A boy resided, not a piece of rock.
The slab of dictionary I work with
May not be stone, it’s certainly not flesh,
The B-O-Y a word, three letters. Less
Promising materials do not exist
To build a world around. But I don’t mind.
We poets have to work with what we find.

Takaaki passed me a generic swab
Before subsiding back into the soup.
Once this ‘X-tip’ had done its dirty job
Clearing my ear of Dove (no other goop),
I flicked it, like a football, at the sink.
It hit the vanity. A tiny ‘tink’
Then bounced from mirror into toilet bowl.
‘Plink.’ My first impulse, to scream, “Field goal!”
I did resist. But, Heaven, it was hard!
Takaaki looked at me, and I the ceiling.
I singled out a pine knot, feeling,
Hoping, wishing—on that wooden star—
Frivolity would not dissolve to fight.
“I gave it a good shot.” “It was all right,”

He said…

The Hair of the Dog

As we approach the close of "Takaaki" the writing becomes more difficult.

So many loose ends to tie up, so many duplicate rhymes to be avoided, so many technical problems to be corrected, so many things alluded to in previous portions of the poem that need to be accounted for and explained. I am trying to be patient, but I have been working on this piece since May, almost to the exclusion of everything else, and I am getting worn down. I can see the conclusion, the mountaintop poking through the mist, but there remains the mist to be traveled through, and no smiling sherpa to guide me.

By my internal calculations, I think we have about 6 or 7 more sonnets to go in the poem, until the first draft is finished. After that, come the visions and revisions which a moment will reverse.

Today, I have two new sonnets to offer. These I have been tinkering with since Thursday.

The only notes I have about the additions to the text are that a "calumet" is a peace pipe, not just a can of baking powder. And "American Spirit" is a brand of cigarette primarily known for offering un-doctored tobacco to the health-conscious smoker.

Today's additions occur at the end.

Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki’s place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
I ought to add some flesh: tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The painted screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
It is customary. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,
Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but serviceable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, pre-emptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, a padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts. If I may,
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with nude man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
These characters are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader—who is king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed physician
Or a nation exercising caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one estimating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. All are suspects—possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—
Did not impress him much. I should explain:
He nodded, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:
This paneled room, his holy of holies,
Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—
Slight variation in the Japanese
Uncontaminated evening soak.
Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:
Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,
I felt divine. And it felt very good
To be a god—for that one moment. Time
Itself slowed to a complete standstill.
Not a single bubble burst until
Takaaki’s body settled in with mine,
His feet supported by my upper thighs.
Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make in comparison with love.
“Chutto samui ne?” his lengthy ‘ne’
Seeking confirmation above
All. “I guess everyone is cold today,”
I said, rotating the hot water tap.
His right foot trickled down into my lap
To thank me. “Knock it off, you maniac,
That tickles.” “Turn then. I will scrub your back.”
Takaaki pulled his knees toward his chest,
So I could circumnavigate the tub.
Skin lubricated with white Dove, I sub-
Mitted to his hands. It seemed the wisest
Course of action, though there was—there is—
Brutal determination clutched in his fist.

My revenge came following a rinse.
I gripped Takaaki by his shoulder as
I scrubbed. Although I left no fingerprints
Or black and blue marks on his skin, each pass,
Each soapy circle that the loofah turned,
His tan grew darker—redder—like it burned.
“I hope you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you,”
I urged. He merely muttered, “Please, continue,”
To his patella, where his cheek reposed
Until the buttons of his vertebrae
Began to disappear. Which is to say,
He thought that I was finished. Once I closed
The final circle, I drew a line—
A parallel—down the channel his spine

Created when he sat erect again.
He shivered, like a town, under assault:
Each muscle, from his coccyx to his brain,
Twitched and tingled. Instantly, I felt
The thrill of pure, sadistic pleasure—
An elbow in my ribs I treasure
More than the Milky Way. “Dame dayo!
I hate when you do that.” “Yes, I know.
That’s why I like to do it,” I confessed—
I coughed—my lungs absorbing half the jolt
Of his swift, thoracic thunderbolt.
The area around enjoyed the rest:
The rug, the candle bobbing in the tub,
Flame out, its dim hiss worth the pain—the rub.

Man has no more faithless friend than fire,
I thought, as he retreated through the ripples
Leaving me, on my side, to admire
The swirling loofah, chocolate nipples,
Suds, from his breastbone, joining clouds
Of other bubbles in the bath. Soused
Candlestick retrieved, he pinched the wick
On a dry cotton washcloth. One flick,
One moment later, he ignited it—
The wick—with a free lighter from a brand
Of cigarettes we stopped to buy in Grand
Central once: American Spirit—
Whose roasted Indian, Chief Silhouette,
Adorns a yellow background, calumet

In hand, smoking passively, for peace.
His shadow decorates a shield, a sun,
A red one—rising, setting—as you please—
The symbolism of it weighs a ton.
I wash my hands of symbols. In the end,
We assign values to our words, defend
The ones that mean the most to us. For me
The one word is Takaaki—actually—
The individual, not the poem:
The hand which animates those sliding doors
Made of paper. All my metaphors
Amount to nothing, really, minus him:
Just words, oscillations in the air
Which might belong to anyone, anywhere...

Soapy Circles

It has been over a week since I posted any additions to "Takaaki." I have not been on hiatus again. I have been trying to figure something out.

I am not sure how other writers work, but in the course of my own poetic peregrinations, I sometimes stumble across images or ideas that I don't quite know how to understand. Just such a thing happened last week. I had set a scene in a tub where Takaaki and I are taking a bath together. We take turns scrubbing each other's back. I observed that when I was washing Takaaki's back:

I gripped Takaaki by his shoulder as
I scrubbed. Although I left no fingerprints
Or black and blue marks on his skin, each pass,
Each soapy circle that the loofah turned,
His skin grew darker—redder—like it burned.

I felt there was something lingering in the image of those 'soapy circles' that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but which was vital that I understood before I could continue further. Yesterday I sorted it out.

Perhaps you have noticed how the poem contains veiled and not-so-veiled allusions to World War II. These are of part of the structure of the poem--part of its foundations, in a sense. In part II of the poem, I re-stage Pearl Harbor as a violent domestic quarrel over dirty dishes--one battle in a larger encounter between Takaaki and myself, between different civilizations:

Before we get to Scrabble we must first
Prepare our space for battle. Clean dishes
Rest in a rack, while bubbles rise and burst
Around Takaaki as he calmly swishes
Cutlery though the hot suds. Each plate
I plan to dry I first inspect. I scrape
A shred of gray organic matter loose
From the light, lilac pattern. I peruse
Both back and front, then add it to the stack
Of china in the cabinet above—
Enraging him with all my heart, my love.
This underhanded method of attack
Earns my palm a pair of scalding forks
Falling from the sky with deadly force.

“God damn it! What is wrong with you?”
I thundered to a non-existent jury,
“You stab me with steel forks out of the blue—
I promise to play Scrabble and—” And fury,
Rage crystallizing in Takaaki’s eye,
“I know when you’re mocking me.” I try
Not to reply—permit my mask to slip—
Given how I’ve destabilized his lip:
It quivers like red jello, in a mold,
Before the gelatin’s had time to set
Sufficiently. Our glances briefly met
While calculating how long we could hold
Some fresh profanity from breaking out...

Perhaps these elements, these readings exist more visibly in my own imagination than they do in the actual text I set before the reader. It is hard for me to tip the top off of my skull, peer out into your eyes and say for certain. But these are the metaphors around which the poem has coalesced, I think.

How does this relate to soapy circles?

I think it was when I was in the Edo Museum in Tokyo, with Takaaki, where I first saw a description of how Japanese cities were firebombed during the war. The American bombers, if I remember, used to fly to the Home Islands from bases in the Pacific, at night, and drop their incendiaries in a cork-screw pattern of ever tighter circles to encourage the kind of conflagration we call a fire-storm. Hence the pattern of the loofah on Takaaki's back.

This was done intentionally during the war, up and down the spine of Japan, from South to North. Japanese dwellings (where war industries had been relocated by the Imperial Government) were built mainly of wood and paper. 16 square miles of Tokyo, 270,000 houses, were burned to the ground on March 9th, 1945 using conventional incendiary bombs. 120,000 people were killed. Nagasaki and the end of the war were still 5 months away.

...

What amazes me, after all of that horror, that History, is that, 60 years later, Takaaki and I wind up trying to tickle each other in the bath.

The phrase, "Chutto samui ne," means, "It's a little cold, isn't it?" "Dame dayo!" (pronounced 'da may die yo') means, "Knock it off!"

He endeth our Japanese lesson, but not our poem.

Today's contributions follow at the end.



Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
I ought to add some flesh: tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The painted screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
It is customary. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,
Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but serviceable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, pre-emptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, a padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts. If I may,
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with nude man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
This Japanese is hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader—who is king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed pediatrician
Or a nation exercising caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one estimating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. All are possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—
Did not impress him much. I should explain:
He nodded, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:
This paneled room, his holy of holies,
Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—
Slight variation in the Japanese
Clean, uncontaminated evening soak.
Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:
Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,
I felt divine. And it felt very good
To be a god—if for a moment. Time
Itself slowed to a complete standstill.
Not a single bubble burst until
Takaaki’s body settled in with mine,
His feet supported by my upper thighs.
Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make, in comparison with love.
“Chutto samui ne?” his lengthy ‘ne’
Seeking confirmation above
All. “I guess everyone is cold today,”
I said, rotating the hot water tap.
His right foot trickled down into my lap
To thank me. “Knock it off, you maniac,
That tickles.” “Turn then. I will scrub your back.”
Takaaki pulled his knees toward his chest,
So I could circumnavigate the tub.
Skin lubricated with white Dove, I sub-
Mitted to his hands. It seemed the wisest
Course of action, though there was—there is—
Brutal determination clutched in his fist.

My revenge came following a rinse.
I gripped Takaaki by his shoulder as
I scrubbed. Although I left no fingerprints
Or black and blue marks on his skin, each pass,
Each soapy circle that the loofah turned,
His skin grew darker—redder—like it burned.
“I hope you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you,”
I urged. He merely muttered, “Please, continue,”
To his patella, where his cheek reposed
Until the buttons of his vertebrae
Began to disappear. Which is to say,
He thought that I was finished. Once I closed
The last circle, I drew a parallel line
Down the channel in his back his spine

Created when he sat erect again.
He shivered, like a town, under assault:
Each muscle, from his coccyx to his brain,
Shook reflexively. Instantly, I felt
A rush of sharp, sadistic pleasure—
An elbow in my ribs I treasure
More than the Milky Way. “Dame dayo!
I hate when you do that.” “Yes, I know.
That’s why I like to do it,” I confessed—
I coughed—my lungs absorbing half the jolt
Of his swift, thoracic thunderbolt.
The surrounding world endured the rest:
Wet rug, dead candle bobbing in the tub,
Each wave of emotion worth the rub...

Bath salts

Having taking the weekend off from writing, for no other reason than I was getting a little tired, I have returned today with two more sonnets for, "Takaaki."

Nothing spectacular to report here, or note, except the lucky quarter some of you may remember from part one of the poem makes a cameo here.

Ikebana is the Japanese art of flower arranging.

As usual, today's contributions fall at the end of today's post.


Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
It’s time to add some flesh: tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The wooden screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
Shoes ruin the tatami. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,
Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but serviceable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, pre-emptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Will jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, or padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts, you might say.
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with nude man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
These characters are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader. You are king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed pediatrician
Or a nation exercising caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one estimating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. All are possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—
Did not impress him much. I wracked my brain,
He nodded, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:
His in-most room, his holy of holies,
Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—
Slight variation in the Japanese
Clean, simple, uncontaminated soak.
Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:
Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,
I felt divine. And it felt very good
To be a god—if for a moment. Time
Itself slowed to a complete standstill.
Not a single bubble burst until
Takaaki’s body settled in with mine,
His feet supported by my upper thighs.
Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make, in comparison with love.
“Chutto samui ne?” his lengthy ‘ne’
Seeking confirmation in a puff
Of politeness. “Everyone is cold today,”
I said, rotating the hot water tap.
His right foot trickled down into my lap
To thank me. “Knock it off, you maniac,
That tickles.” “Turn then. I will scrub your back.”
Takaaki pulled his knees toward his chest...

Incense

Since we have had another absurdly busy day at our day job, we at wheniwasoneandtwenty wish to apologize to the reader for only adding one more sonnet to "Takaaki."

We have made a few other alterations and emendations to several of the earlier poems in the sequence, by way of compensation, and to improve the poetic flow more generally.

We are also a little depressed today because 3 of our shorter pieces (rather good ones, we thought) were rejected by a journal whose name shall not be mentioned. We understand that rejection is part and parcel of the writer's life, but it is a bit galling when you see the sort of garbage that is generally accepted.

Anyway. That is neither here or there. We look foward to a celestial tomorrow and say: Screw the fuckers.

Lord, that felt good.

Today's contribution occurs at the end.

Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
It’s time to add some flesh: tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The wooden screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
Shoes ruin the tatami. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,
Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but servicable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, premptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Will jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, or padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts, you might say.
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with the man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
These characters are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader. You are king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean—what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed pediatrician
Or a nation exercizing caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one calculating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. All are possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—
Did not impress him much. I should explain.
He just said, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:
A cedar paneled room, holy of holies,
Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—
Slight variation in the Japanese
Long, luxurious clean evening soak.
Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:
Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,
I felt like Zeus. And it felt very good
To be a god—if for a moment. Time
Itself slowed to a complete standstill.
Not a single bubble burst until
Takaaki’s body settled in with mine,
His feet supported by my upper thighs.
Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make, in comparison to love…

Syzygia

Close readers of this blog (Constant Reader, I am looking at you) will recognize the similarity of this posting to that of an earlier posting.

The coincidence is not coincidental. The selection of today's title is not due to sloppiness on my part, but because the concept in question, "syzygia," the conjunction of three celestial bodies on a single plane, in one event, I think, is relevant to the development of the story in "Takaaki."

How it is relevant, I hope to establish in sometime in the next few days if, as Bill says, "The Lord be willing and the crick don't rise." For now, I will ask you to take it on faith that there is a connection. And join me for a little walk me from A to B.

Today's contribution, two stanzas, follows at the end.


Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
It’s time to decorate: add tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The wooden screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
Shoes ruin the tatami. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest
Quietly for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but servicable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, premptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, or padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly instincts, you might say.
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with the man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
This Japanese is hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader. You are king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways which men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,
To keep track of in the imagination—
Especially when the list of variables grows
Exponentially in the equation:
We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—
But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?
Do you see a crossed-eyed pediatrician
Or a nation exercizing caution?
I see a boy unbuttoning his shirt
At school, as I once did, as a long line
Of kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-
Ing teeth, one calculating how much hurt
He could endure, before his eyes or knees
Collapsed. Maybe I am Japanese.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*
His irises were human once again
Instead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-
Ing to the fact the Martian invasion
Would be postponed, I suggested we
Play Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.
The gap between our scores I can’t recall—
Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.
My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—
O, fair conjunction—it was formed in vain.
He never questioned it. I should explain.
He just said, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.
I hoisted myself up now, in the bath,
With half a mind to go and check his math.

A Pocket Full of Rye

Today's contribution to "Takaaki."

Two new stanzas.

I seem to be on a roll.

[Back to work.]


Part IV


The crude compartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, glass and steel
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. I feel
We ought to decorate: add tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
The wooden screen (with paper windows) which
Separates our rooms; we’ll open rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.
Shoes ruin the tatami. On the tile,
Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest
Quietly for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but servicable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, premptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Will jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, or padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.
But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lack
Those scholarly insticts, you might say.
I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:
A bowl of crackers on a bamboo tray
Beside The Prisoner of Azkaban.
Does Azkaban share crackers with the man
Gyrating on the cover of HX
Or dangle them in front of him for sex?
It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—
This book—a Japanese translation of
The Body in the Library—would prove
Helpful in solving this—our mystery.
If only I could read it. But I can’t.
These Japanese are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:
A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,
A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,
Chilly cha, a coaster, and another
Agatha Christie, A Pocket Full of Rye.
These are the blackbirds baked into the pye
We set before the reader. You are king.
Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,
Caw, croak, somehow illuminate
The mystery of love in ways that men
With tight abdominals, tight asses, ten
Inches don’t: let that sideways figure eight
I kiss, his double vaccination mark,
Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

Part IV, The Beginning

Thanks to the little explosion of clarity yesterday, today's contribution to "Takaaki" has pretty much written itself. In fact, I think I could probably write 5 or 6 stanzas today, if I didn't also have other things to do. So, I will settle for the two. One also musn't be greedy. What the Muse giveth, she also taketh away.

(But not today, my friends, not today!)




Part IV


The crude apartment I created when
I focused on the concrete, steel and glass
Elements of Takaaki place, I meant
Merely as a skeleton. Time has
Come to lay down tan tatami mats
Surrounded by delicate shoji—that’s
A wooden screen with paper windows which
Quietly slides open; fill deep and rich
Closets, where futons are found folded, while
Not needed for sleeping, or some other use.
The entrance (where one should remove his shoes)
Is covered in obsidian floor tile.
Several pairs of Muji slippers rest
There in a row, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.
It’s small, but servicable, black and bright;
It’s the best room in the apartment for
Stage managing a brief, premptive strike,
Or eating egg salad at night—egg
And bread crumbs are more visible. Pegged
To a corkboard above the phone, two keys
Will jingle if you pin a note. These
Keys may unlock a mailbox, or padlock,
A fair or frightening future. All I know
Is that I have an aunt Pandora, so
I don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talk
And turn them round, when he is on the phone.

But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

A Preview

Not much to offer today in the way of completed stanzas for "Takaaki," but I did clear a major technical hurdle tonight. The two final stanzas of the sequence are presently writing themselves in my imagination. Here is a taste of what's to come in section IV.

...Perhaps it is unethical to build

A boyfriend from plutonium. But still

It can be done. I did it. Here’s the proof...

I will show you how I did it in the next few days. Stay tuned!

This is not what I expected

The second stanza I composed yesterday was completely inadequate to my needs for today's posting. Although there were a few lines that I think I might recycle later in some form:

All successful works of art, like love,
Shimmer with deception. The barer
Our souls appear—or bodies—smooth or rough—
The deeper the deception, since error,
I believe, is sexier than truth:
You can kiss almost anyone for proof.

Today's contribution is largely transitional in nature, and will bring us, in coming days, deeper into Takaaki's apartment, and our story. As usual today's sonnet is tacked on at the end.

I hope you like it!


Part III


Since the worlds already were at war,
Running really made no sense to me.
I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared for
Another argument—contingency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
My auxiliaries. Although he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might consent to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
Again, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—
Our time—had passed. Martians can be keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, mind wandering
Back toward the movies: what is wrong
With him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;
A whiff of singed meat hanging in the air
Compelled reflection. Not quite panicking,
I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone—
Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to light
A final Marlboro? No. As it hap-
Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemums
As if presented a bouquet of frogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs:
Every specimen in our collection
Formaldehyde free for your protection.
The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Mars sends
These flowers—and regrets they look so sick.
They did seem brighter in that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’s
Jaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.
“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.
From me. Strawberry frosted donuts ought
To be acceptable, more auspicious.”
He made a fuss about how delicious
These tasted when I brought a couple home
One day. His favorites. Twelve Styrofoam
Rings, of no variety, or beauty,
Now glistened in his bright blue contacts. “Same?”
He blinked again, “Who buys all of same
Donuts? Who does that?” “It’s my duty
To disappoint you every way I can,
Takaaki. I am an American,

Remember,” I remarked, removing
Saturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,
Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, including
A pair of foggy glasses. How remote
The possibilities of peace between us
Seemed—until the cold and clammy penis
Shyly shivering in my underwear
Pointed to towels appearing from nowhere:
They had materialized on the tansu
Directly opposite the front door,
While I was peeling off my t-shirt, or
Jeans. (Those Transporters can surprise you.)
Then, from another room, a fantastic
Robe folded in a wicker laundry basket

Arrived. “Please put this on. I will wash clothes
Tonight.” For once, I did what I was told.
Resistance is futile, I suppose,
Confronted by goose pimples and warm gold
Kimonos. I pulled down my briefs
Shedding any lingering beliefs
In Christian modesty in his front hall.
I rolled a lot into that ruby ball
Of underwear—my maraschino cherry.
I used it to adorn the soggy pile
Of garments which I had abandoned while
He was off-stage being busy. Very.
He held up that kimono, like a cross,
His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric. When I stepped inside,
I felt less like Lord and Saviour
Than the actor Peter O’Toole. I tried
Not to become Lawrence of Arabia,
In Japanese regalia, bowing low,
Revolving, all humility, to show
How I was different from the general
Westerner—I was less Imperial—
More liberal—more sympathetic. It’s
Rather disorienting to step in-
Side strange clothing, like another’s skin,
And find you are identical. “It fits.
It’s silk.” “It’s yours,” he smiled, “Polyester.
I got it on eBay for cold weather.”

Silk, polyester, the material
From which love is spun is always fine;
He might have made a bowl of cereal,
As long as it was warm, I didn’t mind.
The gesture was pure gold—witty, dry,
Typical Takaaki. Not the lie:
The only lie in our relationship
I’m certain that he told outright—a tip
I learned from a Korean cleaner when
I took Takaaki’s gift into his shop
To see if there was any way a drop
Of wine might be removed. How many yen
My kimono cost, he couldn’t guess,
But silk is precious, so he’d do his best.

I embraced myself in ignorance
Exploring the recesses of those sleeves.
He eyed my maraschino underpants
With skepticism, before tossing these
Into the laundry basket, rousing me—
My hands—to protest—an apology.
“I’m sorry—here—I should be doing that,”
I groveled, grabbing a gray knit hat
Out of his grasp. “Go eat a donut, or
Chrysanthemum. I can handle this.
I will clean up this mess. I insist.”
Takaaki rose up slowly, locked the door:
War off of our agenda now. Our world
Secure and safe, as any oyster’s pearl.

Slowly, painfully.

After the conclusion of the Kimono/Lawrence of Arabia stanza, on Tuesday, I lost my way completely in "Takaaki." For the next 48 hours I floated around in limbo with no ideas really, feeling very sad, frustrated, and depressed. I wish I could write on command, but sometimes the words are not there.

Today dawned a little brighter, and I think I have a decent enough stanza to tack on to the end. I actually have written two stanzas today, but I am a little uncertain about stanza number two, so I will not publish it here. I am going to sleep on it and see if it feels right in the morning.

As usual, today's contribution occurs at the end.


Part III


Since our worlds already were at war,
Running really made no sense to me.
I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared for
Another argument—contingency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
My auxiliaries. Although he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might consent to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
Again, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—
Our time—had passed. Martians can be keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, mind wandering
Back toward the movies: what is wrong
With him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;
A whiff of singed meat hanging in the air
Compelled reflection. Not quite panicking,
I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone—
Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to light
A final Marlboro? No. As it hap-
Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemums
As if presented a bouquet of frogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs:
Every specimen in our collection
Formaldehyde free for your protection.
The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Mars sends
These flowers—and regrets they look so sick.
They did seem brighter in that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’s
Jaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.
“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.
From me. Strawberry frosted donuts ought
To be acceptable, more auspicious.”
He made a fuss about how delicious
These tasted when I brought a couple home
One day. His favorites. Twelve Styrofoam
Rings, of no variety, or beauty,
Now glistened in his bright blue contacts. “Same?”
He blinked again, “Who buys all of same
Donuts? Who does that?” “It’s my duty
To disappoint you every way I can,
Takaaki. I am an American,

Remember,” I remarked, removing
Saturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,
Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, including
A pair of foggy glasses. How remote
The possibilities of peace between us
Seemed—until the cold and clammy penis
Shyly shivering in my underwear
Pointed to towels appearing from nowhere:
They had materialized on the tansu
Directly opposite the front door,
While I was peeling off my t-shirt, or
Jeans. (Those Transporters can surprise you.)
Then, from another room, a fantastic
Robe folded in a wicker laundry basket

Arrived. “Please put this on. I will wash clothes
Tonight.” For once, I did what I was told.
Resistance is futile, I suppose,
Confronted by goose pimples and warm gold
Kimonos. I pulled down my briefs
Shedding any lingering beliefs
In Christian modesty in his front hall.
I rolled a lot into that ruby ball
Of underwear—my maraschino cherry.
I used it to adorn the soggy pile
Of garments which I had abandoned while
He was off-stage being busy. Very.
He held up that kimono, like a cross,
His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric. When I stepped inside,
I felt less like Lord and Saviour
Than the actor Peter O’Toole. I tried
Not to become Lawrence of Arabia,
In Japanese regalia, bowing low,
Revolving, all humility, to show
How I was different from the general
Westerner—I was less Imperial—
More liberal—more sympathetic. It’s
Rather disorienting to step in-
Side strange clothing, like another’s skin,
And find you are identical. “It fits.
It’s silk.” “Yours,” he smiled, “Polyester.
I got it on eBay for cold weather.”

Silk, or polyester, the material
From which love is spun is always fine;
He might have made a bowl of cereal,
As long as it was warm, I didn’t mind.
The gesture was pure gold—witty, dry,
Typical Takaaki. Not the lie:
The only lie in our relationship
I’m certain that he told outright—a tip
I learned from a Korean cleaner when
I took Takaaki’s gift into his shop
To see if there was any way a drop
Of wine might be removed. How many yen
My kimono cost, he couldn’t guess,
But silk is precious, so he’d do his best.

Cross-dressing

Not perhaps a subject we usually associate with Martians or Alexander Pushkin, but it is the topic of today's addition to "Takaaki."


Part III


Since the worlds already were at war,
Running really made no sense to me.
I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared for
Another argument—contingency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
My auxiliaries. Although he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might consent to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
Again, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—
Our time—had passed. Martians can be keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, mind wandering
Back toward the movies: what is wrong
With him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;
A whiff of singed meat hanging in the air
Compelled reflection. Not quite panicking,
I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone—
Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to light
A final Marlboro? No. As it hap-
Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemums
As if presented a bouquet of frogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs:
Every specimen in our collection
Formaldehyde free for your protection.
The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Mars sends
These flowers—and regrets they look so sick.
They did seem brighter in that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’s
Jaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.
“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.
From me. Strawberry frosted donuts ought
To be acceptable, more auspicious.”
He made a fuss about how delicious
These tasted when I brought a couple home
One day. His favorites. Twelve Styrofoam
Rings, of no variety, or beauty,
Now glistened in his blue contacts. “Same?”
He blinked again, “Who buys all of same
Donuts? Who does that?” “It’s my duty
To disappoint you every way I can,
Takaaki. I am an American,

Remember,” I remarked, removing
Saturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,
Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, including
A pair of foggy glasses. How remote
The possibilities of peace between us
Seemed—until the cold and clammy penis
Shyly shivering in my underwear
Pointed to towels appearing from nowhere:
They had materialized on the tansu
Directly opposite the front door,
While I was peeling off my t-shirt, or
Jeans. (Those Transporters can surprise you.)
Then, from another room, a fantastic
Robe folded in a wicker laundry basket

Arrived. “Please put this on. I will wash clothes
Tonight.” For once, I did what I was told.
Resistance is futile, I suppose,
Confronted by goose pimples and warm gold
Kimonos. I pulled down my briefs
Shedding any lingering beliefs
In Christian modesty in his front hall.
I rolled a lot into that ruby ball
Of underwear—my maraschino cherry.
I used it to adorn the soggy pile
Of garments which I had abandoned while
He was off-stage being busy. Very.
He held up that kimono, like a cross,
His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric. When I stepped inside,
I felt less like Lord and Saviour
Than the actor Peter O’Toole. I tried
Not to become Lawrence of Arabia,
In Japanese regalia, bowing low,
Revolving, all humility, to show
How I was different from the general
Westerner—I was less Imperial—
More liberal—more sympathetic. It’s
A bit disorienting to step in-
Side foreign clothing, like a stranger’s skin,
And find you are identical. “It fits.
It’s silk.” “It’s yours,” he smiled, “It’s polyester.
I got it on eBay for cold weather.”

The Invasion Continues

It has been a very busy day at your humble author's day job, so today's contribution to his poem "Takaaki" is rather modest. It consists mainly of a re-writing of yesterday's bits with a little additional characterization and local color. Still, upstairs, in my head, where the thing is being conceived, there are ideas bubbling. Hopefully, this weekend will see some real focus and progress.

We shall see.

...Takaaki

Slowly shut the faucet off. He dried
His swollen fingertips on a dishtowel
With “Thanksgiving” printed on one side,
A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—
Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew
Another cigarette. (There were just two,
I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)
“Are we still playing games or are we done?”
I left when he invited me to go—
Which is not to say that I objected:
I understood. I should have expected
This. Nagasaki went too far. To show
How bad I felt, I called him to surrender,
Unconditionally, the 7th of December.



Part III


Since our worlds already were at war,
There wasn’t much which I could do, really.
I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared for
Another argument—contingency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
My auxiliaries. Although he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might consent to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
Again, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—
Our time—had passed. Martians can be keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, mind wandering
Back toward the cinema: what’s wrong
With him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;
A whiff of singed meat hanging in the air
Compelled reflection. Not quite panicking,
I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone—
Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to light
A final Marlboro? No. As it hap-
Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemums
As if presented with preserved bullfrogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs:
Every specimen in our collection
Formaldehyde free for your protection.
The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Mars sends
These flowers—and regrets they look so sick.
They did seem brighter in that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’s
Jaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.
“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.
From me. Strawberry frosted donuts ought
To be acceptable, more auspicious.”
He made a fuss about how delicious
These tasted when I brought a couple home
One day. His favorites. Twelve Styrofoam
Rings, of no variety, or beauty,
Now glistened in his contact lenses. “Same?”
He blinked again, “Who buys all of same
Donuts? Who does that?” “It’s my duty
To disappoint you every way I can,
Takaaki. I am an American,”

I added, wearily removing
Saturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,
Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, including
A pair of foggy glasses. As remote
As peaceful coexistence between us
Seemed, I confess the cold and clammy penis
Shyly shivering in my underwear
Was pleased a towel appeared from nowhere—
Materializing on top of the tansu
Directly opposite the front door,
When I was peeling off my t-shirt, or
Jeans. People constantly surprise you.
From the tatami room, came a fantastic
Robe inside a wicker laundry basket.

“Please put this on. It's warm. I will wash clothes
Tonight.” For once, I did what I was told.
Resistance is futile, I suppose,
Confronted by goose pimples and warm gold
Kimonos. I pulled down my briefs
Shedding any lingering beliefs
In Christian modesty in his front hall.
I rolled my doubts into a blushing ball—
A sort of maraschino cherry—
Carefully adorning the dark pile
Of soggy garments I abandoned while
He was so busy. I was grateful. Very.
He held up that kimono, like a cross,
His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric…

Martians!

Here are today's contributions to Part III of the infamous Takaaki poem. Pennies are beginning to drop in my imagination--all over the place. I think this poem maybe be getting easier to write. It is very much a rough draft, one that I will have to go through and re-work top to bottom when it is done, but I am feeling better about it today than I have felt for weeks.

As I did yesterday, I reprint the concluding stanza from Part II for context.


...Takaaki

Slowly shut the faucet off. He dried
His swollen fingertips on a dishtowel
With “Thanksgiving” printed on one side,
A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—
Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew
Another cigarette. (There were just two,
I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)
“Are we still playing games or are we done?”
I left when he invited me to go—
Which is not to say that I objected:
I understood. I should have expected
This. Nagasaki went too far. To show
How bad I felt, I called him to surrender,
Unconditionally, the 7th of December.



Part III


Standing on the twenty-seventh floor
I closed my clamshell phone: eight-thirty.
I pressed the buzzer firmly—prepared for
Another argument—emergency
Chrysanthemums and Dunkin’ Donuts
Ready for Takaaki. Though he was
Bound to be annoyed that I was late,
I hoped the Martians might be willing to wait
Two hours and obliterate New York
At ten-fifteen instead of eight-fifteen.
Aliens are notoriously keen
On sticking to their schedules. They work
Very hard on planning their invasions,
Rarely sleeping, even on vacations.

I pressed the buzzer harder, wondering
What on Earth was taking him so long
To answer the door, my mind wandering
Toward catastrophe: something’s wrong.
Mysterious music swelled somwhere,
A fishy odor (haddock) filled the air;
I heard the elevator softly ding,
And gave the buzzer a one minute ring,
The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.
Frustrated by my absence, had he gone
Off to face the Martians all alone?
An angry rectangle of silver light
Dispelled my darkest fears. As it hap-
Pend, I’d disturbed somebody’s nap.

Takaaki blinked at my chrysanthemums
As if I handed him preserved bullfrogs
Retrieved from one those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs
To high school bio-teachers—for dissection:
Formaldehyde free for your protection,
The ads italicize for emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Victims
Of terrible neglect. They looked less sick
Sticking out of that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki
Murmured, unromatically, I thought…

Visions and revisions

I have been tinkering with possible openings to Part III of my Takaaki poem for about 3 weeks now without very much satisfaction or success.

Today, I am going to try a different tack entirely, going back to the beginning of the story I am trying to tell and spend a few days writing from there. Those of you who have read parts I and II of the poem will (I hope) recognize the point of departure here.

I include the final stanza of part II to show the transition.

I hope you like it.


...Takaaki

Slowly shut the faucet off. He dried
His swollen fingertips on a dishtowel
With “Thanksgiving” printed on one side,
A turkey, goose—some kind of cooked, brown fowl—
Emblazoned on the other. He withdrew
Another cigarette. (There were just two,
I noticed, left inside Doraemon.)
“Are we still playing games or are we done?”
I left when he invited me to go—
Which is not to say that I objected:
I understood. I should have expected
This. Nagasaki went too far. To show
How bad I felt, I called him to surrender,
Unconditionally, the 7th of December.



Part III



Takaaki blinked at my chrysanthemums
As if I handed him preserved bullfrogs
Retrieved from one of those great pickle drums
For sale in scientific catalogs
To high school bio-teachers for dissection:
Formaldehyde free for your protection,
The ads italicize for emphasis.
Takaaki offered me a ghostly kiss
Which missed my lips entirely. “Victims
Of villainous neglect. They looked less sick
Sticking out of that black plastic
Bucket at the bodega. Cut the stems
And water them, they should perk up,” I said.
“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Taka-chan
Added, rather unhelpfully, I thought…