Sawako Nakayasu

 

 

9.12.2003

 

Ice cubes fighting to stay in the game.

Thrown into a glass of tap water with no get out of jail pass –
Too light of heart to lay low, the cold end of the glass where the end comes slower –
Look to the other side of the glass at the condensation forming. And wanting, trying, to suck it back in –
Floating, helplessly, at the top where the heat. No chance of getting over the lip –

Watching everyone else go –

 

 

11.15.2003

for Shoshana Michael who I can’t find

 

A pick up truck, or the process of letting it go.

The trick is, she reminds me, to never let it get too hermetic, to leave the window cracked, that dent unfixed, and most effective, if you can stomach it, to get yourself a pickup truck and get used to driving it, find a comfort at every speed, and then, after having mastered all that, after having spent a majority of your lifetime driving, driving which includes stopping, parking, head-on, tail-first, three-point turns, twenty-seven point turns, immediate and perfect and elliptical circles and donuts and pinwheels, oh my, backing out of a narrow and longer-than-usual driveway, stopping and having an extended conversation with someone out the window, while keeping your foot on the brake the whole time, piling it in, piling it on, everything at any given point, in the front, the cab in that space behind the seats, in the inches of air above your head, piling it in with every which kind of breath and intention, further, piling in, on, out, back, while only slowing down, yielding to the additional weight of more and more, and all of it, filling the infinite back of the pickup, taking it on taking it all on as if it were nothing, keeping the foot steady, tender, still, on the gas, hand lightly on the handbrake but there’s no need to go there, wait until the piling of it on never gets to its final conclusion, never gets to the end, no ceiling no end not even edges, no, the round and infinite surface of the outside of the back of the pickup a dark gray shiny pickup you’ve had it all your life, everything all the intangibles and all the cities and all the breaths of good or no intention all piled up still and further going in the growing small space back of the truck, tailgate busting up and still you drive, along the middle of the freeway and you watch through the rearview mirror what it is that stays, or rather sticks, and the rest of those things which fly away, tiny or medium-sized fragments of matter yes they do matter quite a bit which is why you keep driving, with your eyes both on the front and on the mirror as you go and go and go on, this way that way any any any this moment rather than the last.

 

9.20.2003

 

Thirty thousand unanswered minutes, eight arms full to over capacity three times over, a four-year-old tree attaining twice its current height, a couple of kegs, five million rotations of this old fan, which ever comes last.

Or the rock that develops a dent, small stone in my hand.

Waiting for.

The rock to grow, spread, answer, spin, frothy and cold and smooth, after all the rain,
rain in my hand, or before it stops, or before it comes back, quickly now –