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