The scribbler and the talker
Wander through porticos lined with sea creatures
Large enough for an atomic age
The emotions require acknowledgment
Burying not advised
Breathe, and daresay process, the misgivings
Dodge the unfocused anger
Thrown across oceans
And instead land safely in the anonymity
Of giggling uniformed youth
Seeking a sashin and smile
From a stranger
Refuge in instant aloha
Tea and cake again –
Comfort by canal now
Muddied with generations of merchants
Plying gohan, wagyu and crab pots of course
Necessary resources to create the “number one” item
Which boasts of an addition next to a museum
Featuring sonnets to octopus balls
Sticky with sauce
To cling the delicate flakes to its orbit
The scribbler walks purposefully, eager to craft fresh Kansai futures – pushing past into patina
The other remembers rainy bus-stop afternoons, glancing at flightplans and fidgeting about escape
“We are those who take the kind road despite ample sins.”
Do we fake to assuage guilt or simply realize leaving is the exclusive route to exquisite happiness?
No accolades expected in exchange for explanations.
No, only contentment sought and all else ephemeral – vaguely interesting at times but not critical to the heady brew concocted from a recipe devised from, and comprised of: scattered words, un-captured photos, occasional conversations – five times meeting in person even.
No one to tell.
The strange and complicated are our familiar – neural pathways light up in an infrared photo booth: lips glow, ears attenuate, eyes dart and glow, unsaid messages appear in cloud marks, sketched by fiery pilots, determined to make their mark.