ColidedCleft

I like the idea that all our past is connected to who we are today. I also enjoy living in today and being in the now and not looking elsewhere and all that... but when sitting down and thinking about it for a second, I enjoy that I have a history. A part of me wants to fantasize about that history, that the history is not only the past of where we are today but that the history is shaped by the present. If we are related to our past then why is the relationship only running in one direction? Could it be that because I ended up in a relationship with e that I was born and reacted to everything the way I did in my past? Or can it only be that

sometimes, something slips and runs a tumble, the hillsides not eroding but disappearing in a gulf, i a stream of black (or white) over a hill whose colors are coming closer to invisible, opacity switched and a rubbing away of something immersed in reality. when i stand i do not grow in height but sink in the once green tall-grassed fields, they sink too, everything is warping melting not dieing - turning inside then out. i am surrounded by a deepening meadow, enclosed in winds and suns, landscapes drowning in solids liquefying, dissolving, evaporating, the tangible figures vanishing, a mountain passes inside me, snow white peaks cut the insi

Start with the river rushing through cold hills seeping out from bog lakes listen to the crushing piling of pellets moss rocks don't shiver   watch the rising valley fall sun shades and does not forget slow water can trickle through hillsides    covered in leaves to be covered in blankets    of sorrow rivers that walk   that beat a crying pulse    to a banquet in heaven   to the sounds of children falling skies throw stars   piercing the rivers' thighs till it gushes for ages filling rice fields and dreams white crashing currents of sweet streams then walk due south to the steamy Onsen bath and shiver when the leaves beig

Summer comes in scent. In sunny streets and in air conditioned Tokyo trains, passing girls and their thin fragrances awaken a younger dream. Summer comes and sleeps, in a wondering mindless city. Shibuya's filled streets are crowds of listless joys and sadness, smiles; a wish of love, a calm sad shyness. Where I walk I feel the breeze, a deep breath of patient life, one does not know the speech of summer's conversation. My eyes are filled in the movement of this fashionable crowed, all passing in a summer's dawn, to loves and careless tomorrows. And in the darkening hour the city's lights begin to glow, the crowed listens and glows the same

Suggestions to a Harpless Man Remedy, the wishful thinking the broken harp you can not even play Forgive, the insipidity of life Love wafts from distant shores Undo the pain you can not call to a heart that plays soundless chords See that there is no sight to breathing that there is no sound to love at all no making of comfort by a hand No rhythm in a false tune no pleasure from a dead rhyme no sense in fingertips of stone But know one bloody finger will point to a ceiling ceilings which are all blue in paintings   like a boundary of comfort to the endless skies Any modest thing can break you build you back lik

Market People (Chatu-Chat, Weekend Market, Bangkok, Thailand 2006) In a market under the shade of plastic awnings that stretch with wire to balconies and telephone poles women cut fresh meat, peel shrimp, sell frogs. On a counter a boars-head drips warm red a river of waste runs beneath the boards the sun burns from above as distant as a father, as fresh as a son. The women sell spices and green beans, and the children run laughing around the corner. Joined by the smell of curry and cooked fish the sunless aisles collide in haste, the boards shuffle with weight from each moving foot, but the gathering does not move as one,

I don't need bare moons,   the skylines electric view, the rivers indigo reflections.   The night transforms into desert, skyscrapers buried in sand,   people walk into a river mirage. And I don't need the sky;   the eternal overseer, or the light that plays on cement.   Blocks of passed out people eat cardboard, sleep in cold-fog-soup   they too survive and survive. Sidewalks are flat–unnerved   they are understood and functional, windows are higher than mountains   and moons are just moons.

She looks across at me. Empty seats sleep on a night train through Tokyo and the sky is raining grey in the alley city. She is young - flush cheeks, hesitating for the right bench to sit on. Brown boots click on the floor as she moves to sit, then presses her denim skirt crossing her legs. Her straight black hair falls and covers her chapped face. For a while she sits idle reading a Kawabata book. She is headed home from work. "far from here." By day she plays on stages, at night she finds comfort in desolate trains. She visits the Dalai Lama, travels through Indian villages, and glances can strip us of our names, and