Carved is a nice word.

A full word,             mouth arc’ed
strong and hard.

The sound of Michael Jackson moves the shrieking icy air

rippling scarves and fluttering sheets of hair;

With some     space

gaps – x’s and curls, waves, interlocking and intertwining: intertextuality

the white streaks of air in hair

it is clear.

Not a breath of x
   floating like wispy hands of a passing moment

thin entrails of what won’t come back —

gasping gulping spluttering desperate gurgles of a lonely

yellow plastic floater.


teriyaki sauce

there’s a sweet sticky accident

my salmon pink bag    browned

it’s doused;

that October feeling creeps in

when I walk through this corridor;

my knees are cold        and fingers

frozen fingers

fresh fried crispy     tempura

it’s tempura sauce that smokes and

served warm

holds the warmth and

“to lock in moisture”

the words hold their shape

but the pages are browning.

the pale nude disappears

under a dry crispy tan

its a weeping,   donning of colour

competing spikes of sauce, saucing these pages

of thou

a slurp of fake miso

How is your donburi bowl

— this bowl of my culture

culture that deserted me.

I cry out mentally     this can’t be happening

they tell me it’s personal charm,


she tells me I should look more brown.