Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
TCP 27 - Akihabara Approaching Midnight
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.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
TCP 26 - The midnight train home
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
Monday, December 6, 2010
TCP 25 - Sakurajosui
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
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
TCP 24 - Keio Line
Sunday, November 28, 2010
TCP 23 - Iwamotocho
020
Friday, November 26, 2010
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
Saturday, November 20, 2010
018
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
alliteration/rhyme_flex
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
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
He and the train.
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...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
She and the train.
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...
Monday, November 8, 2010
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
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
014
Thursday, October 21, 2010
013
a traffic officer
conducts the morning
flood of traffic
dressed in powder blue
and navy
a yellow rope
hangs from his right shoulder
his shirt and tie
are tucked into his trousers
his shiny black loafers
reflect cars and buildings
he wears white gloves
and carries an orange baton
he moves not
to the sound of engines
or violins
but to to the movement
of vehicles
he spots an oncoming bus
he makes eye contact
with the driver
the driver nods
he raises his baton to the sky
and waves it in small circles
he extends his other arm straight out
like a construction crane
and with white fingertips
he calls his partner forth
it passes slowly
into his arms
and out
into the rotary
leaving him behind
he then bows
and turns on his heel
to another
a taxi
a car
a motorbike
he treats them all the same
with the same extended arms
with the same white gloves
and orange baton
one by one
they enter and exit his life
while he slips through
the cracks of banality
into the magnificence behind
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
TCP22 - Sakurajousui
Monday, September 20, 2010
Your voice echoes
Clutching her briefcase from the ten years as a claims adjuster,
It’s been five months of these interviews with no luck,
Stepping through the revolving doors the air tastes like poison,
Starting the car she remembers her son waits for his ride home,
Thinking “How to get 20 min across town 10 min ago?”
She un-parallels her car, and is immediately cut off by her interviewer’s Bentley.
A twenty-two year-old on a flight from New York City flaunts an $1200.00 watch,
Talks about her happenstance trip to Aspen to meet her brothers’ fiancé,
“I just want be the supportive sister, y’know”, images of jellyfish float on the screens,
Three soldiers on leave from Afghanistan sit in coach mashing shoulders, one reads Ayn Rands' “We The Living”,
while a teenager complains about her private school’s misplaced philosophy that everyone is a winner.
“In life, there are winners, and there are losers”
Thursday, September 16, 2010
TCP 21 - Meidaimae
Here the windows align leaving merely a sliver of passage, revealing a young woman, beautiful in her simplicity, framed perfectly as if a portrait of Renoir or Rembrandt, and nothing more. She is animated, cheerful and lively in a conversation she perhaps shares with a friend, perhaps her mother, perhaps a lover, perhaps a stranger. She smiles, laughs, nods affectionately, parts her hair away from her eyes, and the trains, headed in and out of the city, resume their respective courses, their engines creating a gradual synchronized crescendo, the sliver slowly closing off.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
TCP 20 - Akihabara
Guiding a hovering mountain of society's waste, so intricately constructed that one could only assume it to be a puzzle of the utmost difficulty miraculously pieced together with a magic touch of the highest caliber, he walks along the beat cosmopolitan street, indifferently, removed from his surroundings, as if his presence had been superimposed upon the current landscape of salarymen herded from work to feed and back. With an impeccably focused eye, sharing not a care with his surrounding critics, he surveys the ground for a treasure those peering eyes around him may not quite grasp.
He stops, kneels down, and procures a worn, contorted cylinder of hope from a shadow between a hideously fancy sports car and the curb. Extending his kneeling knees, he slowly rises upwards, taking a few slightly hunched steps back to his floating chariot, into which he carefully and precisely secures his booty, and continues on his way throughout the city's endless streets.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
TCP 19 - Akihabara
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
TCP 18 - Akihabara
Monday, September 6, 2010
TCP 17 - Approaching Meidaimae
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
012
you step onto stairs of silver teeth
outlined in yellow
spit out by the floor
they carry you like hands
up a mountain
bound by stainless steel walls
motionless
polished
reflecting shadowy figures
you hold onto
a blue plastic railing
which forms a continuous loop
around the outer edge of the walls
like a rubber band
moving in sync with the stairs
together they are infinity
near the peak
the stairs
become flat
and are eaten
by the floor
you step off at the summit
and look for the nearest exit
Monday, August 9, 2010
011
A woman crosses a bridge in a storm.
Her clothes are painted on by the rain.
Her head is hidden under a black umbrella
leaving her blind.
Strong gusts punch the nylon fabric
between its wire frame;
giving it a pulse,
threatening to turn it inside out.
She doesn't take any shit
from the wind or the rain.
She just slowly continues on
to the other side.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
010
It is hot and humid. Small buildings bookend a narrow street. Many shops are open for business. Many people are walking to and from the station. A shiny black car makes its way down the street, careful not to hit anyone. It carries with it the sun's rays and reflects them off the windshield. For only the slightest moment, a bright flash of light is projected onto a woman in passing. Her body is rendered shadow under a translucent dress. The moment soon disappears. Every strand separates from its entanglement. The powerful light fades. The shadow becomes body. The woman walks closer to her destination. The car moves ahead. The driver puts on his signal to exit the frame.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
009
The horizon flashes in multiple hues of violets, indigos, and whites. Shadows move across neighboring buildings. The rain connects heaven to earth in continuous lines. Lightning tears apart the sky like paper. Thunder cries heavy on the clouds. Hammering the atmosphere with a wreckoning noise. Shaking the very foundations. Echoing upon the windows. Commanding everyone's attention like a five star general.
Friday, July 30, 2010
008
Thursday, July 29, 2010
007
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
006
Monday, July 19, 2010
005
It is the morning rush. The train is crowded with passengers standing shoulder to shoulder. There is little room to move about. A rugby player in a finely pressed gray suit sings with the sound off. He is rehearsing for what looks to be a chorus recital. his accompanying music is audible only to himself through white earphones. He carefully accentuates each word taking great pains to perfect the movement of his tongue, lips, and jaw. He stands up straight and firm on the floor of the rocking train with shoulders pinned back, feet spread apart, and breathes correctly from his lower abdomen. Beads of sweat trickle down from his sports cut to his freshly shaven face. His confidence is paramount. He is a testament to perfection. To doubt him would be a mistake. However, the other passengers pay no attention other than a brief glance. They have all created their own private space on this public packed train by way of books, cellphones, folded newspapers, headphones, and game machines. The rugby player in a finely pressed gray suit singing with the sound off might appear to be an anomaly, but really he is all the same as everyone else in his self made room of see through walls.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
003
A young man wearing a big black t-shirt, baggy black sweat shorts, black socks, and black shower sandals stands at a listening station. He stares into a mirror with eyes and mouth wide open like a starving animal, playing an invisible guitar to an invisible crowd of adoring fans. He's completely immersed. Nothing can penetrate his fantasy, not even the staff who chuckle nor the customers who are bewildered. He has broken into into his reflection, taking his desires for reality.
TCP16 - Hibiya
In front of him are neatly placed his black leather shoes.
Beneath him a humble mat of the day's news offers him a simple comfort from the hard sidewalk below.
At his side a single perfectly organized box contains all his worldly possessions.
Before him the endless static of the metropolis passes, in a variety of different costumes, in a variety of different rhythms, in a variety of different speeds, in a variety of different purposes.
He sits, the overwhelming roar of the cosmopolitan machine surrounding him, yet only hearing the fragile rustling of the leaves above, dancing in the blissful breeze.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
TCP15 - Akihabara
He gazes upwards, as if looking for something, as if having solved a cryptogram etched into the city beneath his feet. Before him he finds a wall, a battalion of foreigners, of aliens approaching. His eyes light up, like Christmas ornaments illuminated by a crackling fire. He gazes throughout the mob, studying their faces, movements, languages.
He drifts beyond the reality of the moment, fantasizing a sudden ability to communicate using any or all of the languages barraging him. In his thoughts, he speaks with a mastered eloquence to be longed for by all, sculpting the moment with his tongue.
TCP14 - Keio Line
Saturday, July 3, 2010
TCP13 - Inokashira Line
TCP12 - Shimokitazawa (YURAx)
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
TCP11 - North Yaesu
"it's been a while."
"indeed... give me a hot one."
They chat and joke and laugh, the old man takes his coffee to a table. He sips slowly from the steaming cup, enjoying each and every drop. He loves this cafe, the barista and the perfection with which he sculpts espresso. He rolls up the sleeves of his white collared shirt, fanning off the humid rainy season heat with a tropical themed paper fan as he flips through the pages of a travel magazine.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
TCP10 - Keio Line
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
TCP09 - West Shinjuku
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
TCP08 - East Shinjuku
TCP07 - Toei Shinjuku Line
Man Playing A Video Game
TCP06 - Keio Line
"Oh no, I missed my train...
What am I supposed to do now?!
...
My god, there isn't anything I can do, is there?"