Somewhere Over Rainbow Foods

I saw a young, short-haired Japanese girl
in Rainbow Foods—
a splitting image of Jun Togawa,
leather jacket, a somewhat masculine figure,
I would've married her right
then and there.
The BBW staff were haranguing around
a cart, speaking
Japanese as far as I was not concerned.
Everyone kept looking at me and my damned red hat
"It's not effeminate, it's from New Zealand!" I said in protest.
The BBWs took no notice,
"Why don't you get out and occupy Minneapolis? Oh, wait,
you already are." Jun then caught my eyes
with her own—those mystic, paroxysmal 8-balls
for merely a second,
straight down the aisle perpendicular to the bench from where
I sat.
I stood up, the soft-pop-rock dulling
my nonentity, non-senses,
"Nonsense," I mumbled, or something like it,
words transfixed, translated into pure emotion,
transliterated into memory.

Writing Poetry

When you write, you're right,
and you're right!
What point does it make at this difference?
There's a stain on the fortune
and the cookie doesn't taste right.
Write!?
What a wonderful night to go bleeding, my dear,
throw me in head first, I came out
that way, anyway. The leaves are getting
in my mouth and I'm getting left
behind, written inside
a vacuum, life sucks, baby,
it sucks!

Jealousy Jones

I'm jealous that you can write poetry,
I'm jealous of your potato-sack girlfriend,
and of your dimwit wife, and your two garages,
and of your supportive family, and of
your older female acquaintance.
I'm jealous that you're in Japan, and that you
are too.
I'm jealous, because I like the word,
it looks like a pretty name on paper,
I can relate, you know?

为什么我写诗

你说"也可以、 都可以"等等的时候,
很可爱, 让我微笑.
你碰到一张桌子, 说"对不起!" 的时候,
非常可爱, 让我笑.
你微笑、笑的时候,
可爱不得了, 让我写诗.