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…