024

on a tree of dark crooked branches
a gang of crows
stab away
at brightly colored fruits
swinging back and forth
off the tips
of long hard beaks
unable to break through
to sweet juices inside

025

with soft golden fur
and rough black spots

she carries her vanity
like a knife

behind a long green glass

023

TCP 27 - Akihabara Approaching Midnight

A blurred block of orange-red turns into a pale green silhouette of a walking man.

A man in his late forties or so steps off the curb and onto the white striped asphalt below. He pushes down on the wooden cross-bar of his ricksha, its two wheels gently gliding with his every footstep, rolling quietly into the sleepy chaos of the Akiba scramble.

The green walking man begins to flash, beaconing through the closing night.

His pace quickens. His grip tightens.

A tower of cardboard boxes
found,
salvaged,
stolen,
gifted,
both treasured and hated, yet
packed with the most delicate intricacy
in an endlessly enigmatic pattern,
a structure Penrose in design,
built upon the ricksha's nomadic foundation,
slightly sways with his footsteps,
with the wind,
with the static noise of the neighboring Showa Dori's constant traffic;

A floating castle
in a night of frantic silence.

TCP 26 - The midnight train home

He cradles a dumbek, carefully blanketed in a soft, protecting blue blanket, its base resting in his lap, its head held closely against his chest.

A pair of headphones fastened to his ears produce an electronic percussive rhythm -

Beep
Chirp
Chirp
Chirp
Beep

- that sneaks it's way through the cold, silent, and exhausted atmosphere of this last train of the night.

He shakes his, a involuntary reflex, an impulse, an instinct, to the rhythm.

Beep
Chirp
Chirp
Chirp
Beep

His right foot follows with the down beat.

Thump

Thump. Thump
Thump
Thump

His head continues to shake.
In a trance, in a spell, his fingers follow with tabla poly-rhythms on the clothed rim of his treasured dumbek.

Tap tiddle taptap
Tiddle tap tiddletiddle tap
Tap taptap tiddletap

The surrounding drones, dazed in the wake of the capitalist machine,
sit
and
listen
Perhaps ignoring it.
Perhaps pretending not to be lured into it. His percussive symphony remains the only sound within the train, accompanied only there by the hollow howls of the sleeping night rushing beyond the train's windows.

Beeptiddle tap
Taptaptap
Chirp
Thumptiddle
Chirp
Thump thump
Tiddletaptiddle tiddle tap
Beep
Chirp

TCP 25 - Sakurajosui

The train pulls to a stop, calmly, steadily.

He focuses his eyes along the platform it approaches, surveying the crowd of blurry-eyed morning transients awaiting it's opening doors. He dresses head to toe in shades of an inconspicuous grey,

a camouflage,

save a black hat that blends with his hair, a pair of pristinely white gloves, and a neon yellow vest, several sizes too small for his stout, round, physique. He keeps an eye out, gently pushes the overflowing crowd into the train's closing doors with his white gloves and a satisfied expression.

The doors close.
The engines resume.
The train departs.

He aligns the cuffs if his jacket, smooths the surface of his gloves, allows his back to hunch as he stares to the ground and sighs.

022

inside a train station
a technician steps between two ticket gates
in a row of twelve

he wears a pale turquoise jacket
and a grape arm band
giving him some kind of authority

he places his black plastic tool box on the ground
and opens the lid which displays a hand-painted stop sign
so that people avoid his temporary workstation

he takes a key from his orange jelly chain
hanging from a belt loop
sticks it into the side of the machine
and turns the lock

he opens the brushed aluminum case
to reveal a skeleton of moving parts
hundreds of them
all silver and layered
shallow in depth

so much complexity
just to shoot through train stubs
and open a gate

with a carefully trained eye
he reads the machine
like a user’s manual
noticing each piece for its purpose
with no gap between symbol and referent

leaning over at 90 degrees
he inspects every minute detail
for the slightest imbalance

he loosens and tightens every screw

rotates a dial

tests the belts

replaces a part

and adds a little oil
where needed

he conducts this operation
to a crowd of unsuspecting travelers
entering and exiting
rushing past him
an invisible man
tending to a fragment
of our everyday existence
we so easily take for granted

finally he takes a can of air
with a long thin red nozzle
and sprays each crevice between gears
removing every last dust particle

afterward he puts all his tools
back into his tool box
and slides it over
to the next machine on the line

021

its hard to breathe
when the windows are shut

and there are too many people on the train
standing huddled together
smashed up on the doors
pressed into each others bodies
stabbed by elbows and bags

one man is lucky enough to have a seat
sandwiched between two strangers

he wears a dark suit
and bloodshot eyes
he chews gum
under a white surgical mask
as a line of passengers stand in front of him
swaying gently back and forth like ghosts
not making any noise
except for the hand straps creaking on the metal bar

he takes out his phone
to make a calculation
12 x 288,000 = 3,456,000
he lets out a sigh
and puts it away

his high blood pressure
radiates through every movement

he continues to chew his gum
clenching his two floors of teeth
turning his face pink
veins popping out at his temples

he taps his shoes
in broken staccato

he bobs his knees
up and down

he folds and unfolds his arms
his comfort unrelenting

he rolls his skull on his neck
until
cracking it
like concrete

something ain’t right
someone should ask him if he’s okay

he starts rubbing one of his fingers
on his left hand
agitating a repetitive stress disorder
up and down
squeezing the joints
putting pressure on the bone
painting the skin more and more red
a prayer to soothe his ill feelings

down the line
the train reaches his destination
and stops on the platform
the doors slam open
a song plays
he gets up
and bullies his way through the crowd
before the doors close on him

TCP 24 - Keio Line

She sits quietly, peacefully, motionlessly, a photograph etched into a movie; trains and city participants, stars and city lights, architectural creations and monolithic shadows, darkness and lightness, pass in bursts of life behind her, her face frozen in a pleasant expression, the book in her hands spread and inviting.

TCP 23 - Iwamotocho

They stand, a wall between them, she standing nonchalantly, relaxed, yet somehow excited, her expression as if filled with the satisfaction of winning a game, her right arm extended towards he, on the other side. Her hair is long, simply cut. Her dress is synthetic, worn not by choice but rather by regulation, but she makes the best out of it; her socks pulled up to her knees - their red emblems perfectly aligned, the top button of her neatly pressed shirt unbuttoned - the collar spread over the neck of her beige cardigan, the sleeves of which are pulled past cuffs of her dark green blazer and over her knuckles - exposing nothing more than her finger tips. He, dressed in the same outfit - save slacks in exchange for her skirt, a certain ruggedness for her cleanliness, and a missing blazer, rests his right arm upon the chest-high barrier separating them, with his tilted head resting upon that arm, his right cheek pressed firmly upon the wool fabric covering his forearm. His left arm extends out to her right, a tear dropping from his eye and onto the sleeve of his cardigan, as he gently clasps her finger tips. She turns her head, her fingers slipping from his grasp as she walks away, her train now approaching.

020

she
stares
into
a
collage
she
made
herself

on
the
cover
of
her
diary

the faces
of
pop
idols

pink
and
white
roses

glitter
and
stars

she
brings
it
up to
her
lips
and
closes
her
eyes

taking
the
train
on
the
way
to
somewhere

019

looking up
from a book
a tiny bug
crawls over the city
speeding past

beneath her

power lines
rise and fall
like ocean waves

sunlight
shimmers
on the outlines
of buildings

concrete walls
bleed into
brick facades

chain links
and tree leaves
disguise the landscape behind

where

apartment blocks
and painted pylons
float in a confetti
of houses
as far as
the horizon

like ships
at sea

all this
she sees
beneath her

but as soon as
i look away

she disappears
into the carriage
of the train

and all that is left
is her view
which falls
like a see through cloth
over my mind

018

on a low pillar
of white concrete
she walks
in constricted circles
with her arm
around a light
which reaches
for the sky
and spreads
its metal wings

alliteration/rhyme_flex

form is frosting at a pace
recognize your face in passing
time is now but you are other places
flicker sign a selfless inside
i'm reminded many nights
lying beside
swimming sighs of blue
shade of you

017

He and the train.

His head bobs with the trains bumps and curves.
He examines the text of a meticulously folded newspaper.
His eyes are fixed on the story developing before him.
He itches the top of his right ear with the index finger of his left hand.
The morning sun shines through the gaps between buildings passing behind casting bursts of light on his head.
In the course of a minute his expression gradates through confusion, depression, irritation, and boredom.
He closes his eyes for a temporary bliss.

He waits...

She and the train.

Her eyes are closed.
She carries a guitar over her shoulder.
She stares out the train's window.
She giggles with a friend.
Her eyes survey the windows reflection.
She transcends the world, encompassing herself in the world of her book.
They speak of a girl in a cabaret.
She itches her nose as a train passes behind her.
They critique her physique and work ethic as a hostess.
She stared into the monitor of her cellphone.
She sits alone on an empty train.
Her smiles shines with an empty infinity.

She says...

016

thousands of footsteps
are heard clapping
on the ground
just outside the station

a student
stands before
a map
on a signboard
unsure of where to go
in his hands
he holds another map
printed on a piece of paper
carefully investigating
matching up
the points in space
looking up
at the signboard
and down
at the piece of paper
back and forth
over and over
hoping to find
a lead

015

014

A young thin
boy with glasses
and a sports cut
stands on a
restless train
holding onto
the ring straps
with both hands
wearing a white
polo shirt
tucked into navy pants
and carries his navy bag
round his neck
while listening to
some music
on headphones
while he taps his
untied
unstrapped and
scuffed
white high tops